It was my husband’s birthday this weekend. We celebrated by making Emilia’s favorite meal, spaghetti, and having Emilia’s favorite cake, cake. Because that’s how birthdays go when you’re parents to small children to whom birthdays mean only CAKE, and also, CAKE. Whose birthday it is, which birthday it is, whether the birthday celebrant would maybe prefer steak and pie: these are irrelevant questions to a three year old. The only thing that matters is, THERE WILL BE CAKE.

And song. At least she didn’t forget about the song:

The song, really, is just a celebration of cake, a pre-cake-eating ritual undertaken to heighten cake-eating excitement. And best performed in one’s underwear, of course. Because cake is messy.

Which, taken together – cake, singing, underpants – makes for a pretty awesome birthday, regardless of who’s celebrating. (That said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MISTER. We love you. And your cake.)