My Life

 My husband says, "How can there not be alcohol at these parties?"

And it's a fair question. A kid-centric party is onerous; children all around us are literally hurling themselves at walls, at foam-coated rocking chairs, at ladders. Ice packs emerge, and more ice packs. More than once, an adult murmurs the words: Lord of the Flies.

A frosty beer is useful in the calmest setting; it seems, at a "childs' gym," frosty beers should be mandatory. There is already something sadomasochistic about spending your Saturday at this gym. And to do it sober???

"We'll have a song," says the young gay man upstage; he's the master of ceremonies. I imagine him back at Carnegie Mellon, planning for his Broadway debut. What happens to a dream deferred?

"A song," he repeats. "Five little ducks went out one day...."

"I'm noticing something," my husband whispers. "I notice that all the other parents have left their spouses at home." 

And a light goes on.

This event is the sort of thing you get out of. You take your child to the dentist Friday, so, on Saturday, you can say, "Honey? Why don't you handle the birthday party? Remember, I dealt with the flossing and the fillings...."

Marc and I are learning everyday. Fool me once....shame on you....

The party moves toward its pizza phase. My child throws himself over a large floor-length barrier; he is not ready to leave the climbing walls yet. He is like Lea Solonga, screaming for the chopper, in the flashback from "Miss Saigon."

This is my weekend.