Last month, we experienced a parental rite-of-passage: being invited to the birthday party of a child whom we don’t know.
It was, not surprisingly, for one of Bo’s schoolmates: Willow, the quiet girl with gorgeous red hair. I, at least, could identify the birthday girl; Taylor, on the other hand, had never even met her.
But our anonymity did nothing to prevent the little rainbow-themed invitation from appearing in Bo’s pre-K cubby — nor did it ease our perceived obligation to attend said party.
Reluctant to set a pricey present precedent, I devised a low-cost but [theoretically] high-value gift: a custom ‘Willow’ canvas. I hand-lettered her name, painted decorative willow leaves, and glued on silk flowers, rhinestones, and beads.
The name art turned out… alright. Like, almost Etsy quality. I was half-embarrassed and half-proud to bring it to the birthday party.
But, Willow barely glanced at my gift, instead cooing over the paper birthday cake that Bo had carefully colored and cut out for her.
At that point, I became entirely embarrassed.
Anyway, all of that is really beside the point, because this story isn’t about Willow’s birthday party. It’s about the birthday party of a different child whom we don’t know.
Our story took place earlier this month, on one of those perfect autumnal days that tends to elude Colorado. It was sunny and breezy and just the right temperature for playing outside — and the opportunity was not lost on my children.
“I want to go to the Uphill Park!” Borealis demanded.
“No, *I* want to go to the Uphill Park!” agreed Australis.
“Doesn’t anyone care what *I* want?” I muttered.
“Nope!” Taylor answered cheerily.
I surveyed the living room. Discarded toys littered the floor as though day was breaking on the carnage of Helm’s Deep. I turned a despairing gaze back to Taylor. “Can’t you just take them? And I can clean up this mess?”
Before he could answer, Australis took hold of my leg and shrieked, “Mommy! I’m at the hospital!”
I ruffled her hair. “Yeah, baby? What’s wrong?”
“I got a boo-boo!” she announced proudly, showing off a masking-taped bandage on her knee.
“Wow,” I affirmed lamely. “I can see that the dwarves and elves are in good hands.”
My daughter gave me an indignant look. “I’m not a dwelve, I’m a big girl!”
I stooped down to give her a kiss. “Yes, you are, sweetie.”
She frolicked back to Dr. Borealis, who was already applying a similar bandage to a “wounded” stuffed animal.
“It’s gonna be good,” Taylor continued. “It’s the weekend — our chance to spend time together as a family!”
“Several of those words are triggering to me,” I deadpanned.
“Let me guess — together and family?”
“Yes.” I tried and failed to smother an impudent grin.
My husband eyed me for a few seconds — and then, to my surprise, he took both of my hands in his and broke into an impromptu jingle.
“Together, together,
We’ll always be together!
No one is alone
Because our family is forever!”
The ditty was so out-of-character that I immediately burst into laughter. “Wow. You are in rare form today.”
“Yes, I am,” Taylor answered breezily. “Now come on — it’s a beautiful day for the park.”
Ten minutes later, we pulled into the Beverly Heights Park parking lot — because I had agreed to go, but I hadn’t agreed to walk there.
[Note: You may remember this location from its appearances in A Firstborn Prepares for a Sibling and How to Save a Dog: Part II — although in those stories, we took a more ambulatory approach to transportation.]
As we unbuckled our children from the car, we saw another mother doing the same, and immediately transferring said kids into a stroller.
“Typical Millennial,” Taylor muttered — as though we were not, in fact, also “typical Millennials”. (Albeit younger ones.)
The mother slipped a brightly-colored bag over the stroller handle, and Taylor and I exchanged a knowing look. Birthday party.
Now, it’s no surprise that kids often inherit their parents’ weaknesses. For instance, Aza manifests the same wild self-expression of my college self (as described in I Just Wanna Look Good for You), while Bo has fully embraced my bossiness (as described in… well, in every story).
However, a more complicated aspect of parenthood is that one’s children often inherit one’s strengths, as well — and it’s not always a good thing. Bo frequently exhibits more perceptiveness than [in my opinion] a situation warrants — and this afternoon was just such an occasion.
Upon seeing the present bag, Bo looked up excitedly. “We’re going to a birthday party!?”
Aza brightened immediately. “A birthday party, hooray!”
Taylor put on a mock-sad expression. “Oh, I’m sorry kiddos, this is a birthday party for someone that we don’t know. We can’t just go to birthday parties for strangers.”
