In the warm yellow kitchen, Leo stood on a little stool beside Dad, ready to flip the very first pancake.
"When you flip," said Dad, "you say the magic words. Ready?" And together they sang: "Up, up, and down you come, land in the pan, little sun!"
Leo gave a mighty flip. But the pancake flew TOO far! It sailed up, spun around, and landed with a soft flop right on top of his head like a floppy hat. Dad laughed, and Leo laughed too.
"Try again," said Dad. So Leo poured a new circle of batter and sang, "Up, up, and down you come, land in the pan, little sun!" This time the flip was too small. The pancake barely lifted and folded itself in half, wrinkly as a crumpled sock.
Leo's lip wobbled. "I keep getting it wrong."
"Every flip teaches your hands something," Dad said gently. "First one, too big. Second one, too little. What might the next one be?"
Leo thought hard. Too big, then too little. So this time he flipped just in the middle — not too high, not too low. And he sang the magic words soft and slow: "Up, up, and down you come, land in the pan, little sun!"
The pancake rose, turned a neat and tidy somersault, and landed in the pan with a happy sizzle. Round and golden, right where it should be.
"You did it!" said Dad.
Leo grinned and flipped another, and another, singing every time. Some were lumpy. One was shaped like a duck. But his hands remembered a little more with each one.
They stacked the pancakes on a blue plate — the floppy-hat one on the bottom, the duck one near the top — and ate them warm with a drizzle of honey.
That evening, sometime after supper, Leo was cozy and full and sleepy. Under the blanket, he whispered the magic words one last quiet time, and drifted off before the very last word, dreaming of little golden suns turning slow somersaults in a warm and gentle sky.