I don’t have a watch, cellphone or calendar, so I almost forgot to mention that I’m turning one. My parents have made it harder to remember that I am turning one by making a strange decision to distract me. They’ve put everything we have into boxes, loaded them into a big truck, and drove everything to a new place. For the past two days they have been taking everything out of the boxes. This seems to be a pointless exercise in putting things into boxes and taking them out again, but come to think of it, that is what I do for hours. I like to take all my toys out of the box, watch my parents put them back in, and then take them out again. It’s pointless, but then again so is getting a suntan, driving a car, making scented candles, or anything else that grownups do. The point of life is eating a cut up avocado with your hands. That’s all you need to know.
I should mention that my mommy is practicing baking a cake for my birthday, and my parents have gotten me an early present – a piano! It sounds great at six in the morning. I am working on some of the more challenging compositions of Schoenberg and Stockhausen before moving on to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Mozart is so overrated, anyway, and I still can win the music race with him if I compose my first symphony before I turn two.
It’s said that one’s first birthday and ninetieth birthday are similar – the birthday boy or girl has no idea what’s going on. I beg to differ, of course, because I know what’s going on. I have enjoyed watching my parents prepare for my party. I have recommended that they pick out a white pony. Maybe two white ponies would be better, because my cat could ride one of them while brandishing a shiny scepter. But I am getting ahead of myself, and anyway, I would like Spiderman to attend if he is not too busy fighting crime, because Superman is a little strange, as a person, while Spiderman has all the neurotic depth of the people I hang around with every day.
I am not sure that my mommy and daddy have time to read these recommendations, because they have spent a lot of time on something called an Evite. Parents, apparently, don’t send written invitations any more to their children’s parties. Instead they populate an online invitation with content. I have no idea what that means, but it does involve colorful balloons represented by colorful pixels. I miss the old days, when the servants hand-delivered handwritten invitations penned on cotton-fiber paper. I have no idea what that means, either, but it sounds so classy. My parents will be live Tweeting at the party, certainly, and I will get an Instagram feed going, and something on Facebook, too. With all that typing and posting and snapping, we’ll hardly have time for cake. But I will remember it. It’s not every day you reach the single digits.