My daughter turned 11 this week. Her aunt asked her where she’d like to have a birthday lunch and, after much debate, she chose Montana’s. She chose it because:
1. She’s allowed to order off the adult menu at Montana’s, not the kids’ menu.
2. They have giant moose antlers which they place on your head while they sing happy birthday.
I thought this was such a perfect example of what it means to be eleven. You want to order off the adult menu, but you still want the moose antlers. It made me wish I wrote middle-grade fiction, just so I could include these details.
Birthday week events are culminating this weekend with a sleepover, a screening of Grease, and many, many cupcakes. As I am NOT eleven, I am off to buy earplugs…