Sunday came, and we made a vanilla pound cake that E loves in a sheet cake shape. We discussed frosting and how many tints we'd need as it baked. We discussed inverting gummy bear torsos (decapitated and amputated) for siren lights. We pondered pretzel stick nubs for door handles and Oreo cookies for tires. We planned big. Carler deserves it, of course.
As the oven heated the batter and the vanilla aroma permeated the kitchen, E grew less enthused about our decorating scheme. She grew distracted. Impatient. She knelt at the oven door, peering through the glass window.
Finally, I removed it from the oven and set it to cool on a rack. Just as soon as her fingertips could tolerate its temperature, E was there, picking at the corners and stealing little crumbs for her tastebuds.
"Should we start decorating?" I asked.
Well...she equivocated. The thing is...
"What is it, love?" I couldn't imagine why her enthusiasm for decorating Carler's cake had vanished so completely.
So, I was thinking...since we can't see Carler? I think it's okay if we can't see the police car on his cake.
I think we should just eat it.
But we do need to sing 'Happy Birthday' first, of course.