Several years ago Richard and I decided (and by that I mean I decided and Richard shrugged his shoulders as if to say “Sure. Whatever.”) that we would allow our children to have an organized birthday party (where they could invite friends and I would entertain them) twice, at ages five and eight.
That sentence was a grammatical nightmare. But I’m too lazy to go back and fix it. I wouldn’t know how.
Next week Cameron turns five. He has requested a dinosaur birthday party. I have one week so today I consulted my best source, the web. Much… too… overwhelming. I had no idea the extent to which some people go for birthday parties. I have neither the time, ambition or the funds to expend such energies. Internet, you failed me.
So I think we’ll just stick with musical chairs, dropping clothespins in glass jars and maybe pin the tail on the T-Rex. I might actually buy a dinosaur cake because the idea of trying to make one causes me to hyperventilate.
One more thing. I decided that I would request that the preschool age guests not bring gifts. Is that tacky/offensive/totally bizarre? I just can’t stand the idea of more toys around this place. And I feel bad asking other children’s parents to spend money on him in these “tough economic times”. I told Cameron that his friends wouldn’t be bringing gifts and, well, if you know anything about Cameron you know what happened.
Tears. Whining. Banging of limbs against nearby objects.
It was all enough to indicate that gifts are the last thing the child needs. But never fear mothers and fathers whose hearts are breaking for the poor child. He will get gifts.
There is a swingset being secretly stored in a friends backyard with his name (and Eli’s) all over it.