The twins visibly deflated and released dual moans of disappointment.
[Note: No, Bo and Aza are not actually twins — reference my discussion in But At Least I Kept the Kids Alive.]
“Come on,” I prompted. “We can all share the park. Let’s go.”
As I loaded Rhys into his front carrier, Taylor grumbled, “How did we not see this coming?”
Indeed, our oversight now seemed pretty silly. It was a Saturday in early October; of course there was a birthday party at Beverly Heights Park. It probably hosted a party every weekend from July through October (which are the busiest birthday months).
At this point, though, all we could do was head for the playground and hope for the best. And so, after several minutes of walking — and a pit stop at the water fountain — we arrived at our destination.
The birthday party was unavoidable. The playground swarmed with five-to-seven-year-old children, and the gazebo was stuffed with presents and catered Mediterranean.
“Why are other people at the Uphill Park?” Bo demanded.
I sighed. “It doesn’t just belong to us, Bo. This park is to share.”
“But I don’t want to play with them,” he answered.
“You don’t have to. You can just do your own thing.”
“But I do want some birthday cake,” he mused.
Taylor: <grunts in laughter> “Sorry, bud. That’s just for people who are actually invited to the birthday party.”
… or so he said.
Bo and Aza ran off into the playground and, for the most part, integrated seamlessly with the other children. As usual, they struggled with turn-taking: Bo was reluctant to assert his position in line, while Aza exhibited the opposite inclination.
“They’ll figure it out,” Taylor muttered as we observed from afar.
The bench was already occupied, so we stood awkwardly nearby. Before long, the woman on the bench looked up and noted, “Oh! You’ve got a baby! You can sit here!”
I politely declined the offer, but my demurral was the segue she needed to strike up a conversation. When she learned that we *weren’t* there for the birthday party, she proceeded to rectify that error.
Over the next several minutes, I learned everything I needed to know to pass for a true invitee: the birthday girl’s name (Lucy), her new age, her elementary school, some of her interests, her parents’ names — oh, and their disposition toward sharing. (“I know they would totally give you some cake!”)
The lady was exceedingly forthcoming, so I guess we seemed especially trustworthy or something. She wished us a fond farewell as she left to wrangle her kids.
Counterintuitively, having a complete characterization of the birthday party made me feel even more out-of-place — like uninvited guests. Taylor perfected that imagery when he nodded toward the gazebo and said, “Well, I’m gonna go get some food.”
“What!?” I spluttered. “Look, we may know all about Lucy now, but we’re still not invited to her birthday party!”
Taylor gave a blithe shrug. “They have tons left over, and that gal made it sound like they wouldn’t mind.”
“But will you confirm that?”
Taylor nodded dramatically. “Yehhhh-essss.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ok, well, should we come over too? Or will you get food for the kids?”
“Nah, I’ll get food for all of us. But I’m bringing Bo to help disguise me.”
Taylor snagged his son on the way to the gazebo, and I watched them walk together for a few seconds before being distracted by Aza.
Running up to me, she demanded, “Where are Daddy?” (She’s still working on subject-verb agreement.)
“He’s getting food for us,” I answered. I inadvertently glanced back to the gazebo, and — in a remarkable yet frustrating demonstration of joint attention — Aza followed my gaze.
“Daddy!” she shrieked.
“No, wait — Aza, stay over here!” I hissed.
My daughter, of course, paid me no heed. Instead, she sprinted over to Taylor and Bo, who suddenly looked extremely conspicuous. Two’s company, but three’s a crowd.
Reluctantly, I joined my family, then marveled at Taylor’s full plate of food. “Oh, so you got permission?”
Taylor: <grunts noncommittally>
I felt my eyes widen. “You didn’t ask first?”
He shrugged embarrassedly. “Well, there were a lot of people walking around, but I couldn’t tell who was the host.”
“Then you should have asked someone!”
My husband looked painfully sheepish. “I don’t like talking to people.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well at least we know where Bo gets it.”
Aza grabbed Taylor’s leg and whined, “Daddy, I want some food!”
He handed our little carnivore a piece of lamb, which she immediately devoured.
“Taylor!” I chided.
“What? She likes it! And it’s really good.”
He offered me a piece, which I hesitantly accepted. It was, admittedly, quite delicious— which was cold comfort, considering I still felt like Eve with the forbidden fruit. No, wait — like Adam? Either way, I regretted eating the stolen Mediterranean food.
“I can’t be a party to this,” I muttered. “You have responsibility for the twins.”
