WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

           My seven-year-old son, Travis, insisted on a party to celebrate turning eight. That did not sound like too difficult a request to grant. Being a mother kills all common sense brain cells. I doomed the party from the moment I said, “Yes.”

           At least I had enough sense left to limit the party to ten children. That is when the first fight started. Travis insisted that I had to invite all of his classmates from both church and school. Next on the list were neighborhood children and cousins. I had fewer guests at my wedding.

           Cake and ice cream would be fine.  Nope! Travis informed me parties “now days” had to have pizza, hot dogs, and lots of other “stuff”. This was just the food portion of the ensuing battle. He had not gotten to the expensive part, yet.

           Travis informed me entertainment was to be a clown or other costumed character (Iron Man was first on the list). For activities, no one played “Pin The Tale On The Donkey” anymore. There had to be pony rides and inflatables. We were now exceeding the cost of my wedding–dress and all.

           This party would be a nightmare. I would have to order all the food from outside sources. We have eleven cats, six dogs, four hamsters, a rabbit, and two ferrets. It did not bother me that my kids had a healthy diet of pet hair; but, visitors expected furless food. It was bad enough to have a picky family; now I had to factor in outsiders.

           The day of the party I arose at five in the morning. I ran through the house like a boot camp drill sergeant. If we were to be ready for guests, I needed everyone helping. I wanted this house spick and span. My husband was to have the yard ready. The inflatables would be up by ten-thirty.

           I washed every dish in the house, whether or not they needed it. There was a big supply of paper plates, plastic utensils, and plastic cups; but, I was not taking any chances. The broom brigade followed the dish detail.

           Having pets teaches you things about cleaning not normally thought about. I swept the whole house–twice. Once with a regular broom, then I swept with my static sweeper/vacuum. All of this had to done before use of a real electric vacuum. Common sense tells mothers to dust after sweeping, as sweeping will stir up more dust to resettle. I dusted before and after sweeping. 

I am not a masochist, I know my house.  If I failed to over clean, some kid would drop, throw, or kick something under or behind a piece of furniture. Once we moved the offending chair, sofa, or cabinet, it would look like the dust bunny breeding ground of the universe. Over cleaning was my only coping mechanism. It did not help that I was losing more hair than the pets.

           The first UberEats car pulled into the drive at eleven o’clock. They dropped off the cake, cookies, and ice cream. There was a steady stream for the next hour. I had to climb into the attic to find enough tables to hold all the food. Pizza, fried chicken (with all the fixings), and party subs that filled two eight foot tables. Guess who forgot to order drinks?

           I filled out a shopping list for Hugs, ready-made Kool-Aid, and bottled drinks. I sent my husband to the grocery store, after much wheedling, shouting, and outright threats. I only had to call him twice to add items to the list. We may speak to each other again, one day. Right now that is a little iffy.

           The birthday hour was upon us! It had cost a fortune, our back yard might never recover from the inflatables and ponies, and I had never wanted to turn to alcohol so badly in my life. Now we were ready for the guests to arrive.

           Let us fast forward two hours and twenty gallons of tears. Five children arrived at staggered intervals. Two of them were already surly upon arrival. It went downhill quickly. The ponies scared one child, the inflatables scared two more, and the other two did not like Iron Man. It seemed all were allergic to the cats or dogs. The party was over in fifteen minutes. Travis had not cut the cake; because, Travis had locked himself in his room and refused to speak to anyone, anywhere, ever.

           I sent Iron Man and the ponies home. I asked the attendant to leave the inflatables until later in the afternoon. He advised me they could stay until the next day–no refunds if canceled early.

            I sat cross legged in the hallway floor and tried talking to Travis. It did not help much; but, he was eight with the attention span of a gnat. He would get hungry, remember there was cake, or decide to unwrap his presents in a short time. It was hunger that motivated the unlocking of his door. It came none too soon. As it was, I needed help to get out of the floor.

           We ate pizza, fried chicken and sub sandwiches with enough left over for three more days. Travis did not mind having the inflatables to himself. He finally realized that there were presents. The five guests that came brought gifts to add to those we were giving him. There were also unexpected gifts. Some children that were no-shows sent gifts because they had real reasons for not attending. Grandparents gifts were also in the pile. 

I decided that there would be no more parties. Mothers can only stand so much before they descend into whimpering idiots; and, nobody wants that. That is when my daughter brought up the subject of her Sweet Sixteen birthday party. I may return home at some point in time; or, I may continue driving and just start a new life somewhere like the Twilight Zone.