I think most of us can relate at one time or another. Maybe you’re still having birthday-flashbacks from the party your mom made you invite the nasty neighbor who picked his nose and flicked his findings on your other guests. Maybe you’re still suffering socially from being forced to invite your creepy, staring so-full-of-ridicule-and-disdain-that-he-was-practically-on-fire cousin to a birthday party. Or maybe you’re still entrenched with those people whom your mother insisted be invited to the party ‘because they’re our friends,’ but who were really the children of her friends. My sympathies are with you.
Of course all this fades in comparison to the politics of birthday parties that entangle us once we become mothers. Suddenly our true, cool I’ll-never-do-that-to-my-kids selves must war with our mature, realistic can’t-alienate-her-or-my-roses-will-die selves. And then there’s the whole ‘do I mention the party, because maybe her child was not invited’ quandary. Doesn’t the book of Matthew prophesie something about slights and rumors of slights?
Oh! And gifts! Don’t even get me started on the gifts.
Elizabeth has a birthday coming up. Maybe we’ll just go away for the weekend and call it good. That way I won’t have to figure out how to feed her meal of choice, chicken and fries, to hundreds of people I don’t even know or like.