The Main Event, Part 2

VI. Balloon Sweatshop

Henry wanted to hire some form of entertainment for the party, forgetting that 5-year-olds are pretty much good with some grass to run on and slides to slide down. Unfortunately, the only party entertainment I could find that catered to poor-folk like us was a clown whose sole review said: CON ARTIST!

Part of me thought it would be pretty awesome to hire her and watch as she picked the pockets of the preschool moms, but my luck she’d pick that day to graduate to armed robbery.

But then Bill mentioned to me that he used to be pretty savvy with balloon twisting. Hired!

I caught him pacing around the pavilion, watching tutorials on his phone. He was really taking his role seriously, which I appreciated because I wasn’t going to let him eat until he entertained some fucking kids.

It’s amazing how excited kids get over balloon swords.

Everything was going great until one little brat decided that swords were yesterday’s news and began requesting other things. Like puppies.

Thank god for Bill’s secret weapon: Jessi. She began twisting the fuck out of green and yellow balloons until they were these perfect, precious daisies. I gave one to Momesis’s daughter and I was sure she was going to faint like Perez Hilton meeting Lady Gaga for the first time. Momesis and I laughed together until I realized that we were having a moment so I walked away.

Stripper’s daughter must have requested a sword in every color, thrice, only to take five steps away from the pavilion and stomp it to death. Pretty sure Bill and Jessi wanted to cut her off.

Or just cut her.

At one point, I caught Bill trying to eat while a line of balloon-addled children formed to his right. What, you want a break? You’re tired and hungry from driving all the way to Pittsburgh that morning from Michigan? Boo-hoo! You’re not here to enjoy yourself! You’re not a guest, you’re the HELP. And if you want to know what that entails, go ask Janna.

Then I felt bad and decided to intervene. I’m not really good with talking to children*. My first inclination was to flick the kids on the forehead and tell them to beat it, but their moms were near by so instead I just said, “Bill’s taking a break. Come back later.”

(*Like when I told Kara’s baby Harland that the grill was there for cooking babies, which caused Henry to give me a disgusted look. What? Harland’s young enough still for me to get away with that. But if he grows up into a serial baby-griller, then it was really Henry who said it.)

I DON’T SEE ANY BALLOONS IN YOUR HANDS!

VII. Douche Cup

Toward the end of the party, I was sitting at a table with my friend Lindsay. “We learned a new word over at the playground,” she said to me in such a way that I:

• knew my kid definitely was going to be a character in this story
• knew that it definitely wasn’t going to be church-appropriate

“Douche cup,” she said, snickering.

When Bill and Jessi were here last year for Chooch’s party, Bill and Chooch were putting together a Spongebob Lego set. But Bill had the audacity to eschew the directions and build his own things. Chooch didn’t like that at all and that is how Bill became known as Douche Cup.

I guess being around Bill again jogged Chooch’s memory, and the day became a douche cup free-for-all. Barb mentioned that he ran past the table she was sitting at and everyone was like, “Did he just say—-yeah, pretty sure he said douche cup.”

Later, Jessi told me that she overheard one of the preschool moms saying, “I think he wants a juice cup?”

Yes, that’s exactly right! My kid REALLY likes his juice cups.

Douche cups.

VIII. The Guests

We had a small Labor Day cookout at my mom’s last year. I only invited three of my friends, and two of them couldn’t make it. So it wound up being Blake, Henry’s mom, my two brothers, and Jessy* and Tommy.

(*Not to be confused with Jessi from Michigan, who is a much better example of a friend.)

Nothing major, just a small cookout, during which I expressed interest in having a Halloween party.

“Um, have you SEEN how your parties turn out?” Jessy sneered, waving an arm around the table of limited guests.

It hurt my feelings real bad. Too bad she’s a dumb bitch and wasn’t invited to this party, which ended up having a total of 62 people show up.

There were old friends, new friends, faraway friends, high school friends, my favorites from the Law Firm, family I haven’t seen in forever (like my cousin Danielle and Aunt Susie, who brought embarrassing pictures from when Christy and I were junior bridesmaids in her wedding), my dad, Henry’s family. And of course all the preschool kids. There were so many kids, surprisingly none of which were crying kids. Not even Jacob, who unfailingly cries before school each morning.

That was my favorite part of the day, knowing all these people cared.