I walked back to the bench with my head down. Our impropriety felt absurdly obvious — as though every parent at the park was staring at my family. The feeling intensified when Taylor and the twins rejoined me.
“Flatbread?” my husband offered.
“I don’t want your stolen flatbread,” I grumbled.
“Aw, I stole it just for you, though!”
“Mm. No thanks.”
I looked away. I was totally unsure of the right path forward. Had *I* been the food thief, I would have immediately copped to the crime — asking random party-goers until I found the host or hostess, then desperately begging for forgiveness. I think I might have felt a bit differently if the theft hadn’t been so flagrant — like if there weren’t so many people around. Even then, though, it probably would have violated my sense of morality.
But Taylor is more interested in the “spirit of the law” — and apparently, helping himself to extra food didn’t bother his scruples.
And so, since I hadn’t been the food thief, I considered my options: 1) I could say nothing and eat the food; 2) I could say nothing and not eat the food; 3) I could go find the host/hostess and apologize on behalf of my husband; or 4) I could berate my husband into executing Option 3 himself.
Since Options 1 and 2 involved “saying nothing”, they were immediately off the table. I weighed the remaining options.
First, Option 3 — which I quickly eliminated as well. As much as I desired absolution for the theft of Lucy’s birthday food, I was reluctant to publicly divulge my husband’s transgression. Such action, while intended to remedy one issue, would undoubtedly cause another — this time, between Taylor and me. I would think that few things are more emasculating than having one’s wife apologize on your behalf — especially while you’re still there.
So, lastly, I turned to Option 4 — which, admittedly, was also slightly disrespectful. I didn’t want to nag Taylor into apologizing; I wanted him to apologize of his own accord. Nevertheless, it appeared that some assistance might be warranted. I lowered my voice to keep my criticism discrete.
“What would you tell our kids if one of them had stolen this food?”
Taylor shot me a guilty look. “Um… not to get caught?”
“Yeah. Well, at least we made a clean getaway,” I quipped sarcastically, sweeping an arm toward the full playground.
“We look like we belong!”
“Not to the people who didn’t invite us!”
Taylor smirked. “I kinda like it. Like, ‘Woo, living on the edge!’, you know?”
I rolled my eyes. “Wow. Yes, so edgy. We used to sneak into closed Superfund sites; now, we sneak into strangers’ birthday parties.”
Taylor didn’t immediately answer. When I glanced at him, I saw that his gaze was aimed across the playground.
“What?”
He turned back toward me. “Uh, just that I think that guy must be the dad. He gave me a weird look when he saw me getting food, and now he keeps looking over at us.”
I felt my stomach drop — which really goes to show how little I break the rules these days. I leaned toward Taylor and hissed, “Well, now’s your opportunity!”
My husband grimaced. “Uhhhhh… nah, let’s just leave.”
Well, so much for Option 4. I sighed, then set about executing Taylor’s directive.
In the course of the past few minutes, Bo and Aza had returned to the playground and were now tangled in the rope feature. Rhys, of course, was still in the front carrier. I darted over to the twins and commanded, “Alright, it’s time to leave! We’re gonna go to dinner.”
“Aw, I’m not hungry,” Bo complained.
“Hm, I wonder why,” I muttered. Then, I took a deep breath and continued, “Bo, I need you to obey me because I’m your mother. Please set a good example for Snowdrop.”
[Note: Again, reference But At Least I Kept the Kids Alive. “Snowdrop” is Bo’s current nickname for his sister — but apparently, only until she turns three next week.]
My son heaved a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, fine.”
I let the backtalk go unchallenged this time. He, at least, was moving calmly toward the exit of the park. However, when I reached for Aza’s hand, she shrieked wildly and demanded, “No! I want Daddy to hold my hand!”
“Taylor!” I sang through gritted teeth. “Your daughter wants you!”
Thankfully, my husband quickly accommodated — shifting the Mediterranean food to his left hand and taking hold of Aza’s with his right.
And so, slowly, the five of us made our way back toward our car. As we left the playground, I made hard eye contact with a woman whom I immediately knew to be Lucy’s mom. The worst part was, I totally recognized her from somewhere — although, to this day, I can’t place from where. (Church? Moms’ groups? Neighborhood? Goodwill?) Like a mature adult, I dropped my gaze and shuffled closer to Taylor.
“Thanks,” I grumbled. “This is, like, the parental walk of shame.”
