We had a massive two-part, two-dozen toddler blowout birthday for Dalia’s fourth birthday yesterday: her classmates in the morning, our friends in the afternoon. There was beer and cupcakes from early on, all day long. Jetlagged, sleep-deprived, child-overdosed, proud of my girl, and exhausted beyond compare, I find that my defenses are shot.

So I watched the Superbowl rooting for the Colts, out of loyalty to MicroKhan and the cursed portfolio of teams he loves. And then I watched Drew Brees and his baby with the ballistic headphones on and almost wept like Brian Schottenheimer. It was a great moment of TV, the MVP whispering to a baby who can’t hear him and wouldn’t be able to understand him anyway, and it reminded me that babies, with their muteness and unconditional love, can make perfect confidants. They keep secrets. They don’t judge. You can tell them anything, and the worst they’ll do is mess themselves a little.

My defenses are still shot this morning, so after a freezing walk through uptown Manhattan, I am indulging in a bit of nostalgia for Seattle, where I used to live and play music and where some of my best friends are now raising children in the rain. I specifically have no defenses against the beauty of this cut from Macklemore. It hit Carlos B., another former Seattleite now doing it with Ping Pong City in Madrid, who sent it around this morning. It must have been the same for him. There’s just something affecting about Northwest anthem hiphop delivered in a floppy grey sweatshirt and sheepskin pimp jacket. It’s about family, community, memory. Good things.