the birth­day girl

It’s offi­cial: Avery is twelve. Well, strict­ly speak­ing she will not be twelve until 11:31 p.m. New York time, but I’m being mag­nan­i­mous. She has had her favorite banana apple cake for break­fast, her favorite choco­late mud pud­ding for lunch, and I brought her white camel­lias at school pick­up. Her friends forced their ultra-con­ser­v­a­tive music teacher to play a very elab­o­rate ren­di­tion of “Hap­py Birth­day,” and every­one sang (except the teacher, Avery snorts). As soon as John gets home we’ll open presents, and then head around the cor­ner to Chez Kristoff for her favorite din­ner, steak frites. I dare­say tomor­row will be a let­down, a bit of an anti­cli­max, but for now, the world’s her oys­ter. Hap­py birth­day, darling.