[Before Parenting]: Hey, what are you doing this weekend?
Sleeping in, grabbing breakfast somewhere, maybe go on a bike ride. Then we’ll take a nap, catch up on a few episodes, probably go out downtown and close the bars.
[Parenting]: Hey, what are you and the kids doing this weekend?
We’ll wake up unnaturally early for a Saturday, manage a tantrum over the shape of waffles, drag my children down the aisles at Home Depot, and go to another kid’s birthday party.
You’re officially no longer culturally relevant if you’ve been to more birthday parties featuring unicorn goodie bags than midnight kamikaze shots. This has become the highlight of our social lives, managing the sugar highs of cupcakes at 11:00 a.m. and the crashes of bounce house nausea and smeared superhero face paint.
And I get it—birthdays are as exciting as a root canal after you’re 30 and they’re the greatest thing since Uncrustables before the age of 10. Every kid deserves to be king or queen for a day, surrounded by an overly scary clown, popcorn chicken sampler and grownup strangers awkwardly discussing their top five movies on Disney Plus. But navigating these exhausting episodes weekend after weekend makes even the coolest dad lose all sense of reality.
It all starts with the dreaded invitation. Yes, indeed, the theme is Summer Unicorn Princess Pool Party where all parents are “strongly encouraged” to dress as their favorite Disney villain. Easy enough. Then, after my wife informs me it is not appropriate to gift a Señor Frog’s souvenir cup to a 4-year-old, we’re off like a Chuck E. Cheese toy train express.
We arrive to a scene straight out of Lord of the Flies. Kids are swinging across the front lawn from multi-story water slides, more are buccaneers swordfighting across coffee table pirate ships. The dads are piled in a corner chugging White Claws, clearly questioning the acceptability of getting sloshed before noon while listening to the Frozen soundtrack. The mother of the birthday golden child is planning the 14th surprise of the day, as if the ice cream truck, fireworks display, glittered pony and live celebrity actor wasn’t enough.
(True story: I was at a birthday party once where a scantily-dressed, two-legged Ariel the Mermaid showed up alongside a legitimate bodyguard. After she led a chorus of “Under the Sea” and asked questions about land humans in full character mode, I wasn’t sure if I had to tip her like some kind of twisted surprise stripper situation. Also a true story: this was my daughter’s fourth birthday, and we still have Ariel’s business card.)
I spend my time balancing finger foods on an overly flimsy paper plate, avoiding eye contact with said clown, and searching for the oddest feature or trinket in every person’s home. We’re all curious by nature, and we’re all a little weird. This is a perfect combination to seek out that framed awkward family photo, ambiguous glass sculpture just waiting to be shattered by a rogue bouncy ball, or the porcelain doll in the corner that surely comes to life and walks the halls at night.
It’s a good sign when the candles are lit and everyone is forced to circle around the child like a seance, singing “Happy Birthday” and trying to remember the kid’s name before we get to the crescendo. Fortunately, my kids eat cake like a country fair contest, and we have the perfect moment to make our Irish exit. In reality, my wife finds a commonality with every single person at the party in the last five minutes, and we have to exchange phone numbers, email addresses, Twitter handles and Bitmojis.
We mercifully get to the car, one kid smeared with frosting and fondant from head to toe, and the other scavenging the goodie bag for more sugar like a rabid dog. They pass out five minutes down the road, and we finally get to perhaps the best part of the whole event. My wife and I split a stolen cupcake, gossip about the guests, and award the most bizarre item in the house.
We can’t wait ‘til next Saturday.