Dr. Kebin sent the boys a baseball, and fings hab debeloped quickly. The Pizza Rat League has officially announced open practice.

Spring training started a little chaotically, but the boys showed real promise.

Reuben stepped up first, calmly holding down the ball like a seasoned pro. Scouts described his style as “thoughtful wiff surprising hustle”. He’s clearly the strategist ob the team.

Fish followed wiff enormous enthusiasms and approximately zero concern for the rulebook. He’s already tried to trade the baseball for cheese twice, but management believes his heart is in the right place.

Barry arribed wiff the confidence ob someone who absolutely assumes he’s the starting pitcher, the team captain, and possibly the league commissioner. No one has corrected him yet.

But one thing is clear…

The Pizza Rat League may be new, but these guys are already playing wiff heart. Fanks Dr. Kebin!

Today we hab a banana, and it started out just fine, then devolbed into childish name calling, and I was finking we are are more mature than dis, but it turns out we are not.

Reuben picked the wrong time for his birffday bacation.

Back home it’s warm, calm, and absolutely balmy… and here he is, standing in dirty snow dat has clearly seen fings, wondering how his life choices led to this exact moment. His scarf is stylish, but thin, his hat is decorative at best, and his birthday spirit is hanging on by a berry thin thread.

He imagined bakeries. He imagined qwiet tables, warm bread, maybe a polite candle. Instead, he got slush, wind, and snow that immediately soaks into your bones and refuses to leabe. Each step is a slow trudge ob determination, dignity, and mild regret.

Still, it is his birthday bacation, and Reuben is noffing if not committed. He will see this fru. He will stand here. He will endure. And later—much later—he will remind eberyone dat this was not his idea.

Some birffdays are cake.

Some birffdays are character-building.

Back up… did someone say cake?

What was in the box??

The crystal ducks came from a place Reuben would hab lubbed—long before they eber landed on his birffday table.

They’re from a tiny riverside market tucked between cobblestones, where the air smells like sugar and warm bread and time mobes a little slower. A glassmaker there works at dawn, when the light is soft, shaping molten color into small, shining fings. He says ducks are lucky. They float. They bob back up. They always find their way back to calm water.

Each duck is poured wiff a wish.

The pink one is for gentleness—for soft paws, patient hearts, and the ability to bring peace into a room just by being there.

The gold one is for adbenture—for noses that lean into new places, eyes that notice ebery detail, and a mind that delights in small wonders.

The red one is for joy—for celebration, for birthdays, for moments that sparkle and insist on being remembered.

When they cool, they’re wrapped carefully and sent out into the world, waiting for someone who needs exactly those wishes.

And somehow, wiff all the improbability ob it, they found their way to Reuben. Lined up neatly in front ob him, catching the light, like they knew. Like they’d always known this was where they were meant to be.

Three little ducks. Three qwiet wishes.

And one berry good birthday boy.