Birthday No. 7 will be observed with a smaller, more intimate gathering
Jonathan's birthday party last week was designed after my childhood dream party. Brightly-colored helium balloons bobbed cheerfully around a dining room table loaded with cupcakes, peanuts and M&Ms and a big pitcher of pink lemonade. Activities were planned, and the pi–ata was poised in the air with a stick and blindfold nearby ready to go.
It would have been the dream party, too, if the birthday boy and his guests had cooperated.
I knew we were in for a change of plans when I looked out the window at 3:30 and saw seven rowdy boys hurtling off the bus toward the house at break-neck speed. Once inside, they didn't slow down. After terrorizing the cats, the group divided with impressive organization into two warring factions, chasing and attacking each other with any six-shooter and dry water pistol they could find. Some hid under and behind furniture for sneaky ambushes, while others charged fearlessly at the enemy, getting tangled in balloon strings en route.
The host and hostess were a bit overwhelmed. A structured game of pin the tail on the donkey paled in comparison to this drama.
About the time we considered intervening, one little boy emerged from the chaos with a slightly bleeding nose. It had collided, while southbound, with a barrel of a speeding northbound cork gun.
It was definitely time to intervene. That was when we heard a massive thud from the direction of the kitchen. It was the sort of thud that sounded like a head smacking the hard linoleum. "Is everyone OK?" we rushed to the scene. At first, all we heard was, "...fell." Who fell? Is he conscious? I had visions of Jonathan unwrapping presents in the emergency room with his fallen comrade.
We were relieved to learn the only casualty was a crafty wooden angel who had toppled off her perch and suffered a dented wing and bent halo. She'd heal.
So went the rest of the party. The boys weren't naughty; they were just, well ... excited.
They piled M&Ms on their cupcake frosting and dipped peanuts in their pink lemonade. They fought over whose gift should be opened first, and, when it was time to play games, no one was interested, because they were so deeply engrossed in assembling unwrapped birthday Legos.
It was appropriate, then, that our pi–ata turned out to be the indestructible kind. I was so concerned one strong boy would break the shell on the first whack, but we eventually did away with the blindfold and finally encouraged the big kids to hit harder and more often. In the end, the pathetic thing fell to the ground before it broke, and the boys had a heyday pounding away at the dented, beaten shell on the ground.
Alas, at the first sign of a tear, we confiscated the stick and shook the candy out from the small opening. As it turns out, the beating was much harder on the contents of the pi–ata than on the pi–ata itself. Lollipops crumbled when wrappers were removed, and Valentine hearts were smooshed into unrecognizable blobs of foil and chocolate. The boys didn't seem bothered with the spoiled loot. Getting to the candy was obviously more fun than eating it.
I don't recall ever asking for my dream birthday party, and it was certainly never offered, but I have vague recollections of my older sisterÕs sixth birthday. It involved a herd of pigtails running amuck through a city park in the heat of July, with spilled Kool-Aid, picnic bugs and skinned knees.
My mom's no dummy. After that experience, I'm sure she saw the wisdom in suggesting more intimate gatherings with a best friend or two. We're thinking that would be a nice way for Jonathan to observe his seventh birthday.
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