Rainbow Girl recently turned seven. We had a weekend party of course, with kids, smarties, balloons, and mayhem, but on RG’s actual birthday, midweek, we went, en famille, on RG’s Perfect Date.
The date—a peripatetic ritual honed over a number of school holidays—started with an after-school train ride into the CBD, just RG and me. We got off the train at Melbourne Central Station and went straight to that basement Asian grocery that has a cracking range of Kracie Popin Cookin. After careful consideration, RG chose the Kracie takoyaki (octopus balls). One escalator up, and we were at EB Games, spending a gift voucher from a relative—more Pikachus! From here we strolled (millennial flâneurs that we are) along the faux arcades of Melbourne Central and the Emporium to rendezvous with My Honey at Sushi Hon (known in our house as Sushi Train). More takoyaki (proper savoury ones this time), gyoza, udon, and assorted little sushi plates. The meal was rounded off with bubble tea from Chatime, where RG ordered her usual—chocolate milk tea with no sugar, quarter ice, pearls and rainbow jelly. And then we trained home to bath and bed.
To an outsider, there is probably nothing remarkable about Rainbow Girl’s Perfect Date. In my eyes though, the eyes of a parent, the date reflects Rainbow Girl’s unique, sensual aesthetic. What a privilege to watch that aesthetic develop. Happy birthday, Rainbow Girl. Happy birthday, my baby!