I’m not a kid person. Or, should I say, I’m not an every kid person. Meaning, most kids are like footballs to me. I totally know what a football is there for, and I can totally appreciate the skill involved with those who handle one for a living. But if you hand me a football, I’ll likely stare at it awkwardly for a few moments, wonder why someone just handed me a football, definitely hold it wrong, and then try to throw it to someone else who knows better.
Also, for the record, I’m almost positive I’ve never thrown a child. At least not without their consent.
So when I got multiple panic-texts from a friend on Saturday morning asking if I could run a four year old’s birthday party for her because she was on death’s door with the flu, I obviously said yes.
Or, I freaked, told CB there’s no way that I could do it, and then texted back “Of course I’ll help if you need me to.”
Sidebar: My mind’s ability to completely go against my gut is something that has frequently gotten me into trouble and often causes me to detangle myself from situations that I wouldn’t normally find myself in had I just listened to my gut in the first place.
Thanks a lot, mind.
But let me back up. It’s not as if I dislike children. I mean, I certainly went through a healthy phase (called my twenties) where I knew for sure I didn’t want kids of my own. But as my friends and family started procreating and making kids that didn’t suck, I started to come around.
Also, when I hold those little fresh-smelling babies in my arms, I have been known to stare at them for hours, wonder if I’m actually holding the meaning of life in my hands, and, like, sometimes forget that they’re not my actual child. But whatever. I eventually give the kid back and no charges are pressed and everything’s fine.
So I’m 100% on board with maybe feeling ready to someday have kids of my own. As long as they promise not to be super annoying when I’m trying to sleep OR go through any sort of challenging phase where I will immediately regret every sassy thing I ever said to my parents and then be forced to ground said child to their room until they’re 18.
But since this phase of potentially feeling closer to ready is also sometimes referred to by my doctors, journalists, friends, and strangers on the train as the “Do it now! Now! Have the baby now or you’ll never have kids and will regret it foreverrrrrrrrrr!!!” phase, I decided that saying yes to a four year olds birthday party was the exact right move to get my uterus more used to the idea of being aggressively angry at me for approximately 9 months sometime within the next 5 or so years.
Also, don’t panic CB. I’m slow to the finish line, there’s lots of time (just don’t read or listen to anyone who has an opinion that is the opposite of that.)
So, after looking at the sheer panic on my face and listening to me say “I can’t do this by myself” a conservative 172 times in the course of 3 minutes, CB decided that he should probably just come along with me so that I didn’t (a) ruin our friend’s business forever and (b) terrify small children and their parents with my complete lack of knowledge regarding what 4 year olds like.
Also, CB wins the award for Best Person on the Planet. Sorry, everyone else. You lose.
However, in a shocking twist of events, my first challenge occurred just as I walked through the front door, saw the mom and a kid that was small, and said “So, this must be the birthday girl!”
And then the mom looked at me quizzically and said “Um, no…this is her little sister. She’s one and a half.”
Whatever, I don’t know what a four year old is supposed to look like. I mean, it’s possible that my niece was four a few years ago, and some of my best friends currently have four year olds that I spend a decent amount of time with. But I saw a person who was small and standing in front of me, and so I played my odds.
Also, never send me to Vegas with your money.
Cut to: 30 minutes later when the actual four year olds started to swarm into view, all dressed as various Disney princesses, while CB immediately regretted ever loving me.
But, shockingly enough, this is where I was in my element. While I detest everything Disney has ever created, I’m surrounded by it with the previously mentioned four year olds, and so I totally know that the pale blue dress is Cinderella’s and the dark blue dress with yellow sleeves is Snow White’s and so I had this covered.
Princesses and being a girl is something I was intimately familiar with as a child and can totally relate to as an adult who thinks it’s a shame that there aren’t more sparkles on adult clothing.
And so, for the next hour and a half, we did everything from decorating cupcakes with sprinkles and M&M’s and decorating princess crowns with sparkle stickers, to running around on a sugar high until I decided it was time to break the piñata open and send them home with even more candy.
Hey, they’re not my kids. Deal with that crash later, parents. And you’re welcome.
So all in all, it went off without a hitch. Well, if you don’t count the time I thought a one year old was a four year old and the time I may or may not have looked at CB in the middle of the party to re-think our life goals by saying “I think a life of travel could be the way to go for us. Who needs kids?!” and he emphatically nodded his head in agreement.
However, even though we will have sprinkles stuck to the bottom of our socks for the rest of the year, and I napped on the floor of his apartment immediately upon getting home, I think those few hours of panicked partying with four year olds brought us even closer together. If for no other reason than the shared experience of pure terror, panic, exhaustion, and laughter that overcame us at one point or another (sometimes all at once) during the afternoon.
And really, when you sum it all up, isn’t that what parenting is about?
Happy Monday, everyone!