The Birthday Party
It all started several months ago when my son was invited to a friend’s birthday party, which was held in the play area of a fast food restaurant. What a great idea, I thought, pondering my own offspring’s upcoming eighth birthday. When Jesse gave a positive review of his experience at the party, I asked if he would like his birthday party to be held at the same restaurant. I took his squeals of delight to mean “yes.”
Once I received the go-ahead from him, I called the restaurant—purely as a courtesy, I thought—to tell them my son and his friends would be occupying some of their space on a specific Saturday. “What birthday package would you like?” I was asked by a harried worker.
I don’t know why, but the question caught me off guard. I thought I would bring a cake, purchase drinks and maybe some ice cream for the party-goers, and let them run wild. Apparently, that’s not how it’s done.
I inquired about the different party packages and learned there were three levels: expensive, jaw-dropping, and I-think-I’m-having-a-heart-attack. Perhaps the restaurant had different names for them.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’m of the opinion that kids’ birthday parties shouldn’t cost more than my first car did. But I wanted my son to have a nice party, so I decided to go with the bottom-of-the-barrel expensive package, which included a cake, ice cream, and party favors. Basically what I had intended to do all along—except with my plan, I could still afford to send him to college in a decade.
I informed the worker on the other end of the phone of my decision. To which she queried, “You do realize the price I’m quoting is a per-child cost?”
In that case, I told her, my son would only be inviting his two closest friends. Which was when she hit me with the big one: there was a 10-person minimum.
Somehow I managed to croak out a confirmation that I would still like to reserve the party. I told my parents about my experience and my decision to go with the expensive party. After inquiring about the cost difference between the packages, my parents offered to sell some stocks to help finance the heart-attack package. I don’t know if they expected me to put up a fight, but I didn’t.
The day of the party rolled around, and parents—trying not to smile too broadly at the thought of a couple of child-free hours—cheerfully dropped their children off at the restaurant.
There were two girls and five boys (including mine) among the attendees; I tried not to draw conclusions based on sex, but by the end, it became difficult. I only have one child—a boy—and based on my admittedly limited experience, I’ve found little boys to be incredibly affectionate, kind, and brilliant. I’m hooked. However, the two girls at this particular party proved which gender I can depend on when the going gets tough.
Not surprisingly, after consuming large amounts of soda, cake, and ice cream (and just a bite or two of their actual meal), the kids were hopped up on sugar and the anticipation of being turned loose on the indoor play equipment. I didn’t even try to hold them back. They may be small, but they have sharp teeth.
Soon after releasing them from the prison of their little plastic chairs, the wailing began. “Um, Jesse’s Mom?” (My son’s friends have no idea what my name is.) “Billy hit his head an’ he’s cryin’ in the tunnel,” a child’s voice shrieked at me from somewhere deep inside the maze of tubes.
This scenario happened three more times, with only the name of the crying child changed—though always a boy. The last incident involved a sock that was being swung around, which somehow made contact with the cornea of my son’s eye. This resulted in substantial crying, breast-beating, and long periods of cooing noises from mommy.
At one point in the middle of this chaos, one of the two perfectly behaved little girls peered at me from her perch on the play equipment and shook her head sadly as if to say, “Men. What are you gonna do?”
And so, after two hours that seemed like 20, the party was over, the kids were safely back with their parents, and the gifts were loaded in the car. I was more tired than I remembered being on the day my son was actually born, and I was out a lot of money. But Jesse was smiling again, and I knew he had a wonderful time.
Money spent on the party: too much to ever think about again. Hours to recuperate after the party: 12. Not having to think about another birthday party for 364 days: priceless. TPW
Once I received the go-ahead from him, I called the restaurant—purely as a courtesy, I thought—to tell them my son and his friends would be occupying some of their space on a specific Saturday. “What birthday package would you like?” I was asked by a harried worker.
I don’t know why, but the question caught me off guard. I thought I would bring a cake, purchase drinks and maybe some ice cream for the party-goers, and let them run wild. Apparently, that’s not how it’s done.
I inquired about the different party packages and learned there were three levels: expensive, jaw-dropping, and I-think-I’m-having-a-heart-attack. Perhaps the restaurant had different names for them.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’m of the opinion that kids’ birthday parties shouldn’t cost more than my first car did. But I wanted my son to have a nice party, so I decided to go with the bottom-of-the-barrel expensive package, which included a cake, ice cream, and party favors. Basically what I had intended to do all along—except with my plan, I could still afford to send him to college in a decade.
I informed the worker on the other end of the phone of my decision. To which she queried, “You do realize the price I’m quoting is a per-child cost?”
In that case, I told her, my son would only be inviting his two closest friends. Which was when she hit me with the big one: there was a 10-person minimum.
Somehow I managed to croak out a confirmation that I would still like to reserve the party. I told my parents about my experience and my decision to go with the expensive party. After inquiring about the cost difference between the packages, my parents offered to sell some stocks to help finance the heart-attack package. I don’t know if they expected me to put up a fight, but I didn’t.
The day of the party rolled around, and parents—trying not to smile too broadly at the thought of a couple of child-free hours—cheerfully dropped their children off at the restaurant.
There were two girls and five boys (including mine) among the attendees; I tried not to draw conclusions based on sex, but by the end, it became difficult. I only have one child—a boy—and based on my admittedly limited experience, I’ve found little boys to be incredibly affectionate, kind, and brilliant. I’m hooked. However, the two girls at this particular party proved which gender I can depend on when the going gets tough.
Not surprisingly, after consuming large amounts of soda, cake, and ice cream (and just a bite or two of their actual meal), the kids were hopped up on sugar and the anticipation of being turned loose on the indoor play equipment. I didn’t even try to hold them back. They may be small, but they have sharp teeth.
Soon after releasing them from the prison of their little plastic chairs, the wailing began. “Um, Jesse’s Mom?” (My son’s friends have no idea what my name is.) “Billy hit his head an’ he’s cryin’ in the tunnel,” a child’s voice shrieked at me from somewhere deep inside the maze of tubes.
This scenario happened three more times, with only the name of the crying child changed—though always a boy. The last incident involved a sock that was being swung around, which somehow made contact with the cornea of my son’s eye. This resulted in substantial crying, breast-beating, and long periods of cooing noises from mommy.
At one point in the middle of this chaos, one of the two perfectly behaved little girls peered at me from her perch on the play equipment and shook her head sadly as if to say, “Men. What are you gonna do?”
And so, after two hours that seemed like 20, the party was over, the kids were safely back with their parents, and the gifts were loaded in the car. I was more tired than I remembered being on the day my son was actually born, and I was out a lot of money. But Jesse was smiling again, and I knew he had a wonderful time.
Money spent on the party: too much to ever think about again. Hours to recuperate after the party: 12. Not having to think about another birthday party for 364 days: priceless. TPW