Yesterday we celebrated my baby girl's 6th birthday. I decided to give her a party reminiscent of my younger years complete with tacky streamers, multi-coloured balloons, homemade cake with sprinkles, and musical chairs. I understand that this is not the type of celebration common for this era. Children today have more trouble deciding between renting out the zoo or local movie theater for the day than the chocolate vs. vanilla crisis of yesteryear. My little one was thrilled with the party's simplicity. She waited with anticipation at the door for each guest to arrive eyeing the size and shape of each package under their arms. She had decided to invite not only her friends but also some of the older girls' friends so they wouldn't have to "hang out" with six-year-olds. She's so thoughtful.
When the guests of all ages had arrived, we began with a rousing game of Hot Potato. Out of the eight girls present only three had ever played before. I found that sad. I had forgotten to buy scotch tape so I wrapped the dollar store gift in several layers of grocery bags instead. When the potato was passed to my eldest girl my less-than-expert wrapping job became apparent when the top layer separated from the rest on its own. I stealthy shut the music off at that exact moment hoping she would see it as a convenient coincidence but I was wrong. Accusations of unfairness were starting to form at her lips but when she saw my eyes narrow and brow furrow she thought twice about speaking them aloud and the game continued. The winner was convinced that the plastic bauble was the prettiest thing she's ever seen.
We moved immediately into Musical Chairs. Everyone was familiar with this one. The only thing I felt compelled to explain was that this is not a contact sport. I remember Musical Chairs my friends and I played having the same level of danger as high school rugby but that was before parents sued other parents for negligence over bloody noses. Thankfully, no tears (other than those from a poor sport) were shed.
The gift opening followed the games. In the mass of flying paper and bobbing heads I'm still not sure of everything she received but I think she was happy. The giggling gaggle disappeared to make sure everything was well used by the days' end. By the time I was finished picking up the paper they had returned looking for the afore mentioned cake. After each piece was served and the giggles had died down I saw my 7 year-old with the new friend she had invited. A small, unassuming girl that enjoyed the party from a slight distance. They seemed to be getting along as if they had known each other for years even though they had just met a week before. I eavesdropped as they made plans to meet after church on Sunday and smiled to myself as I remembered being seven and the ease of which I made "best friends" at that age. I listened to the girls repeat their plans as if I hadn't heard and nodded my approval much to their delight.
True to her word, by 1:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon, friend called and invited my awaiting daughter over to her house to play. I waited in the car for her to change into her play clothes so I could drive her the 3 kilometers up the road. She chatted excitedly about all the things they would do together and wondered aloud if she would be invited to stay for supper. I drove in attentive silence and beamed inwardly as I shared her excitement. As I pulled up the driveway narrowly missing the chocolate lab who greeted us with a slobber-laden tennis ball, I turned to give my daughter the customary "be on your best behaviour" speech. I was halfway through my well rehearsed dissertation when I noticed she was wearing only a thin cotton t-shirt!
"Sweetie! Where's your sweater?! It's only 12 degrees outside!" I really should not have been shocked. This child was the same who asked to put on her bathing suit to play in the puddles just a few days before when the temperature was similar but the wind and rain added a chill factor.
She assured me she would be fine and hopped out of the car with a wave and a "love you!" I started to pull away but I could not leave my child so exposed and still consider myself a decent mother. I reversed the car up the drive and called her over. I had not yet changed out of my church clothes and was wearing a sweater, albeit a thin one, over a camisole. As I handed her my weather-appropriate attire she scrunched up her nose at my appearance.
"Uh, Mom...that doesn't look like a shirt." she said as she eyed my overtly immodest top.
"See how much I love you? I'm driving home in my underwear so you can be warm and I'll never let you forget it."
When the guests of all ages had arrived, we began with a rousing game of Hot Potato. Out of the eight girls present only three had ever played before. I found that sad. I had forgotten to buy scotch tape so I wrapped the dollar store gift in several layers of grocery bags instead. When the potato was passed to my eldest girl my less-than-expert wrapping job became apparent when the top layer separated from the rest on its own. I stealthy shut the music off at that exact moment hoping she would see it as a convenient coincidence but I was wrong. Accusations of unfairness were starting to form at her lips but when she saw my eyes narrow and brow furrow she thought twice about speaking them aloud and the game continued. The winner was convinced that the plastic bauble was the prettiest thing she's ever seen.
We moved immediately into Musical Chairs. Everyone was familiar with this one. The only thing I felt compelled to explain was that this is not a contact sport. I remember Musical Chairs my friends and I played having the same level of danger as high school rugby but that was before parents sued other parents for negligence over bloody noses. Thankfully, no tears (other than those from a poor sport) were shed.
The gift opening followed the games. In the mass of flying paper and bobbing heads I'm still not sure of everything she received but I think she was happy. The giggling gaggle disappeared to make sure everything was well used by the days' end. By the time I was finished picking up the paper they had returned looking for the afore mentioned cake. After each piece was served and the giggles had died down I saw my 7 year-old with the new friend she had invited. A small, unassuming girl that enjoyed the party from a slight distance. They seemed to be getting along as if they had known each other for years even though they had just met a week before. I eavesdropped as they made plans to meet after church on Sunday and smiled to myself as I remembered being seven and the ease of which I made "best friends" at that age. I listened to the girls repeat their plans as if I hadn't heard and nodded my approval much to their delight.
True to her word, by 1:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon, friend called and invited my awaiting daughter over to her house to play. I waited in the car for her to change into her play clothes so I could drive her the 3 kilometers up the road. She chatted excitedly about all the things they would do together and wondered aloud if she would be invited to stay for supper. I drove in attentive silence and beamed inwardly as I shared her excitement. As I pulled up the driveway narrowly missing the chocolate lab who greeted us with a slobber-laden tennis ball, I turned to give my daughter the customary "be on your best behaviour" speech. I was halfway through my well rehearsed dissertation when I noticed she was wearing only a thin cotton t-shirt!
"Sweetie! Where's your sweater?! It's only 12 degrees outside!" I really should not have been shocked. This child was the same who asked to put on her bathing suit to play in the puddles just a few days before when the temperature was similar but the wind and rain added a chill factor.
She assured me she would be fine and hopped out of the car with a wave and a "love you!" I started to pull away but I could not leave my child so exposed and still consider myself a decent mother. I reversed the car up the drive and called her over. I had not yet changed out of my church clothes and was wearing a sweater, albeit a thin one, over a camisole. As I handed her my weather-appropriate attire she scrunched up her nose at my appearance.
"Uh, Mom...that doesn't look like a shirt." she said as she eyed my overtly immodest top.
"See how much I love you? I'm driving home in my underwear so you can be warm and I'll never let you forget it."
Comments
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