And the moms didn’t even bother me too much!

Kaitlin, Kristen and Danny. This was Kaitlin’s first time meeting Henry and she said watching us together was like reading my blog in real time. This made Henry frown, because he knows it’s true.

IX. Fuck a Pinata

Hey, did you know that you don’t pulverize pinatas with a baseball bat anymore? Apparently, the Mothers Against Dangerous Party Games banded together to eradicate these festive abominations and now pinatas come with a bunch of ribbons dangling from its anus, and each kid gets to pull one.

Chooch went first, and naturally pulled the one string that was rigged to break open the bottom. Total party foul. Except it was stuffed tighter than 4 bodies in Bundy’s trunk so only three pieces of candy flittered to the ground. Then we had to go through the motions of every kid yanking a ribbon, which clearly wasn’t going to do anything, but Henry insisted that every kid have a turn. He really took this seriously. Probably because it was his only responsibility of the day.

I honestly thought Henry was going to backhand J.T. for trying to pull a ribbon before Chooch. J.T.’s mom was right next to me, so that wasn’t awkward at all. It’s probably why she snubbed me on Wednesday when we were picking up our kids at school.

Random gun. I’m sure one of the moms had a problem with that. SO GO WRITE A LETTER.

There’s the Baby Grill in the background. I hope you brought some buns.

X. Cake, Part 2

Stapler makes a cameo.

I feel like I missed the full glory of Chooch’s embarrassment at being serenaded because I was too busy tripping over myself trying to take pictures. This was also right about the time the fucking camera battery died. I hate taking pictures at parties because I just want to enjoy myself but I can’t trust Henry to take pictures (I asked him 87 times to take pictures of the kids at the playground but he refused because it was “creepy.” NOT WHEN IT’S OUR SON’S BIRTHDAY PARTY.)

And then everyone (myself included) stood around after the candle was blown out, anxiously awaiting the cake to be cut. But Henry just up and left, fucking walked away like leaving a cake to fester beneath hungry eyes was no big thing. I literally had to chase him down, chanting, “When are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, I’m going to slit your throat tonight, when are you going to cut the cake.”

“You told me to find the other camera battery!” he yelled. “What do you want me to do first?!”

“Um, cut the cake.” Obviously.

So he cut the cake, but then never gave me a piece, which of course is a silent, yet LOUD, way to say, “The last thing you need is a piece of cake, Chubs.”

In addition to the cake, Kaitlin made French macaron lollipops. Suck on that, preschool moms. How many 5-year-old have such culinary riches at their parties? Suri Cruise probably does, but she also probably has mimes handing out Scientology pamphlets.

XI. Presents. Or: The Best Part of the Day, as declared by Chooch.

I had every intention of writing down what everyone got him, but guess what? He started opening the presents right when I FINALLY got a piece of cake. (I made Henry’s mom cut it for me. I don’t do cake-cutting.) So it was either set the cake down for later or stand there worthlessly, shoveling it into my maw while all the moms watched me only half-care about my kid. Every now and then, I’d mutter the obligatory, “Whoa, buddy. Cool gift!” while cake droppings cascaded from my lips.

The cake totally won.

Bria was all up on him, telling him which one to open next. I wanted to be like, “Let the guy breathe, Jesus Christ!” Until I realized it was like watching a mini Henry and Erin.

I liked when he started pulling out zombie and Jason Voorhees memorabilia in front of all the moms who played it safe with age-appropriate toys.

Bonecrusher zombified this Batman doll for him!

After the presents were opened, all the preschool kids left. On their invitations, I put 2-3:30 as the time of the party, when it was actually 2-6. (Sometimes I’m smart like that.) Henry was acting like a jazz choreographer on speed, trying to get everything out of the way in the first 2 hours.

“PINATA! (jazz hands!) CAKE! (boomkack!) PRESENTS! (step ball change!)”

With all that out of the way, I got to relax with my friends for the second half. I love my friends. And there were still plenty of kids there, which meant I didn’t have to entertain my own child.

After the party, Jessi told me that she heard one of the moms say this was going to be the party to beat. Success! Thanks to everyone who helped make it the best party Chooch has ever had!

Right as we were leaving the park, a bird shit straight down Chooch’s back. Happy birthday, Chooch! Better you than mommy!