Today was Mardi Gras and I was a bit sad. We were supposed to spend the weekend in New Orleans with friends at the parades and such but, one by one, we all came down with the flu and had to stay home. The kids and I are all well; my DH is the final victim.
So, to cheer myself up, I bought a King's Cake. I know that you are supposed to eat the King's Cake on 12th Night -- it was just the closest I could come to Mardi Gras (especially since I really couldn't drink Hurricanes on flu meds).
The rest of this story is actually from my DH.
The kids loved the King's Cake, of course, and wanted some of it for breakfast on Sunday. Dad agreed for a special occasion if they could answer his questions. I was proud of him for talking them through the tradition and meaning of the King's Cake and proud of their knowledge of things like: Who is the King of Kings? Who is God's son? Who came to visit the Baby Jesus? etc.
Both kids want the Baby Jesus. At the end, Dad explains the tradition that whoever gets the piece with the baby buys the cake for the next year. B immediately decides that his sister can have the baby Jesus. She isn't paying attention to anything other than the baby.
When I got up, B was so proud to tell me that he gave his sister the baby and tricked her because she doesn't know the Mardi Gras secret.