Downsizing and Outsourcing: A Child's Birthday Party

When did children’s birthday parties become so overblown that they deserve their own reality show?  Whatever happened to the ol’ fashioned stay-at-home birthday party?  Before we go back to throwing parties 1980s style, though, a few things need to happen. 

1. We need to be able to invite just the friends our kid wants at the party
2. Children need to be entertained by chairs and music instead of lasers, enormous inflatable structures, and dressing up like miniature street walkers
3. An expectation for birthday party food should be cake.  Not chicken nuggets, pizza, hot dogs, cake, ice cream with an accompanying sundae bar and a separate buffet for the parents with alcohol.  Although booze would make some of these soirees more bearable. 

Let’s begin with #1.  We have raised our children to include everyone, to be everybody’s friend.  This is not the real world.  Buck up kid, and learn early that you will not like everyone, and not everyone will like you.  When you are sitting at work one day and 3 of your co-workers go out to lunch and don’t ask you, it’s going to be a hard lesson to learn.  You will not be able to march into your boss’ office and demand that lunch invitations be placed in everyone’s mailbox.  Therefore, this difficult lesson must begin with birthday parties.  When we have to invite everyone in the class, that’s a lot of kids, a few of whom my child has no desire to spend his special day with.  And his mother has no desire to spend 15 bucks on to watch said child spin in circles and hit my kid on the head every 10 minutes. 

#2: When I was in first grade, I had a Strawberry Shortcake-themed birthday party.  In my living room at home.  Everything was Strawberry Shortcake – my dress which I was so excited to wear to my birthday party, my cake which my mom made for me, the tablecloth, plates, and napkins.  A family friend who was an artist made me a big poster of Strawberry Shortcake without the strawberry on her hat and we played “Pin the Strawberry on Strawberry Shortcake’s Hat.”  We played musical chairs and drop the clothespin in the empty soda bottle.  We ate our cake, drank juice and VOILA!  It was a super-fun birthday celebrated without my parents having to forfeit buying groceries for the week to pay for my 7^th Birthday Extravaganza.  I wasn’t at all upset that Pat Benatar didn’t show up because I had no expectation or experience with such outlandish and lavish birthday party scenarios.

Fast forward 30 years, and we are living in an age in which elementary school-aged children celebrate their births for no less than $500.  We parents have given in to peer pressure and feel the need to have our kids’ parties at The Bounce House-Gymnastics-Dress Your Daughter Like a Whore-Karate-Pottery-Kindgom otherwise we will suffer the criticism of the girls on the playground.  The 30-something year old girls known as other moms. 

And #3: Although I appreciate that some hosts want to feed my child and all the party-going adults to the point of vomiting, it really is not necessary.  I can handle two hours without a sub sandwich or slice of pizza.  A simple water bottle is sufficient.  I don’t want it on my conscience that the birthday girl just lost part of her college fund because her parents wanted to keep up with the Jones’ and offer complimentary ice sculpture tequila shots at their kid’s “Lil’ Diva” party.

And this is the part where I let you know that I am a hypocrite. This is the first year in which I have sort of fallen prey to all of this birthday party hoopla.  Prior to this year, I organized Monkey Man’s parties.  Each year was a different theme with the games (researched and executed by yours truly), cupcakes, and goody bags all coordinated.  I had the parties in a church hall because my father-in-law is a pastor and we could get a bigger space than my living room which was and is not spacious enough for 20 preschoolers.  And last year we had it at the movies, and I provided all their snacks by sneaking them into the theater.  There are several reasons I snuck the snacks in: 1) C’mon, everyone brings their own food to the movies 2) No one needs to eat 1,000 calorie popcorn 3) I live and die by a budget.  Call me cheap if you must.  My husband does.

Getting back to this year.  I am working full time and don’t have the time or energy to party plan.  I love planning parties, but I also love to sleep, so I decided to hand this one over to someone who does this as her job and I’d just catch some zzz’s instead of googling party games.  However, in my defense, I did not spend anywhere close to $500.  I found a local YMCA that has sports parties and Monkey Man loves all kinds of sports.  Add to that the price, which was pretty close to what I would have spent organizing it on my own, and I was sold. We invited only the boys in his class, so although I farmed this party out, I did not do it to keep up with the Jones’.  The kids played basketball, dodgeball (the parents even played a round against the kids!), and flag football for an hour, ate some chips and a cupcake with juice, then played in the Wii/X Box arcade for 45 minutes.  Monkey Man played with his friends and said several times during the party, “This is the best party ever!”  It was a simple party that I could’ve done at my house, but because of time of year, and the need to keep my sanity, I outsourced it.  Simple, fun, and yes, Monkey Man, the best party ever. 

Happy 7^th Birthday, Buddy.  I love you to the moon and back, bunches and bunches. 

Status Quo?

