- Nutritious meals: check
- Bedtime stories: check
- Piano lessons: check
- Great birthday parties: check
Or, at least, I used to be.
Along about halfway through raising child number two I kinda lost my steam. Things began to slide a little. Standards slumped.
Youngest has suffered.
Among other things, Youngest has never enjoyed the blow-out birthday bashes afforded his big brother and sister. He hasn't had a proper birthday party for the last couple years. On one birthday, I served him and his friends (who happened to be gathering for play day anyway) mini bran muffins with candles. Youngest didn't even flinch. By that time, he was so happy to have any recognition whatsoever that he didn't realize what a lame excuse that was for a birthday nod.
The day is fast approaching that this young boy will no longer want a big ole' birthday party. This is probably my last year to throw him a decent celebration and make up for the lack of attention he's had for some time now. So this week I was a good mom, I threw him his dream party--a "rock star" party.
Thing is, I'm a little out of practice. I used to host the theme parties of the year. No detail overlooked--costumes, food, games, prizes, decor, goodie bags, music--I had it all! Not so much anymore. I searched waaaaaaaaaay back in my memory. How do you throw a kids' party again?
Rock star. That's what I had to work with. It started out well enough. I made invitations that looked almost like realistic Ticketmaster tickets. Youngest was impressed. And his expectations were WAY the hell up there.
After the initial burst of creativity, my momentum seized up like an oilless engine . . .
I confided in my friends that I couldn't think of what would pass for a "rock star" menu besides maybe Jack Daniel's and piles of cocaine. Ever the clear thinker, Mary, suggested maybe star shaped food. Mary has saved me. And the children.
We went to a park. I had fun decorations, but they seemed sparse for the location. The food turned out kinda lame compared to the vision in my head. No costumes, no games, no prizes. And no music. A "rock star" birthday party with no music. I suck at this.
I did provide kickass goodie bags. Rock star goodie bags. Money (chocolate money, of course,) jewelry (candy jewelry--naturally,) tattoos, and each guest received a CD of some of Youngest's favorite songs.
But Youngest is relatively new to classic rock. Seems we weren't paying close enough attention to the selections. To my horror, Steve Miller's "Jet Airliner" has the word sh*t in it. I had forgotten that. The rest of the songs were mild. Songs about illegal drugs, casual sex, nihilism, depression. And the occasional ode to devil worship.
I imagine the little party goers covering their ears and bewailing the sudden and unexpected loss of their innocence.
I'm going to take a hot bubble bath and forget the entire episode. Because that's what fabulous mothers do, right?