The Icepick Cometh

We walked up the street and he pointed out each of the bunches of tulips growing in the sidewalk gardens, purples and reds and yellows and oranges cups coming up out of the ground, surrounded by low black iron mini-fences. He liked the steps of the brownstones, too, liked to say "stoop." He got too distracted by the lights and sounds of the burrito joint, though, so we got it to go, and went home to eat and play baseball on the back patio, the baby throwing his whole body into every pitch, so much so that he toppled onto the ground, giggling.