Sunday afternoon, Elliot and I trekked to the store to buy supplies for Fred's favorite flavored birthday cupcakes - yellow with brown frosting. He instantly groaned when I informed him that our darling child would be helping me make them.
If I could read his mind I think it'd be something like this: Oh man, that's going to be a disaster. I'm going to choke and die on egg shells, the counter - and all walls leading to the bathroom for hand washing - will be sticky and there will be batter shot all over the kitchen when she lets him use the mixer. How do you even get that off the ceiling? And my wife is a totally lazy slob so I know I'll have a ton of cleaning to do. Happy Freaking Birthday to me, man.
Or something like that.
Other than completely obliterating the egg on the counter (note to self: Elliot doesn't get the difference between gently tapping the egg and crushing it), the cupcakes turned out perfect. So there, Freddie Bill. And, I did manage to get the dirty dishes stacked in the sink instead of all over the kitchen, sticking - nearly permanently - to the surface of wherever I left them. So... uh... double there, Freddie Bill.
Happy Birthday to the best husband I could ask for. (Well, other than Matthew P. Damon, of course.) (Or Nick Newman but he'd likely run back to Phyllis at least once a year.) Happy Birthday to the hands-down best dad ever.
Now let's go out to eat so I can make complete strangers belt out an obnoxious rendition of the Happy Birthday song to you just to get myself a free brownie sundae.