Perfectly imperfect

Everything was perfect. The streamers, the balloons, the clown, the cake. The neighbor kids all arrived right on time and with gifts from the list of toys my little one wanted that I had handed out to their parents a month before. They all played and had a good time while I finished decorating the dining room to be the perfect backdrop for the pictures of my little one blowing out the candles and opening his gifts. So perfect. Too perfect.

I called them all in, and they all ran inside to see my beautiful cake sitting near the head of the table and my camera on its tripod at the other end. They all took their places, and he blew out his candles. Then he decided to grab a handful of cake and smear it on the little girl next to him. Before I knew it, there were handfuls of cake flying about my perfectly-set dining room, all over my perfect backdrop for all of the pictures, tearing down my perfectly-strung streamers. At first, I was horrified, but then I was relieved. The kids were having the time of their lives. It was all so Perfect. Too Perfect.

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