Friday was Papa’s birthday: he’s doing 50 again. He thought about going up to 51, but I talked him out of it. “Fifty is such a nice, round number,” I argued. “Fifty-one has very little going for it. It’s not even a prime number.”
When Papa has a birthday, there’s only one kind of cake we can buy with a clear conscience: cheese cake. The Girl liked it too, but seemed to enjoy the act of shoving it into her mouth more than actually eating it.
Papa didn’t want to laugh — thought it might encourage her to continue — but he couldn’t keep the laughter in forever. In the meantime, he looked a little goofy.
Afterward, it was time to play. Papa had some trouble throwing the exercise ball up the stairs, much to the Girl’s delight. It’s always fascinating to me how something so insignificant, repeated ad nauseum, can give her so much joy.
Bubbles followed, and L followed the bubbles.
Inside, L showed her acrobatic nature while Papa showed his, well, Papa nature.