Disclaimer: If you read this, don’t worry.  I am not talking about you.

Before you type in your next Facebook status, just know that we are on to you.  Because what you think you are presenting to us and what we hear are two very different things.    

Following are various status updates, their translations, and insightful observations about the status.  It’s a simple reference in case you are tempted to use any of these or their variations. 

First, a helpful key to guide you:  

Status - What the person projects to the world, wants others to think and believe, whether true or not

Translation - What the readers hear

Keen observation - The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth

1.

Status: “Played Monopoly with the kids, baked cookies and now it’s Family Movie Night!  Nothing like cuddling with my kids on a Saturday night.”

Translation: I want everyone to know what an awesome mom I am.  Or that I was awesome for three hours today when I stopped playing Farmville and paid attention to my kids.

Keen Observation: Wow, girlfriend.  I remember when there was nothing like cuddling with that guy you hooked up with in Hoboken on a Saturday night. 

2.

Status: “Hubby just gave me a Louis Vuitton bag!  And peep-toe Louboutins! I am the luckiest girl in the world.”

Translation: Look everyone!  My husband buys me things. Expensive things.  I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me, but at least I have a new Louie bag and Louboutins.

Keen Observation:  You’re husband is totally cheating on you.  With his boyfriend.  What straight guy knows to buy his woman the two Lous?

3.

Status: “I love living in Hawaii. There is nothing like starting the day with a jog on the beach while watching the dolphins in the water.  Life is Good!”

Translation: Sucka! 

Keen Observation: Alright, Miss Rosie Rub It In.  Good for you.  Hope a shark doesn’t eat you while you are paddleboarding. 

4.

Status: “After months of careful consideration, I have decided that I am getting my tubes tied.  My family of 4 is now complete.” 

Translation: I have a weird need to tell everyone my really, really personal business.

Keen Observation: Your family of 4 is not giving you enough attention.  Maybe you should reconsider and go for baby #3. At least when the little one is suckling your boob, you'll get some attention.

5.

Status: “Just booked our summer house.  Now off to pick up our new Benz at the dealership.”

Translation: We are in massive credit card debt, but at least my friends think I’m rich.

Keen Observation: You are a pretentious jerk.  But let me know when your house goes into foreclosure, I might know a buyer.

6.

Status: “Dinner with my besties!  My besties are the best besties ever!”

Translation: Hey, everyone, I have friends!  And I talk like I am 6 years-old! And I end every sentence with an exclamation mark!

Keen Observation: I have never seen more women with so many best friends since the dawning of Facebook.

7.

Status: “Just put the kids on the bus.  Drinking my cup of joe in a quiet house getting ready to go to the gym. Then it’s off to lunch with a friend and maybe a nap afterwards.”

Translation: Jealous?  I don’t have a job.  My kids are all in school.  My husband is at work.  And I am so bored.

Keen observation:  WTF?  Yeah, I am a little jealous of all that free time.  But, c’mon!  Get a job, go volunteer, get a hobby.  And by hobby, I don’t mean sleeping with your personal trainer every Wednesday and Friday.

8.

Status: “Work all day then grocery shopping.  Oh, then I have to pick up a prescription for this hacking cough I’ve had for 3 weeks.  Making fire-grilled shrimp with honeydew gazpacho for dinner tonight.  Then I’m relaxing and watching The Office and Parks & Rec.  I will be in bed by 10.  Yawn.”

Translation: My life is average, but by throwing in that tasty dinner, I want you to think that at least I am an amazing cook. 

Keen observation: You got that right with the yawn part.  And there cannot be such a thing as honeydew gazpacho.  Oh, and WHO CARES?

9.

Status: “I was going to wait for the kids to go to bed, but I’m thinking it’s Wine o’ clock NOW!”

Translation: I cannot function without alcohol.

Keen observation: Get help.  You cannot function without alcohol.

10.

Status: “Is it summer vacation ALREADY?  Two months home with these kids might drive me crazy.”

Translation: Well, there go my days of pedicures, lunch with my besties, and hitting the gym in the middle of the day.  Guess I’ll have to drag these kids grocery shopping now.

Keen observation: See #7 – Haha!  They’re baaaack! Now that the little cherubs are home messing up your mojo we are sure we will see you at the local park or town pool, heavily engaged in titillating conversation with other moms about other moms.  And I’m going to guess your kid is the one that just kicked the other one down the slide.  But you wouldn’t know as you are that mom feverishly texting on that bench over there.    

11.

Status: “Joey puked all over his bed last night.  Hubby’s staying home with him, but I have to work.  I’m exhausted and have to teach a roomful of 8 year-olds. Being a mom is hard!”

Translation: Being a mom is hard.

Keen observation: Keeping it real, sista. Thank you.

Memo From Mom

To: My Readers
 Re: Let’s Do This Thing!

