At a certain age

At a certain age, some things become less thrilling.

Take my dad. He’s about 90. (For the record, he’s an older dad).

So, my siblings and I are sitting around the table during one of our weekly visits to Grandma and Grandpa’s. My sister – the baker and master of all things frosted – brought chocolate cupcakes topped with her Italian buttercream. They’re irresistible.

“Have one,” she tells my father.

“I will. In a minute.” Everyone waits.

The conversation turns back to what my sisters and I usually talk about at grandma and grandpa’s – our husbands.

Then again. “Dad, have a cupcake,” she tells him.

“I will. I will. I will. Later.”

You’d never hear that from a kid.

A few more minutes of bitching about the husbands pass. Then it comes again.

“Dad, cupcake?”

“Oh alright. Damnit. Might as well get it over with,” he says.

He picks one up and waves his other hand at us.

I don’t know when the thrill of a chocolate buttercream cupcake passes. But it’s kind of encouraging.

Certainly hasn’t hit us girls yet.