Before Christmas we had a little party for our newest seven year old. I’m terrible at parties, if you want to know the truth. I don’t bother with decorations and I don’t plan things around my unpredictable children. This doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good party, it just means my kids won’t have the pleasure of cone shaped hats, noisemakers, or a Paw Patrol/Moana theme. Forget favors and personalized cake; I can’t waste time dreaming up the cute stuff. I have to clean the bathroom and make a plan to keep boys from trying to impress guests (the number one reason kids get hurt). RSVPs are never necessary because I don’t send out invitations until two hours before. Our optimal, preferred party guest has no time to buy a gift. They must be able to show up with zero advanced notice and know how to thaw a shrimp ring in my kitchen sink.
I’m not getting any better at planning things, either. One time, moments before guests arrived, I dumped a container of frozen meatballs into a pot of chili (no questions, please). I was still fishing them out when the doorbell rang. I’ve served tamales still frozen. Apple pie, underbaked. Cookies, burnt. I’ve spilled an entire tub of spinach artichoke dip upside down on the floor just trying to get it from fridge to counter. These were all due to terrible time management skills with which I am cursed.
I used to feel guilty, that maybe this meant I didn’t deserve to have people at my house. And we don’t have family in the area–shouldn’t I try a little harder to make birthdays special for my kids? At least invite all their school buddies? Plan a two-hour gymnastics romp and pizza at the local rec center? I’ve been to parties like that before–my kids beg for it. Parents drop their kids off and return to pick them up, sugar buzzed and exhausted, just another Saturday afternoon. I never wanted to host a party like that, perhaps because I’m terrified of being in charge of a ton of kids.
That’s what I told myself, and it’s partly true. But secretly I think it’s because I’m not sure it’s a worthy investment. Sure, my kids enjoy the attention and gifts, but what I really am after is an opportunity to welcome people into our life. I mean, how many birthday parties could I throw with balloons and cake and never truly interact with any of the guests? Four kids times twelve birthdays a piece (I’ll give them till they’re twelve to tire of the rec center fun), that’s somewhere near fifty parties! That’s one hundred hours of party time, not counting the planning (which I guess I can’t count anyway, not with my record). All it would make me is tired and glad for it to be over.
How can I lower the bar on celebrations without a) disappointing my kids and b) wasting less time and money? A quandary for the cheap introvert, no?
I have chosen to blaze a path anyhow into that dense forest of kid birthday parties. Expectations be danged. I’m unprepared like Tom Hanks on an island with a beachball, but I’m game for a good time. The first thing we did was make it clear to the kids that a couple of friends are welcome to celebrate their special day, but it’ll have to happen at home. And the neighbors must always be number one on the guest list. My boys are used to my spur of the moment ways and are quick to scribble invitations to pass out door-to-door.
Surprisingly, my lame-o party ways are successful in the most fascinating way. My sub par social skills have made it easy for me to stay home and entertain on the fly. Most people that have it all together won’t commit to such a low brow party. They already have their weekends and evenings planned out. At our parties, the most intriguing mix of folks show up. Usually it is neighbors and families we have met at school, random strangers we meet at a park. They come for the food and company and stay. No grownups drop their children off and dash away for a quick date. Nope. They re-warm tamales in my microwave and rifle through the cabinets, looking for a fresh trash bag liner. They pour drinks. I’m sure they entertain jokes at my amateur party planning, but they never say it out loud. They throw their hands up in the air at my frozen shrimp conundrum and pop it in the microwave.
There are lonely people out there. Some live right next door to us. At our party I heard one elderly neighbor say to another, “Well now, I believe we’ve lived across the street from one another for forty year and we’ve never met.” Forty years!
A Vietnamese couple confided that it’s hard making friends with Americans–it’s so unlikely to be invited into their homes and families.
I want it to change; I want there to be fewer lonely people. We have a home, and at least one bathroom will be clean. We have a family, not a perfect one–my boys are crazy maniacs. Even little sister (she’s two) hollers “stop being wild!” as they invite guests to participate in head first races on a baby bed mattress down the basement stairs.
We’re energetic and friendly. We’re eager to share whatever we’ve got. Maybe that’s as good a reason to have a party as any.