Taylor: <grunts in laughter>
The trek from the playground to the parking lot is several minutes long — long enough to justify the stroller which that other Millennial mom was using. Alas, we had brought no stroller, so we were relegated to hoofing it at the speed of Aza — which is, to put it mildly, very slow. In short order, I was carrying both her and Rhys. Bo, thankfully, supported his own weight — but just barely.
“I’m tired,” he whined. “Can you carry me?”
With one hand, I gestured to Aza on my shoulders and Rhys on my chest. “Bo. What do you think?”
“Um… no?”
“You’re correct. I cannot carry you right now.” I glanced back at Taylor, then added, “And your father is still reaping the misbegotten fruit of villainy, so he won’t carry you either. You’re gonna have to walk.”
Taylor finished his current bite, then moaned softly in culinary ecstasy. “This garlic dip is sooooooo good,” he explained. “Sorry, Bo. You’re a big boy.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s wonderful,” I deadpanned. “Stolen food tastes the best.”
Taylor nodded slowly. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. Normally, I would agree that stolen food tastes the best, but now I’m starting to regret not getting permission.”
“Oh?” I scoffed. “And why is that?”
“Well, I do feel a little guilty, but mostly…” Taylor paused to take another bite of garlic dip, then continued, “But mostly, I wish I could ask where they catered this from.”
I affected a mock-chipper tone. “Oh? Why don’t you feel like you could ask them right now? Is it because you burned that social bridge — before we even met them?”
Taylor: <grunts in begrudging acceptance>
I could sense my husband’s resolve beginning to crumble, so I pressed, “Is this the example that you want to set for your kids?”
Taylor shot me a withering glare. “Fine.“
“Fine?” I echoed. I couldn’t believe he had reversed course so quickly.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Let’s go apologize.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t so thrilled. “Uh… why don’t I take the kids to get settled in the car?”
“Nope. I’m only going if we all go.”
So, we all went.
“Bo!” I called. “We have to turn around and go back to the park. Daddy did something naughty, but now he is doing the honorable thing and apologizing. He is setting an example for what it means to be a good man.”
[Note: If this phrasing seems clunky, check out Mother & Son: The Respect Effect, which makes a compelling argument for such an approach. My recent parenting has been influenced by the book’s core principle — that boys, like men, crave and value respect. Hence, the “respect talk”.]
Borealis grumbled — but he knows a thing or two about apologizing, so he unenthusiastically turned around and trudged back toward the park. Aza and Rhys, of course, were still along for the ride.
“I still can’t believe that you stole some kid’s birthday food,” I reiterated.
Taylor: <grunts long-sufferingly>
“But, I really admire that you’re owning up to your actions.”
Taylor nodded once. “Thanks Wifey.” <pause> “I just really want to ask where this food is from.”
I snorted. “If that’s what it takes.”
In the end, Lucy’s parents were actually really chill about the whole thing — like, way more chill than I was.
I opened with, “He’s here to apologize!” — and only got more awkward from there.
But Taylor squared his shoulders and said something to the effect of, “Hi, I saw there was extra food, but I should have checked with you first.”
To my relief, Lucy’s dad brushed aside the manly apology. “Nah, don’t worry about it — we have so much extra! You should actually take some more.”
“Yeah, it’s so good!” Taylor enthused. “Where did you get it!?”
“Oh, it’s from Amir Grill. They do awesome catering.”
“Yeah, definitely! The garlic dip is incredible.”
“But we’re sorry that we didn’t ask first!” I interjected.
Lucy’s dad grinned and admitted to Taylor, “Well, I saw you take the food, and I was like, ‘Yes, our first party crashers!’ That’s how you know that you’ve thrown a good party.”
“Yes, you threw a great party!” Taylor agreed.
“And thank you so much for your graciousness!” I added over-brightly. “I still feel really terrible.”
Lucy’s mom looked like perhaps she hadn’t entirely forgiven our theft, but Lucy’s dad assured us, “Don’t feel bad. I mean, we’re going to have so much extra — honestly, you should take some more!”
We all laughed, then wished Lucy a happy birthday and thanked her for allowing us to play with her friends. Finally, full of the joy of absolution, my family started back toward our car once again. That is, until…
“Seriously Taylor!? You’re getting more stolen birthday food?”
My husband turned and imperiously retorted, “It’s not ‘stolen’ anymore.” Taking another bite of garlic dip, he concluded, “And yes. Yes I am.”
So that is the story of how we crashed a stranger’s birthday party, got a free dinner, and learned no lessons.