Birthday Party Redux

Iz celebrated her 4th birthday last Tuesday. With a Tuesday birthday, her birth"day" morphed into a birth"week" ending with a party on Saturday. I think we sang "Happy Birthday" to her more times than her 4 years would normally allow if you take into account an early celebration in VT, 3 jolly wishes on the day itself, and then at her party on Saturday. By the end of it all, I was exhausted.

Party planning is never easy for me. Reading Lisa Belkin's blog on the NYT website last week, I think I must fall into the category of "alpha mom." Fortunately, my alpha mom streak is not all encompassing like some of the other mom blogs that I've read. I am not disgusted that the school systems around here are not more environmentally friendly. My "green" streak largely extends to composting, buying organic milk and now biodegradable garbage bags. Unlike Lisa's alpha moms I don't feel the need to hand out baby organic carrots at Halloween and am not overly concerned that my kids are addicted to fruit-flavored snacks and Sprout. (Apparently Noggin is passe these days.) But when it comes to the holidays and events like birthdays it's like some alien creature overtakes me. Lucky for my neighbors, the holiday alien runs more in line with Martha Stewart than crazy inflatable characters on my front lawn. Still, even though Ryan, my husband, kindly says that he really enjoys "entertaining" with me, I think he must be secretly relieved when the crepe paper comes down and the dishes are safely in the dishwasher.

I knew I was in trouble with this particular birthday party when I had a nightmare at the end of September that all of Iz's friends arrived at our house and I wasn't there because I had neglected until then to buy anything for the party. In the dream, I arrived home two hours later with only a handful of treats and a group of people disgusted and leaving. After waking up in a cold sweat, I immediately broke out the laptop and got to work on the Oriental Trading website. The theme of this year's party was "cooking with Iz." I ordered aprons; we made chef's hats; I bought more colored crystal sugar than should be allowed by law; and I baked and baked and baked. We had cupcakes at school, brownies for the Halloween party at school, a cupcake-shaped cake for the main event, and individual cupcakes that the kids decorated as a party favor. I even came up with kitchen-themed games when the weather proved too foul to have them run some of their extra energy off outside. And, being all at once, a catholic, a girl, and from NJ, I complained the entire week going into and of the birthday celebrations. I scrubbed toilets, put away toys, and acted dramatic as I mixed the last batch of cupcakes at 10 PM Friday night. I fretted about what to feed the moms (we're still not doing drop off parties yet), what to do with all the extra cupcakes, and whether or not Iz should be allowed to open her presents in front of her friends. Last year, that proved to be a big mistake since as soon as the gifts were dispensed she asked me very loudly when everyone was going home so she could get on with playing with her new loot.

And so the party went off. The kids were vaguely interested in decorating their aprons, had little use for the chef's hats, tore through making lunch (the cooking part), but ended up being hungry when their small piece of sandwich wasn't enough. We had a few breakdowns when the girls rushed Iz and Lot's room and playroom with Iz in particular freaking out after a "friend" took a treasured necklace. The single biggest hit-shocker!!- was the colored crystal sugar which got summarily dumped all over a dozen cupcakes to very dramatic effect. I have another mom friend to thank for that idea. No honestly, I do thank her. After the crepe paper came down, I asked Iz somewhat worriedly if she had had a good time. (Something I've inherited from my mom along with the crazy holiday gene is the lingering paranoia that crazy holiday doesn't quite cut the mustard.) Iz, very solemnly, looked at me and said, "It was fun, Mommy, but next year, let's have it out. I don't like people going through my stuff."

Sister Margaret Mary and autumns past

Last week, my older daughter went on her first field trip with her preschool class. The destination: the local and insanely festive pumpkin patch/autumn wonderland. I've known about this place for ages, and in a move very unlike me, have avoided it like the plague. As far as I know, it's hands down the most popular destination for haybales, apple cider, and general Halloween weirdness in the Northern VA area. Therefore, it attracts droves of people. When we got the notice that Iz and her classmates were destined to go, I decided to bite the bullet and sign up as a parent chaperone.

