Provident Mom

I had this super great birthday party planned for my 8-year-old son. Academically, it looked beautiful:

Arrival project: build structures out of gum drops and tooth picks

Lunch: make your own pizzas out of homemade dough and an assortment of toppings

Outside: three-legged race, paper airplane contest, airplane relay, balloon rocket game

Inside: Birthday cake and presents

Back outside: play until parents come

In reality, though, it was complete mayhem. There were pizza toppings and gum drops all over the house, the dog was in hysterics, a kid came in the house crying because his fingers got slammed in the playhouse door, one boy spent the entire time with my 5-year-old daughter because the others teased him so much, and the noise level rivaled the noise at the U2 concerts I went to in high school.

The last mom picked her child up at 1:23 in the afternoon, and I stood with my back against the door facing a war zone. I felt like a British citizen facing the aftermath of a WWII air raid.

Where did I go wrong? Before the party, I felt so smug. I’d come up with a perfect party plan. It wasn’t going to cost much at all, and the boys would all have a fun, stimulating time. I should have just turned them all loose in the backyard with some animal crackers and balloons and sat down with a book for two hours, at which time I would let them back in to collect their coats on the way out.

But really, my son had a great time. That’s why I threw a party, right? I don’t know. Why did I?