Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary (14 page)

I
am not a competitive mother in the least. I don’t give a shit what your kid scored on his latest math test or what belt he’s achieved in karate. If you can bake cupcakes from scratch that rival the very best bakeries, more power to you and I’ll devour
them without obsessing over my own baking failures in the slightest. I’m a Betty Crocker mom and that’s fine by me. You have your strengths, I have mine, and I don’t see us as rivals. Ever.

Except
when it comes to birthday parties. Where my children’s birthday parties are concerned, I want to kick your ass. And I want to kick it
hard
.

Now, I fully realize that I am breaking one of my self-imposed rules not to compete. I recognize that I am
completely
over the top where birthday parties are concerned and it’s not healthy or admirable in the least. I’m working on it, I swear. In my defense, I’m pretty sure I inherited it from my own parents. See? It’s genetic. Not my fault.

Back in the day, my parents were known for throwing me some pretty kick-ass parties. Fortunately for them, my birthday is just days away from the Fourth of July and all of its celebratory goodness. Yup, I grew up thinking that the fireworks and parades and the whole red, white, and blue shebang was just for me. I kind of still do.

As a summer birthday, the options were pretty endless. We had parties on the beach and at playgrounds and on boats. I celebrated them at camp and on summer vacations and in tents. Whatever they were, they always had one thing in common: awesomeness. One of my favorite birthdays was at home in our backyard and included clown entertainment and a special visit from the local ice cream truck. At six years old, having the singing truck pull up and offer us whatever kind—and number—of frozen confections we wanted was pretty much the coolest thing ever.

And then I grew up, and birthdays stopped being all that
magical. Somehow, they became just another day on the calendar, which, before the days of Facebook, went by without all that much recognition. It’s a sad, sad day when you realize that not everybody cares about your big day as much as you do. And then you have kids and suddenly you can live vicariously through them and their
big
days. It’s like a whole other childhood!

Unfortunately, I didn’t have it as easy as my parents and am cursed to have three winter-born children. I consider it my punishment for not practicing thorough birth control. If I had, I would have three little spring bunnies with countless options for their yearly celebrations. Instead, I am now punished for the rest of my birthday party–throwing life.

I’ll sum it up for you in three words: winter birthdays suck.

I’m sorry if you
have
a winter birthday. Not for offending you with the last sentence, but because you have suffered such injustice your entire life. It’s just not fair. I feel for you. I
know
.

Unfortunately, there are very few options for the poor winter birthday souls. I long for parties at farms and parks and fields. Do those spring, summer, and fall folks have any idea how very lucky they are? Between the cold and the snow and the short, dark days, winter celebrations are relegated to crappy indoor locations. Topping the list are places like Chuck E. Cheese’s (God forbid) and the completely unoriginal gym franchises where 90 percent of child birthdays are held. They have inflatable bouncy things and pimply-faced teenage workers and stink of sweaty feet. They are also the easiest and most sensible option in existence. Fail-proof, you might say. But, like all things in life that seem to make the most sense, I resist them with all of my might.

When Ben turned five, he had the audacity to ask for one of “those” parties. Not only did he want an indoor gym party, but
he requested an unoriginal superhero theme. Where was the creativity on that one? A trip to Party City and a scan of the credit card was hardly a party I wanted to put my name behind. He even spotted a large Spider-Man sheet cake at Costco and expected me to put in an order for it.
Costco,
for crying out loud! That’s what
other
mothers did. Not me. I hand-designed and addressed invitations and painstakingly assembled professional-looking goodie bags. I baked three-layer cakes and added sprinkles one by one for the perfect color balance. The party he wanted was simply too . . . easy. I successfully talked him out of the Bounce Zone party and into a special kind of hell. A hell otherwise known as the Home Party.

When children are babies, the Home Party is a totally acceptable option. The party consists mostly of grown-ups anyway, and it makes the most sense for your sensitive baby. The birthday boy or girl can change clothes as many times as necessary and easily go down for a nap when the time comes. Home is by far the best place for the unfortunate first-birthday screamfest or diaper blowout. At that point, anything
other
than the Home Party is pretty excessive. But things change once your kid passes that first birthday. The Home Party suddenly goes from the best bet to the worst idea
ever
.

Despite having all the comforts of home, parties in your own abode are a boatload of work. Being the hostess, you’ll need to clean the house from top to bottom in order to entertain. Toilets need to be sanitized and windows need to be washed and beds need to be made, just on the off chance that someone should want to see the bedrooms. And then, a few short hours later, you need to clean up all over again after your house has been destroyed by an army of wild children. Cake is ground into the
couch. Tiny muddy footprints litter the floor and fingerprints adorn every surface.

