The other night k. and I went for a walk, interspersed with some half-hearted jogging, and afterwards d. convinced me to stay for dinner. He'd barbecued up some scrumptious kebabs. As we ate, I got to participate in the nightly family ritual at their place: everyone talking about what their best part of the day was.
t.'s best part of the day was kicking a ball in the park with d. I said that my best part of the day was eating a yummy meal in their cool, green back yard (I know: I'm a crawler). But that was before t. farted and killed himself laughing. Watching k. and d. trying to stop him from cackling and get him to excuse himself was, without a doubt, the best part of my day.