This memo is in reference to you being so awesome for joining me here! I have a big favor to ask, one that will make you even more awesome. I just started a new blog called Memos from Mom at memosfrommom.wordpress.com.  Please join me over there, too!

I secretly wish I could be the boss of everyone (C’mon, I am a mom. All moms want to tell everyone what to do and how to do it) and tell them exactly what they need to do in order to make my life easier. Memos from Mom is a blog done in the style of business memos. Well, maybe not quite the exact style, as I’m sure professional business memos do not reference child vomit, Entenmann’s Pop ‘ems binges, dog diarrhea, and a mom’s crush on Rick Springfield. However, like business memos, I will address various situations and problems and even throw out a thank you here and there.

Moms want to rule the world, but want to feel like they are not alone in their quest for power in a role that sometimes feels powerless. Memos from Mom will be full of memos to my son, my husband, the moms on the playground, corporations, the government, rock stars, you name it. My hope is that just when you think you will self-implode from the stress of mommyhood, you can read a memo, laugh, and know that you are not alone.

No worries, though. You Are Kidding Me! isn't going anywhere.

My Mom and Dad are Livin’ La Vida Loca

My mom and dad got sucked into American Idol last year when Scotty McCreery was on and won. My dad would call me every week to tell me about him, getting more and more excited as Scotty made his way through the cuts. My dad is a huge country music fan, like country crooner music fan. You’re not going to see him tapping his foot to Sugarland. You’re going to hear him, in the next town, yodeling to Hank Williams.

Apparently Idol started up again last night. I wouldn’t know, I’ve long since stopped watching it. My mother and father are keeping me in touch with this world. I think I stopped wasting my time when that guy with the gray hair won. You know the one. The American Idol that was so memorable that no one knows his name.

But Poppy and Aga discovered a love for all things pop music last year, and last night was the season premiere with judges Randy, Steven Tyler, and Jennifer Lopez. And this is the phone call I got when the show ended:

Phone rings, I answer:
My dad: “Hey, who is Jennifer Lopez’s husband?”

Me: “Oh, Marc something, Marc…”

My dad: “Anthony. Marc Anthony. That’s it.”

Me: “Yeah, but they’re getting a div…” and I hear my mom in the background telling my dad, “I told you it wasn’t Ricky Martin.”

My dad: “I thought it was that La Vida Loca guy,” then I hear my mom yell, “No, he’s gay.”

My dad: “Even if he’s gay, she could be his cover up.”

Me: “Dad, he’s out. He has twins and has a partner.”
My head is spinning. Am I really having this conversation with my father??

My dad: “Mommy wants to know who she was married to before that, some rapper?”

Me: “She dated P. Diddy…”

My dad, laughing: “What? P WHO? Who is that?”

Me: “Some rapper but he goes by Sean Puffy Combs, Puff Daddy…”

My dad: “What the hell is a Puff Daddy? Wasn’t she married a few times?”

Me: “I think she was married to one of her dancers a long time ago. She was engaged to Ben Affleck.”

Again, really? What happened to our conversations about whether I have enough washer fluid in my car, or am I going to our credit union’s luncheon on a Saturday afternoon when I have absolutely nothing else to do just for the chance to win a television?

My dad: “Ben Affleck. He’s an actor right? I’ve seen him before. Hey, do you have enough dog food? Make sure you have milk. I’ll pick some up for you if you want.”

Whew, he's back. But it got me thinking about the perfect birthday gift for him. His birthday is next month and I think he might love a subscription to US Weekly.

Bootylicious

The following was overheard on an unusually warm, 60-degree day in New Jersey in January at my local Subway sandwich shop:

“Hey dad,” the young boy said, looking about 6 or 7 years-old. He motioned to his father to look at the teeny-bopper blonde girl with too short-shorts for this boring mom’s taste. “That girl’s booty is shakin’ like bacon!”

Go ahead, gasp in horror. I did. Who raises their child to speak this way about girls? Apparently, I raised my child to speak this way. Yes, that boy was Monkey Man, the dad was Hubby, and I just stood there, shocked. Okay, not really shocked. This isn’t the first time Monkey Man has shown us very clear signs of his fondness of females and the trouble we will be in when there are pubescent hormones raging through his body.

If there isn’t a male chastity belt, you can sure as hell bet I will be inventing one.

Ice, Ice Baby

Monkey Man broke his collar bone, or as they say in the medical field, his left clavicle. Or as a New Jersey mom says (that’s me), “&%#$, he broke a friggin’ bone.” It happened last Sunday. I think most moms, of boys especially, expect this several times in the lives of their sons. But I am the absolute worst person to have around in an emergency. So it only makes sense that when he broke his collar bone, he was with me and not Hubby.

