Party Pooped

I had Punky’s 5th birthday party a few weeks ago and it seems to have had a lasting impact on its attendees, since several of their moms report they are using their favors now at every meal. Let me explain!

When the kids arrived, we put dog ears on them and painted their noses black.

We also invited a few nearby house dogs over for the first thirty minutes. The children were thrilled to have dogs to play with.

Once everyone was there, we gave them some dog food (Cookie Crisp in dog bowls) for “energy.” This was absolutely hilarious and really got the kids in the spirit of the party.

After that, we had a puppy obstacle course through the house (It was a rainy day outside).

And finally, the cake and presents. We sent everyone home with their dog ears and doggy bowl and I’ve heard that many of our guests, like my kids, have been eating out of those bowls ever since

Of course, having it at our house made it seem like no big deal, but I’ll be honest with you. Once the last guest left, I sat down on the sofa and felt like I’d never get up again.

I find hosting birthday parties to be stressful, but nothing is worse than compiling the guest list. I wrote about the subject in this week’s newspaper edition of Suburban Turmoil. The full text of the column is below.

Present Tense

On the surface, children’s birthday parties seem like the most innocent of affairs.

There are the children, red cheeked and gleeful in their birthday party best. There are the presents, wrapped in colorful paper, gift receipts tactfully tucked inside. There’s the ubiquitous Publix cake.

And then there’s the mother of the birthday child, smiling brightly in hopes of diverting your attention from her red-rimmed eyes. The uninitiated may wonder how she carries off the whole event with such graciousness and ease. But veteran moms know she’s been through hell to get there.

It’s a torturous journey that starts with the guest list. Deciding who makes the cut is a lot like taking a walk off the beaten path in Cambodia. At least, that’s how I felt when I sat down to select guests for my daughter’s fifth birthday party last month.

At first, it seemed fairly easy. I wrote down my good friend Carol’s name at the top of the list. Then I added another friend, Sue. Then I took Carol off, remembering that she and Sue hated each other’s guts.

Next, I added Maria, whose two girls are in Punky’s dance class. Then I added a few more dance class moms, so that Maria would have someone to talk to.

After that, I thought about Punky’s playgroup friends. I couldn’t invite one without asking the whole group. I bit my lip and wrote down all of their names. Already, my guest list was out of control. I sighed loudly.

“What’s wrong?” Hubs asked.

“I have 12 families on this list already, and I haven’t even gotten to Punky’s zoo class,” I moaned.

Hubs looked at the list and frowned. “Honey, you can’t invite all these people,” he said. “Everyone will think we’re Present Grubbers.” I looked at him in mute horror. Being called a Present Grubber was like committing social birthday party suicide.

You know the kind of people I’m talking about, right? One mom I have the misfortune of knowing holds enormous Present Grubbing parties every year, inviting dozens of children and parents she hardly knows, devoting an entire hour of the party to opening presents, and topping the whole thing off by handing out cheap-ass party favors you wouldn’t give your dog.

But the grand prize for Present Grubbing goes to a woman I’ll call Carla. I met her briefly several years ago, and every single year after that I’ve gotten an Evite (along with at least 100 other people) to her son’s birthday party, held annually at a city park.

The first year, I ignored the mass invitation, only to receive several “reminders” from Carla, asking whether I was coming. I was tempted to write back and say that since I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her in a crowd and my daughter had never laid eyes on her son, the answer was ‘no.’

Instead, I made up some excuse about being out of town. Yeah. I’m brave that way.

“Let Punky invite who she wants,” my husband advised, crumpling up my list. He went off in search of Punky. Ten minutes later, he returned to the kitchen.

“Here you go,” he smirked, handing me a bunch of names scratched down on a piece of paper. “This is who our daughter wants to invite. This is your guest list.”

I looked down the list and laughed. “Nathan?” I snorted. “His mom hasn’t spoken to me in a year! I don’t even know if they still live here. And Arnold is a definite no. He’ll tear up the house.”

I crossed out their names and kept reading.

“Hubs,” I said wearily. “Did you not notice that Punky’s invited everyone on the soccer team except Maggie?”

“So?” Hubs asked.

“So,” I said patiently, “She has a game the same weekend as her party. You think Maggie’s mom won’t find out? Besides, Punky likes Maggie. She obviously just forgot her.”

“Add her on,” Hubs said. “Oh, and add Sarah Brown, too. I’m having lunch with her dad next week.”

“Present Grubber,” I whispered. Hubs glowered at me.

After a dozen or so drafts, I eventually completed a passable guest list and got out the invitations. Within a few days, two of my so-called friends e-mailed to say they couldn’t come. I gritted my teeth, remembering that I had attended both of their kids’ birthday parties.

“Revenge,” I promised softly, my face twisted in anguish.

Of course, on the surface, my daughter’s party seemed like the most innocent of affairs.

There were the children, red cheeked and gleeful in their birthday party best. And the presents, wrapped in colorful paper, gift receipts tactfully tucked inside. And the ubiquitous Publix cake.

And then there was me, smiling brightly in hopes of diverting everyone’s attention from my red-rimmed eyes. Some probably wondered how I carried off the whole event with such graciousness and ease.

But you know I went through hell to get there.