Birthday Cocooning is the New Cool

Examiner, Nov. 2009

I’ve always thought an excellent way to measure the success of a child’s birthday party is to check whether the adults are having any fun. This may seem counter-intuitive; after all, it’s the child’s birthday, not his parents’. Having said that, a singular focus on whether your child is entertained enough, combined with the stress of getting everyone to the birthday location on time (not to mention making sure every parent fills out the permission slip, lest someone breaks an arm on the jumpy castle) often leads to an over-produced and expensive affair. There is a simpler way to do this.

Fire the balloon man, and cancel the ponies. Skip the activities, the scavenger hunts, and stay home. Invite your guests –and their families- to come to your house, and hang out. Plan nothing, leave the kids alone, and see what happens. It’s a revolutionary idea that more and more parents are going for.

Last night, one of my son’s friends celebrated his fifth birthday. We all went, and it was fabulous to, for once, not simply drop him off and pick him up: instead, we got to stay, eat, hang out, and have actual conversations with other parents, making this feel more like a family get together than anything. Actually, we needed a bit of a sit-down, since the house we went to was outside the city limits, and we almost killed a deer on the way. See: we weren’t even there yet, and already had a ton of excitement.

The food was safe; my children could eat everything. This was a nice change from many of the public birthday destinations, where I often have to explain to the kids that the hamburger-and-bacon pizza with extra cheese is probably not kosher.

There are additional benefits. My daughter experienced how annoying and loud an entire herd of five-year-olds can be. This should help her be more tolerant at home, where she has to put up with just one. Although, on second thought, that might take some of the fun out of having a younger brother: what good is he if you can’t blame him for random stuff?

Of course, simply playing without itinerary takes its toll. By the end of the evening, little Mendel was exhausted and expressed this by refusing a bathroom break. I explained that the drive back would take about a year, and his only option was to go now. He responded by doing some unmentionable things with the toilet lid, and having a good cry. After half an hour or so, he peed, and was ready to go home. He even had the good sense to fall asleep in the car, so we could put him straight to bed after coming home around 9:15.
I should mention he woke back up at midnight, ready to party some more, making his actual bedtime 2 pm. Still, that puts the total amount of sleep at approximately 10 hours, which is extremely successful in our house. No way would he sleep that well after visiting the jumpy castles.

Last but not least, you can skip the stranger talk: “Don’t trust anybody just because they wear a party hat!” “If the clown makes you uncomfortable, scream!” “Don’t go to the bathroom alone, come find me first, which will take forever and you’ll run the risk of peeing yourself in front of your friends!”

These are necessary warnings at any public venue these days, which take all the fun out of the party. At someone’s house, there is no risk of running into trouble; the only thing to worry about is that your kid breaks someone else’s stuff or drops some cherry soda on the sofa, which is the host’s fault anyway, since they invited us in the first place. At-home birthday parties, I think, are the new cool.

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like

Did it leave a mark?

This is your final warning, or

Bring it home, King Antiochus

Pet Peeves

This morning, at preschool, my son threw a miniature fit. He drew a picture, folded it up neatly, and attempted to stick it in his pocket. “No,” said the teacher, “you’re supposed to hang it on the wall.”

This was not what he had planned; he cried a bit, stomped off to the hallway and pouted for a minute or two. The teacher, who is smarter than him, left him alone; eventually he came back inside and everything was fine. He just needed to get it off his chest. He forgave his teacher; she couldn’t know she had made a cardinal mistake by deciding something without him.

Mendel believes in discussing things, weighing options, carefully coming to an agreement. He is all about compromise and input, and would love it if we took a vote on everything. Maybe I have taken him to too many board meetings; he is a democratic creature, and does not respond well when simply told what to do.

Getting a little worked up now and then is acceptable behavior, I think; we all have our pet peeves. Mine is wasting food: you finish your plate, and if it really can’t be eaten anymore it is composted. My daughter hates turtlenecks and sleeping under a blanket. My husband has a thing about ugly shoes, and the use of the word “piggy-back” during meetings. The essence of a good pet peeve, however, is that it isn’t something you are confronted with all the time.

The thing with Mendel’s pet peeve is, he’s taking it too far. After all, you can’t argue every decision in life; at some point you just have to accept the status quo and get in line. You can’t argue with the weather or with traffic lights, and Tuesday will not magically turn into Friday just because you come up with great arguments. This means he gets his feathers ruffled on an hourly basis.

My hope is that, at some point, he will update his pet peeve. Maybe he can start disliking something that he doesn’t experience so often, like Christmas Elves, or people who hand out toothpaste on Halloween. Groundhog Day, Fireworks, or the Super Bowl: there are many things that you confront once a year, for a short period, so you more or less get 11 anger-free months. I think it’s a great idea.

Now, how do I go about fostering a deep-seated hatred of Elves?

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like Apology accepted, This is your final warning, Being seven is so last year, or Nothing good to eat.

From Macaroni Art to David Lynch

My son came home the other day with macaroni art. Okay, technically, it wasn’t macaroni; it was differently shaped pasta, spray-painted and glued in a random pattern to a piece of paper. It wasn’t an isolated incident either; earlier this week, he glued Apple Jack cereal to cardboard; I ask you, is this an acceptable thing to be doing during an artist’s formative years?

“What are they teaching you at that preschool,” I asked him, “How do you ever expect to become a fabulous artist if you waste your talent on macaroni?” He shrugged and walked away. He didn’t ask me to put it on the fridge, either: instead, he kind of hid it underneath a pile of mail where I came upon it by accident. He seemed slightly embarrassed about the whole thing. “Don’t do this again,” I warned him, “or there will be consequences.”

Then I remember a documentary about David Lynch I watched years ago. In it, Lynch talks about some recent artwork he’s been working on: he has nailed several slabs of raw meat to a board, and is watching it decompose. First, it changes color, then it become infested by maggots; eventually it turns into a nasty slimy mess, crawling with bugs and the stench becomes unbearable. I think his son talks about marching ants in one of the scenes; the whole family appears slightly disgusted but otherwise unfazed. It’s art, although perhaps not for the masses, but what are you going to do in this day and age, when everything’s been done before? You expand your horizon, that’s what; you find society’s limits, and you challenge them.

The limits in our house definitely include macaroni art; it’s stale, it’s childish, and it’s something I thought Mendel had left behind when he grew out of his diapers. Maybe because of that attitude, we have turned it into a taboo: art with food? Bah!
Taboos are solid gold, as far as artists are concerned, and when you look at it that way, even macaroni art can become fresh and modern again.
Also, he’s watched that strawberry scene in Across the Universe many times, so maybe this isn’t a lapse; maybe it’s a developmental leap. Yes, that must be it. I guess this marks the beginning of Mendel’s food period; I wonder how long it will last. Perhaps I should dig up the macaroni sheet, and hang it on the fridge after all.

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like My dad can beat up your dad, You sound like your mother, Bad tempered children, or Interior re-design