I'm not sure what I had in mind when I signed up but I definitely harbored images of fieldtrips past- the bus, the stupid songs, the naughty kids getting smacked around by the nuns, and inevitably falling asleep on the ride home. When we got to the preschool last Thursday morning, the center director told me firmly, "No parents on the bus." I have to admit, I was a more than a little disappointed. Iz opted to ride to Cox Farms with me rather than experiencing the tainted joys of the bus. Given my NJ-trained driving habits, we arrived at the farm WAAAY early and ended up standing in a wet field looking at a bunch of goats who looked for all intense and purposes like they too would rather be doing something else. Not a particularly auspicious beginning. The bus and the other parents did eventually arrive and after getting our bracelets and taking the prerequisite pictures of Iz and her friends (aw look at them on their first field trip!), we headed over to the attractions. We had a dicey start- a slide whose launch point started in an "active" volcano- I told you this place was insanely festive- which of course caused Iz to freak out a little. Before she could stomp her feet twice and shriek a third time, I had her on my lap and down the slide. And, like some autumn miracle, from thereonin she and I both had a great time. We went down a ton of slides, including one at which I left my daughter holding the supply bag while I went down solo on my jute sack. We drank cider together, ate apples, went on a hay ride during which Iz almost wet herself in the haunted barn, and then, after four hours of exhausting fun, we both went home and took naps.

And, perhaps not surprisingly, I found myself getting really nostolgic and probably almost caused even my syrupy, lovely pink-loving daughter to get a bit ill. Suddenly, I was 6 yrs old again and not so happily entrenched in Sr. Margaret Mary's first grade class at Our Lady of the Valley grammar school. Sr. MM was in a rare good mood the day we took our autumn excursion across the field in front of the convent over to the little farmer next to the school. We walked in zig zags in a single file line behind Sr MM as her habit flapped in the breeze. We each shyly took a pumpkin from the farmer and walked back and wrote a little "story" about our adventures. A pretty pathetic little memory but one of my favorites from that fairly dreadful place. I told Iz that she may just remember her first time at Cox Farms for the rest of her life. Thank goodness it was a good day to remember for both of us!

Confessions of a Pinkerbelle in Training

Welcome to the latest somewhat pathetic attempt by a Gen X'er to get introspective about the rites and rituals of growing up.  That's right-another mommy blog.  I decided to start this blog in part for myself and in part as a way for family and friends to keep up with our lives.  The title of the blog is taken from "Pinkalicious"- a must read and probably have read for those with girls between the ages of 3 and 100.    It's the process of becoming Pinkerbelle that we'll focus on here.

Like a good chunk of the population of mommies blogging these days, I am a solid gen X'er.  Grew up with shrinky-dinks, Hawaiian punch, stew starter, the Dukes of Hazard (with Catherine Bach being the one and only Daisy Duke), Saturday morning cartoons, and Olivia Newton John on roller skates.  And like most of us (at least from what I can tell from the list of friends on my facebook page), I delayed motherhood until I hit that magic number 30.  I had a great time in my twenties- I traveled, went to school, drank too much, finally met a great guy, got married and bought a house with my dad's help.  Kids seemed like a good idea but I was honestly a little bit wigged out by the idea.  It took me a long time to learn to like myself and even then, it wasn't perfect.  I've always had an independent streak that ran distinctly on the nerd side of the line rather than the cool one.  I've never been into sporting badass tattoos or belly rings but didn't think twice about going to a hammam in Morocco to have a traditional bath done.  (Ok I did think twice when Fatima, our dorm maid, stripped me down naked in front of my "bath" companions.)  How on earth would I ever learn to be a role model?

I honestly almost died when the doctor doing the sonogram with our first child told my husband and I we were having a girl.  A girl was definitely dangerous.  I always thought perhaps I could fake it a bit with a boy but girls know.  They smell the weakness and are never afraid to express their unending disappointment.  And here I am at 35 now with two.

After my older daughter was born, I had many preconceived notions about what kind of kid she would be.  If she was lucky, she'd be much cooler than me, but not a prom queen.  She'd be hip but not a poser.  She'd be up on music, art, chunky knits, and "ugly dolls."  Instead, at about 18 months, Iz discovered the Disney Princesses and there's been no going back.  Anything that glitters, shines, or has a pinkish hue is sanctified in our house.  She even had the words "high heels" down before she was 2.  

And so, this closet nerd has had to discover how to be a girl and a kid I never was and try and make sure I don't disappoint my not-so-free-spirits.  Welcome to my journey.