Young ladies of eleven years no longer want princess parties, where all the guests are girls enrobed in sequined gowns dragged from the dressup drawer, ripped in the armpits and losing the tulle around the hem.
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| Emma reading on my couch. |
Which is why when our neighbor Emma, short for Emmanuel (who speed-reads but struggles with spelling, who wears scarves on her head and dons flowing skirts, who frequently bakes little cakes using my vanilla and my recipes, warming all of our hearts with her reluctant smile and her Jane Austen ways) prepared to celebrate her eleventh birthday, she delivered the following invitation to our door:
Our boys, who HATE wearing anything but sweatpants, didn't complain about wearing button-up shirts, tucked-in no less, for Emma's "fomal" dinner party. Zion carried a bouquet of gerbera daisies and Gene carried a gift, wrapped in blue paper, which was a raquetball set. The door to Emma's apartment was opened for them and we heard their raspy boy voices croak, "Happy Birthday" in unison.
Sweet, sweet days in the lives of our boys.