More than just the mess, there’s a danger in having other kids in your house. Unless parents are diligent (which they rarely are) about keeping a watchful eye on their offspring, disaster is sure to ensue. The pint-size party guests will inevitably break something or spill something or discover some secret item and display it for the entire party to see. (I won’t name names, but I may just have a friend whose party was brought to a screeching halt when a two-year-old guest discovered a hot-pink vibrator and proceeded to walk out of the bedroom teething on it. Word to the wise: Lock your goodie drawer.) Plus, they’re never really economical. For summer birthdays, the backyard works perfectly and entertainment can be water balloons and outdoor scavenger hunts. Winter birthdays call for entertainment and that entertainment always comes with a hefty price tag.

So, back to Ben’s fifth birthday . . .

Though I wasn’t too thrilled with his chosen superhero theme, I wanted to make my precious boy happy. He wanted a hero party and I was going to give him the best damn superhero party in the world. At home, of course.

I searched for days and finally found a character company not far from my neighborhood that had a Spider-Man option. Spidey would come to the house and direct a “Superhero Training Workshop.” I was told to buy badges and trophies as prizes, and the afternoon was planned to a T. And with the adorable red and blue cupcakes I decorated and the fantastic cape-making project I assembled, it would be the party to put all other parties to shame. It would be the talk of the town. It would be epic.

Unfortunately, it was epic for all the wrong reasons. The
punk from the party company arrived forty-five minutes late. When he finally waltzed through the door to a room of restless little boys, he seemed blissfully unaware of the carefully orchestrated “training program” I had planned with his boss. Instead of “training” the kids, he spent the next half hour running away from them as they shouted, “You’re not the real Spider-Man!” and tried to rip off his costume. Ben watched helplessly. The clueless eighteen-year-old attempted to play Simon Says with the kids, but they weren’t having it. Finally, he tried to impress the crowd by climbing a tree in our yard. He climbed to the top branch and succeeded in wowing the crowd. That is, until the tree started swaying and everyone grabbed his or her child and darted away from the scene. Nothing like a tree falling on the crowd to put the kibosh on a dying party. As I escorted Spidey to the door, Jeff shot me a look that clearly said, “Bounce Zone would have been
such
a better party.” Worst of all, he was right.

The hours I spent planning and creating and outdoing were wasted and I had nothing to show for it. Ben had a fine time, but would have been just as happy at the party he requested. Admittedly, he probably would have had a
better
time. Once everyone left, I sat at the kitchen table in tears. It was his party and I’d cry if I wanted to.

But that wasn’t my worst party-throwing adventure. I’d have to say that Evan’s third birthday takes the cake. I figured that as the third child, he didn’t really
need
a party. We’d do a few presents and spend the day together and have cake as a family. It would be
fine
. He was three . . . he’d never know the difference. But, to my great surprise, my baby woke up on December 7 in the very best of moods. “It’s my birthday,” he happily exclaimed. “My party is today!”

It was like I’d been stabbed in the heart. The mommy guilt was unbearable.

Like any guilt-ridden mother would, I spent the day running around like a lunatic getting all the makings for an impromptu birthday party. Balloons, check. Party plates, napkins, and cups, check. Cupcakes and three candles, check. Pizza and ice cream, check. Party hats, check. Available friends with young children, check.

I accomplished a pretty impressive amount during the five hours he was at school, if I do say so myself. I picked the birthday boy up and excitedly brought him home to see the setup. Good job, Mommy! Way to turn it around!

We ate pizza and sang “Happy Birthday” and took pictures and I put the kids in their pajamas. What a day. Just as I was patting myself on the back, and pouring a glass of much-needed wine, I heard a key in the front door. My heart dropped. It was a key belonging to my husband. A husband with whom I had discussed a quiet birthday night at home. A husband who left work early to be there on time for cake. A husband whom, until that moment, I had completely forgotten about.

“Where’s the birthday boy?” he greeted us. “Everyone ready for some cake?”

Whoops. I
knew
I had forgotten something.

Like I said, there is a reason everyone has parties at those indoor gyms.

Damn geniuses.

T
here is an unspoken rule of motherhood that if you come across a fellow mother in need, you offer to help her if you can. You hold the door for the mom struggling with the screaming toddler and the giant infant carrier, you offer a wipe to the mom rummaging through her bag when faced with a dirt-covered preschooler, and you pull out a snack if it could possibly fend off a meltdown for a mom who seems at the end of her rope. Once you’ve been in all those positions yourself, it’s really second nature. Plus, it’s just the right thing to do.

There’s one thing, however, that you’re
not
expected to offer a hand with. If you are lucky enough to score a good one, you do everything in your power to protect your find. When a mother moans about having nobody to watch the kids for her standing Saturday night date, you busy yourself with e-mail or pretend to hear a thud on the playground. You sympathize with the mom who needs help when she goes to Vegas with her girlfriends, but don’t dream of sharing the first phone number on your speed dial. No way in hell are you giving up that name. You worked your ass off for it and are simply protecting your investment. It’s simply instinctive.