I woke up yesterday with every intention of maybe, possibly accomplishing something productive and then staying out of trouble until it was time for my 10 PM hockey game. The Daughter had a class birthday party, meaning I would be responsible for maintaining the health and safety of all three boys by myself for a few hours in the meat of the afternoon. Ironically, this was the third such event to take place over the weekend.
My Pretty, Pretty Princess, who is quickly earning the nickname Princess Weeps-a-Lot due to the remarkable number of times daily when something happens to which her reaction is an immediate display of questionably authentic tears and the statement, “I just can’t take it anymore”, attended the first party of the weekend on Friday afternoon. I believe that party was held at a local Build-a-Bear Workshop, and yes, she got to make a bear of her very own. I certainly don’t recall going to any birthday parties as a kid that I left with a stuffed bear. In fact, I don’t really recall any birthday party favors in my youth, at all. At best, we’re talking about a party bag including at least one cheap plastic “race car” (either green or red) with a broken rear axle, two or three pieces of Dubble Bubble, and, if it was a really cool party, a parachute dude that was guaranteed to land, maybe, one time before becoming hopelessly tangled, never to fly again.
On Saturday afternoon, Sanford was invited to a classmate’s birthday party at a place called Color Me Mine, which is apparently some kind of ceramic studio where you get to pick out an unpainted, unglazed ceramic piece and then decorate it, in preparation for curing, glazing, whatever they do to it. I guess we get to make a special trip to pick up the finished piece next week. Based on this one, I’m starting to think people in the world are just flat unbalanced. If you had asked me what kind of activity I might recommend for a room full of 6 year-olds, handing them breakable ceramics and a bunch of paint would not likely have come to mind first. That might have made the list, sure, but probably would have placed somewhere below paintball gun practice, deep sea fishing, live shark feeding, and test firing live cannons.
Finally, yesterday afternoon, The Daughter attended a birthday party at a local family recreation/fitness center. From what I’m told, the kids go crazy in a room full of bouncing equipment stuff, spend a bunch of time in the indoor swimming pool and then have a pizza party. I suppose they probably squeeze a few minutes in for cake and gifts, too.
Ironically, Sanford was supposed to be invited to another child’s party on Friday too, but the invitation got lost and we didn’t find out about it until it was much too late.
So officially, my poor wife spent most of her weekend hanging out with raucous groups of four or six year-olds, all keyed up on too much stimulation, and cake icing. I’d bet money that she considered contracting someone to place a voodoo curse on me since I made her attend all of the events herself instead of splitting them (because, trust me, no one wants to hang out with me at a kid’s birthday party). Luckily, though, she got to do some serious bargain shopping yesterday afternoon, which made everything all right with the world again. But that’s another post. Let’s hope, though, that my barely-school aged children can manage their own apparently chaotic social lives soon. The Puddinette can only take so many balloons.