Our little clowncars woke up Sunday morning with the idea apparently fully formed in their minds that they were going to a party at Barbie's house. La Petite Huque was reading the Sunday paper at the time, and showed them the feature article, replete with pictures, about Barbie's 50th birthday, thereby fanning the small flame of the girls' fantasies into a prarie grassfire. Now I fully buy the Barbie=unrealistic body image argument, but popular culture these days (and those hellish Bratz dolls specifically) make Barbie look positively enlightened.
Huque made a birthday cake, the girls wrapped "presents" all morning, and we invited Grandpa over to eat cake and share in the hoopla. After the presents and the cake, there was some wildly convoluted fantasy about them driving to Barbie's house in California, which in real life consisted of them wheeling to the corner on their scooters with their dolls tucked under their arms, while I read a book and kept an eye on them from half a bock away.
Ahhh, fantasy. Ahhh, Spring. Ahhh, youth.
To offset all the Barbie-ness, we played whiffle ball with Grandpa in the backyard afterward. Huque and the littlest clowncar both drove several balls right up the middle for base hits. The bigger clowncar hit a homerun, over the fence, into the neighbor's yard. She was so proud she was still talking about it this mornng.
I hit two mammoth home runs. I only mention it to point out how inordinately, embarrassingly happy it made me feel to hit them in front of the girls. It's a feat the average fourth grader could accomplish.
But the girls don't know that.
Made me feel like Babe Ruth.