"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

Yesterday was Mr. A's 4th birthday party. I made a cake with strawberry-colored frosting on it, studded with strawberries. Everyone asked for my cake recipe. "Bittman," I said. There were cupcakes to go along with it. The cake was gorgeous and full of butter, hence tasty. There were balloons, colors chosen by Ari, each blown up to a specific size chosen by Ari, each with the name of a guest written on it, and sometimes also an inscrutable balloon-related statement that Ari dictated to Max. I can't make that last sentence come out right, sorry. Take it as an illustration of the kind of convoluted statement that actually ended up on the balloons.



Anyway, we also had a huge roll of bubble wrap that we threw on the floor for the kids to jump on, which they did, gleefully. I hope the downstairs neighbors' chandelier did not break. There was wine and cheese for the grownups. ( The Dubliner cheddar was popular, and the guests were pleased to hear that it could be purchased inexpensively at Trader Joe's. ) There were 8 children, and they got along splendidly. My brother was there, and Max's family, and all the parents of the kids were people that Max and I know and like well on their own account. Ari blew out all his candles on his first try. Nobody got hurt. Aya got passed around from one adoring grownup to another, cheerful as could be. I wore a shirt with no spit-up, new jeans that fit me, and sandals with heels. And lipstick. I ate two pieces of cake. Ari did not receive any presents that will have to be quietly boxed up and given away when he is not looking. He did receive, among other things, a home-made superhero kit, a pair of alligator oven mitts he's been coveting at Max's parents' house for a while, an air gun with foam bullets (which goes well with the superhero outfit), some "Do-A-Dot" paints, and, from me, a tape gun of the sort that the UPS store uses to box up your Zappos returns. There were no planned activities, no theme, no party hats, and no party favors (save the inscrutable balloons). I think the party cost maybe 50 bucks (most of it cheese).



It was a beautiful party.



Today, as is my wont, I have a migraine, but it was worth it.



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The title of this post is from a Kurt Vonnegut book I've been meaning to read since even before he died. A blog I like, The Happiness Project, posted a quote from this book yesterday:

But I had a good uncle, my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life-insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”



So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”