So, Evan’s birthday was yesterday. Well, we decided not to have a party this year. He’s only three and parties for three year old’s are such a production. The kids are cranky and overwhelmed and really don’t know what’s going on anyway. Plus, December sucks in terms of party options. A party would be silly, we told ourselves. We’ll just celebrate at home. It’ll be fine.
Except, yesterday Evan woke up and the first thing out of his mouth was, “It’s my birthday today! It’s my party!”
It was like I’d been stabbed in the heart. The mommy guilt was unbearable.
So, 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 5 hours he was at school, if I did say so myself. I picked the birthday boy up and excitedly brought him home to see the set-up. 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. Phew.
And then Jeff walked in the door. Where’s the birthday boy? Everyone ready for cake?
Jeff. I’d forgot all about him. Evan’s father. My beloved husband. I was so completely obsessed with Evan that I totally neglected to inform Jeff of the change of plans. It didn’t even dawn on me. Like, at all. Who does that? What the hell?
Evan: Next year you will have a well-planned party, I promise. And, Jeff: Next year I will wait for you.
And I owe you one.