A Sprinkle Party in Three Parts

In which a half-cat/half cupcake reminds us how to live

01 

Three plastic wheels crackle down the sidewalk. My daughter rolls by on her pink scooter. She goes up and down the same stretch of the sidewalk—the smoothest part in this park.

My husband and I watch from the bench as she concentrates on keeping her scooter moving forward. She goes painstakingly slow at first, both hands grasping the shaking handles, her right foot uneasily pushing off the ground. But soon enough, she gets the hang of it and is whizzing down the sidewalk.

She shouts for us to watch her. Not having mastered the break yet, she guides the scooter into the grass and jumps off, letting the scooter fall to the ground. She dashes over to the bench. I diiiiiiid it!

With a hug and a fresh air of confidence, she runs back to her toppled scooter, eager to try again. On the gentle decline of the sidewalk, she extends her leg behind her like she’s performing an arabesque and shout-sings at the top of her lungs: “EVERY DAY IS A SPRINKLE PARTY!”

Looking like a reverend-turned-coach on the sidelines, my husband cups his hands around his mouth and hollers an “AMEN!” to her when she whirls past.

I hum the next part of the line to the song while I watch her in her unbridled joy: Treat yourself to that sweet sunshine.

For the uninitiated, the song comes from the Netflix series “Gabby’s Dollhouse,” popular among the preschool crowd, where Gabby puts on magical cat ears and shrinks down in size so she can play with the characters in her cat dollhouse (#goals).

The soundtrack to the show is actually pretty great.¹ “Sprinkle Party,” the song my daughter sings as she rides her scooter is sung by what I can only describe as a half-cat/half-cupcake named Cakey, who is very into baking and cries tears of sprinkles whenever he is happy or sad (also #goals).

“Every day is a sprinkle party,” Cakey croons, surfboarding over a mountain of sprinkles. “Treat yourself to that sweet sunshine.” An orange slice of sun shines down while he twirls across the screen.²

The song has quickly become the anthem to our lives these days, the lyrics weaving in and out of the everyday.

02

The incoming rain brings us back inside. I start dinner, spreading out the plastic mat on the floor and placing the high chair on top of it.

My daughter is zigzagging around my legs, asking for music. The kitchen door is propped open, and thunder bellows in the distance.

Earlier at the park, my husband and I had marveled at how quickly she had mastered the scooter, but at the same beat, we mourned the too-quick passing of time.

From a bassinet stroller to an umbrella stroller to a tricycle to now a scooter, child transportation has become a measuring stick of sorts, marking how long we have been living here. Never did I imagine motherhood extending this far or that I would be raising a near-preschooler six thousand miles away from home.

A familiar song starts to play in the kitchen.

I watch my daughter flail her arms to the beat, running circles with frenetic energy as she shouts out the chorus.

Every day is a sprinkle party. Treat yourself to that sweet sunshine.

A thousand small worries about our family’s future stack themselves inside my chest, while the big worries have already set up camp, threatening to buckle me under the weight. 

But she grabs my hand as the music swells, and I follow her lead.

We dissolve into giggles and shake our backsides like waddling ducks. My daughter grips my legs and buries her face in my pants. 

We shout out the words—Every day is a sprinkle party!—while the rain starts up again.

03

It’s early afternoon the next day, and we make our way down to the park by the river, but something holds us up. A ditch, essentially. A patch of brambles and dried-out grape trees by the middle school. No man’s land. Sometimes the neighbor’s chickens poke around here, but other than that, it sits empty. Someone had burned the last of their garden’s harvest last fall, leaving a black circle of soot near the edge that’s still there six months later.

This whole area has grabbed my daughter’s attention. The rain left puddles in its wake and also hundreds of surfaced snails. My daughter pokes around the dirt and shrubs, examining snails and rocks, choosing to put some in her pocket to add to her collection back home, and choosing to throw some back down to the ground.³ And as she works, she hums—you guessed it—Every day is a sprinkle party. Treat yourself to that sweet sunshine.

I poke around the empty lot, too, waiting for her to finish exploring. Up against the concrete curb, I notice a shock of orange: five heads of marigolds growing up out of the dusty cobblestone. They’re the same ones I found growing here last year. 

I don’t know if it’s common for marigolds to grow wild. I don’t know if they’re typically perennials, growing in the same spot year after year without anyone tending to them. But, like an old friend, it is a comfort to see these beauties pop up again. 

The tiny ruffles on the heads of the marigolds push up against the concrete median, treating themselves to the sweet sunshine, warm and strong.

In Farsi, the name for ‘marigold’ directly translates in English to the “always-spring flower”. 

Always spring. Always hope. Always good to be found.

An older woman emerges from her garden and ambles over to us with a plastic bag in hand. She is telling us something, but I only catch every third word or so.

When she gets to us, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a freshly picked arugula leaf, and hands it to my daughter. I want to say, Look, lady. I appreciate it, but this girl here does not touch anything green, much less a piece of SALAD. But of course, my daughter eagerly takes the arugula and pops it into her mouth. She grimaces and says it's spicy but, much to the neighbor’s delight and my befuddlement, finishes it and accepts another piece for the road.

Sometimes, when it feels like we’re balancing on a tightrope, one misstep away from disaster, these little bits of always-spring feel more like crumbs: minuscule, an inconvenient mess, something to brush away because we’ve got more pressing things happening in our immediate vicinity. With shaking legs and outstretched arms, we’re just trying to keep from falling.

But the greatest act of rebellion in a tumultuous world is to look for the joy in the everyday, even if some days you have to look a little harder. I think maybe even Cakey the cat-cupcake knows a thing or two about fighting for joy.

The neighbor woman coos and gurgles over my daughter as she continues to munch on the arugula. She reaches over and pinches my daughter’s cheek, a stream of blessings flowing out of her mouth. She motions to the now-clear sky and the strong sun and tells us that spring has finally arrived.

Now those words I understand.

Spring is here, indeed. 

For the time being, I let the worries that cling to my skin slip away and, instead, let the sun warm the top of my arms as we head on our way.

Yes and amen.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Overheard at Home".

1. It really is, as far as kids’ songs go. Here’s the playlist ruining my algorithm (RIP my 2023 Spotify Wrapped) but getting us through that late afternoon slump.

2. You’re welcome for the earworm and the visual.

3. I wrote about her love for snails last year. Very happy to report she’s still into collecting these little mollusks.