While we were in London we stayed with an Indian (Dots, not feathers) family They were super duper nice, with an eighteen year old son named Arjun and a twenty-one to twenty-two year old daughter named Gina, and all of them were utterly enamored with Griffin. It was mutual, too: Our first day there, Griffin (Who is usually super shy around strangers, particularly men) walked right up to the dad and poked him until he got his attention, and then grabbed his hand and tried to tow him up to play in the treehouse they have in their back garden.
Eventually, the dad (His name is on the tip of my tongue I swear) came back to sit down, and a few minutes later, Griffin crept up and started poking him again. It was adorable. Everyone thought so. We were invited to Arjun’s eighteenth birthday party, which contained about half of their extended family and was still crammed to the gills, and everyone had heard stories about Griffin and how cute he was. Griffin kept getting patted on the head and picked up as he scurried through the crowd, and grown men cooed over how little and cute he was.
When they brought out the cake, Griffin’s eyes went wide and he started chanting “Cake! Cake!” all through “Happy Birthday,” the prayers for Arjun, and the obligatory chatting. He ended up getting the first slice because Arjun got one and Griffin tugged on his pant leg going “Cake! Cake!” so Arjun gave it to him. The next time I saw him, Griffin had two forks in each hand and was gleefully stabbing the slice of cake.