The comforts you defend
For my mother's birthday observed, my father organized her a surprise party. It went beautifully. She knew to expect my father's youngest brother and his wife and maybe me and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch; she was not expecting eighteen friends and family and enough food to feed several small armies, seriously, Redwall levels of provender, which my father had been secretly preparing in a friend's kitchen all week. The cake would have maybe had a firmer grasp on structural integrity had it been composed of only four layers of meringue, whipped cream, and strawberries instead of five, but it slid sideways so majestically after the first two slices were taken out—and was eaten just as delightedly whether in slices or scoops—it was worth it in performance art. People gave her scarves, sculptures, cards, books; my father had scanned pictures out of photo albums and printed them out to decorate the house. He had promised not to let my mother host her own party and although it took a little enforcement, I actually saw her sitting down and eating and talking with my godmother and some of her grad school friends. Guests helped heroically with the dishes. My niece hugged her Fox-cousin goodbye so hard at the end of the night, she lifted him off his feet. My mother's actual birthday is Monday and I think the plan is to just make her waffles.
spatch; she was not expecting eighteen friends and family and enough food to feed several small armies, seriously, Redwall levels of provender, which my father had been secretly preparing in a friend's kitchen all week. The cake would have maybe had a firmer grasp on structural integrity had it been composed of only four layers of meringue, whipped cream, and strawberries instead of five, but it slid sideways so majestically after the first two slices were taken out—and was eaten just as delightedly whether in slices or scoops—it was worth it in performance art. People gave her scarves, sculptures, cards, books; my father had scanned pictures out of photo albums and printed them out to decorate the house. He had promised not to let my mother host her own party and although it took a little enforcement, I actually saw her sitting down and eating and talking with my godmother and some of her grad school friends. Guests helped heroically with the dishes. My niece hugged her Fox-cousin goodbye so hard at the end of the night, she lifted him off his feet. My mother's actual birthday is Monday and I think the plan is to just make her waffles.
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It looked like people were enjoying themselves! They talked with each other. They talked with my mother. And nobody let her do the dishes.
Fox fell in love with his pinky-red balloon, especially when a passing light illuminated its globe ("I can see through her"), and clearly felt this as a very great occasion, as he wished me "Happy Holidays."
Aw! That would be the context in which he has the most experience of parties at my parents' house.
Are you the person who taught him Offenbach's "Galop infernal"? At one point he careened chaotically through the living room to its semi-shouted accompaniment ("Na-na-na-na-na-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA") which felt appropriate.
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Well, I've certainly played it for him, maybe half-a-dozen times at long intervals over the last year, so he has a fine musical memory. I tend to break it out when he's in that state of joyous rampage, most vividly once in the bathtub, while he can-canned his bubbles into meringue.
Nine
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I think you have succeeded in forming a permanent soundtrack.
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Did I ever tell you I once danced the cancan for DWJ? I was playing forfeits with her granddaughters, and lost.
Nine
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Nine