2-18-02, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb
A Way to Cut Age in Half
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
We don't
"do" big, splashy birthday parties every single year for each of our
three boys. My husband and I decided, a long time ago, when the boys were still
very small, that the fuss, the mess, and the expense need not be an annual
event. Instead, we would save the humdingers for alternate years, and on the
"off" years, celebrate quietly with just the family, enjoying a nice
dinner out and cake and presents at home.
Don't brand me a
"bad" mom when I tell you this: I was dreading my middle son's
birthday this year. Turning thirteen is a milestone which always warrants a big
wingding. When my oldest son celebrated his thirteenth birthday, his August
birthday and our pool translated into an easy and successful party. Most
importantly, the hordes of sweaty adolescent boys were OUTSIDE, where we love
them best. This is why I was dreading my middle son's birthday. Smack dab in he
middle of February, it has always been a challenge to provide him with the
whoop-de-doo fanfare he has come to expect. One year we rented a bowling alley.
Another year I took a bunch of six year olds to the movies. No matter what the
final party shapes up to be, it always involves a lot more planning and hard
work than wrapping crepepaper around the pool fence and hanging a few balloons.
My son and I had been thinking all winter long what on earth we could do to make
it a great and fun party. Needless to say, thirteen year olds offer
some special challenges that six and ten year olds do not present; so we had
tossed around the idea of holding the party at the local science center, or
maybe at an arts and crafts type store. It was giving me a migraine just
speculating the prospect of keeping twenty or so young teenagers entertained for
three hours. And then it hit me. The idea was a beaut,
all right; I decided that we would build a big bonfire in our backyard, tell the
kids to bring flashlights, do a night hike, and shoot off fireworks in the
clearing behind our woods. Festive, fun, and most importantly; it kept the kids
out of the house. I created some cool invites on the computer and instructed my
son to pass them out at school....... and then prayed for good weather.
My husband was
more worried about the weather than I was. "What if it rains?" He
asked, fear in his voice. I knew he was imagining dozens of teenagers romping
through our home; giant muddy tennis shoes leaving tracks in their wake. I
decided not to sweat it, adopting my usual, "I'll deal with it when it
happens" attitude for this situation as well. Luckily, I never did have to
formulate an emergency PLAN B. because the day of his party was warm, sunny, and
clear.
Then the kids
started arriving. And arriving. And arriving. With a tremor in my voice, I
turned to my son. "Exactly how many kids did you invite?" I
asked.
"Oh, I
don't know." He replied, happily. "I just invited my friends."
It turned out
that my son has a lot of friends, apparently, and as they tore around our yard
and woods, I was grateful for the good weather.
"Gosh." It was my oldest son, and his friend Paul.
"Just look
at them." Paul crossed his arms.
"They are
SO immature." My son said scornfully.
Now it was my
turn to laugh. "Aren't you the same two boys who laughed so hard at dinner
the other night, about nothing in particular, that chocolate milk came out of
your noses?"
They looked at
me. "Well, THAT was funny!" My son replied, as they skulked off
to make fun of the younger kids.
At the end of
the evening, the kids had declared the party a rip-roaring success, and the
footprints on the carpet were at the minimum; just a few treks up the stairs by
my oldest and his compadre as they fled the "immaturity" of the
younger crowd. My husband and I were relieved that we had lived to tell the tale
of another big whoop-de-doo celebration, and both equally thankful that we
didn't do this every year. As we reached for the Tylenol (I said it was
successful; I didn't say that we didn't both have raging, SCREAMING headaches
from being around loud, giggling, obnoxious young teens all evening!), we both
breathed a sigh of relief and expressed out loud our amazement at having lived
through the evening without having to turn to heavy drinking to cope.
"Whew!"
I said, propping my feet up on the footstool and rubbing my temples. "Those
were some loud kids."
"You didn't come with when we hiked through the woods to
shoot off fireworks." My husband accused. "One of them jumped into a
six foot deep hole."
"Sorry." I replied. "Someone had to manage the bonfire while you were gone." We sighed, put our heads back on the sofa, and reminded each other that next year, it would be just a family celebration.