We went ice skating. We went round and round the rink lots of times and Monkey Man took several spills as everyone does. He fell on his butt, he fell on his hands, he fell with his legs sprawled out like Bambi sliding across the frozen pond. But the last spill, which looked like an “easy” fall, landed him on his shoulder, which I’ve since learned is one of the two common ways in which the collar bone breaks. Being a parent has proven to be very educational. I would have gone to medical school if I really desired to be so knowledgeable in the field of bones and blood.

As soon as he fell, he cried. Hard. Monkey Man doesn’t cry unless something is very wrong. So there I was, the parent who sucks in an emergency in a situation where something was very wrong. But I am proud to say I was a big girl. I kept myself together. And clearly this was all about me and how I could actually be a mother in this situation and not scream for my own mother. What kept me calm, though, was that even though he was crying and clearly in pain, I felt like he was okay because I saw him fall and it wasn’t hard. And that’s why I do not have a medical degree. Doesn’t matter how hard the fall is, it’s how they fall. And he did it perfectly.

Fast forward. The Sunday afternoon ER visit showed us a break to his left clavicle. As soon as Monkey Man heard that it was officially broken, he declared, “I have a broken bone just like Danny!” Danny is his 16 year-old cousin who broke his arm very badly (like steel rods, surgery badly) a few years ago. And when Monkey Man was given his sling, well, you would think the child just got a trophy for “Most Badass Fall on the Ice” because he was beaming.

The rest of the night, he just kept saying, “Well, I guess it’s confirmed. Yep, it’s broke.” He would go check himself out in the mirror. When he went to school, he wanted his jacket zipped only so far so that you could see the sling. Thanks to Hubby’s suggestions, he wondered if the girls in school would be all, “Aww, how are you? Do you need help?” He got to have ice cream for dinner that night and some sucker bought him a new Wii game just 2 weeks after Christmas (sucker=me). This kid is going to milk this long after the pain subsides.

I Do...I Don't

Some Things I Know How to Do

Eat almost an entire box of Entenmann’s Holiday Pop ‘ems. In less than 24 hours. But you are already privy to this information if you read this blog.

Roll my eyes just enough to give myself the satisfaction that I’ve rolled my eyes, but not enough so that the receiver of the eye rolling has a clue. Except Hubby. He is totally on to my eye rolling.

Boil water for pasta. Take that, Rachel Ray!

Change the belt on my vacuum without looking at the instruction manual. Says a lot for my vacuum. Yep, it sucks. Pun intended.

Organize. “Donate, throw away, keep,” is my mantra.

Never have to mow the lawn. It’s the one chore I DON’T do. “Hubby, I have really bad grass allergies. AACHOO!” I actually really do have bad grass allergies. Seriously.

Use our snowblower. I had to do it once, 2 years-ago, when Hubby went on a business trip during a blizzard. I am certain he made these travel arrangements with Mother Nature just to see if I had it in me. He and my dad gave me a tutorial a few days before when we knew the storm was coming. And I rocked that snowblower all up and down our street. Only because I was afraid to shut the thing off for fear of having to start it again.

Watch “Real Housewives of (insert any city)” and not feel like I just wasted an hour of my life. It is time for my brain to rest (read: melt).

Sleep. I am sooo good at going 10, 11, 12 hours when given the opportunity. I’m like a long-distance sleeper or something.

Do 7 things at once. I might forget during the process the first 5 things I started, but at least I started them.

And Some Things I Don’t Know How To Do

On the sleeping note, I don’t know how to function on less than 8 hours of sleep. I wake up a cranky, headachy, miserable person. I actually need 8 ½ hours to work at peak performance. Peak performance being not snapping at the grocery girl for putting the groceries in the bags in all the wrong order. Seriously, if I line them up a certain way, that is the way they go in the bags. (Oops, looks like someone didn’t get enough sleep last night!)

Blanche vegetables. I know Blanche is from Golden Girls, but I have no idea how that translates to cooking. I also don’t know how to cut a tomato or onion the right away. So let’s just say I don’t know how to cook. Period.

Change a tire. My dad has taught me dozens of times, but I have no attention span for things of the automotive nature. Mom, I know you are reading this. Please don’t tell Dad.

Use coupons. I occasionally use a coupon, and get very excited when I save 2 bucks, but I will never come home saying I bought $352 worth of groceries and spent only $17. And usually, those two coupons that I do actually have for my shopping trip stay safely on the kitchen counter and forget to make their way into my pocket.

Look at a super wiggly tooth without gagging. Monkey Man is in his prime tooth-wiggling years and laughs hysterically when I’m about to lose my lunch over his loose-tooth antics.

Balance a checkbook. Again, Mom, look away. But by some miracle, I have managed to keep this family afloat for the past 12 ½ years.

Bring Monkey Man for ice cream and not get it myself. I am shocked when I see parents bring their children out for ice cream and they sit there all ice cream-less. That’s just craziness.