To make it a more streamlined argument, I won’t even touch how ridiculous we’ve all become about celebrating a year’s growth for small people who barely have enough mental capacity not to crap themselves. Even still, I actually enjoy planning and attending the parties of the children I’ve created.
Nor will I complain about the exhaustive Pinterest Generation of Parenting we are all living in, as the site isn’t totally to blame. After all, Pinterest is helping me plan for the amazing kitchen remodel I will more than likely never have enough money to execute.
Themes aren’t the problem either. If anything, themes are the very best part of a kid’s birthday because it helps narrow the decision-making process down considerably. And for me, selecting or designing party invites once a year relieves the tiny ache I have to live as an artist in New York.
So it’s not how ridiculous we’ve become about our kids’ parties (but we have), it’s not about Pinterest (though it’s a problem), and it’s not about the themes (though god help me if my child ever asks for Sophia the First because, frankly, I don't wanna).
It’s more the nonsensical manner in which venues that cater to children’s parties are abysmal at helping to plan children’s parties.
One of my favorite places in our town (now that I’m a parent) is the zoo. We have a family membership and spend so much time there the padded holding cell for tantrum-throwing children is named after us. So it was no surprise to me that my oldest child wanted to have her birthday party there when she turned three last summer.
The date was picked. The theme was easy.
But when I called the zoo, the plans started to unravel. I was informed that the zoo would allow me 20 tickets (in the price range which seemed most reasonable for a child who was not of Kardashian descent) and those tickets would be sent to me through the mail. As in the postal mail. Like with stamps.
Now here’s the deal: the 20 tickets included everyone, adults and children. There are 20 children in Lowery’s class. And most of the classmates have siblings. Knowing my parents, my in-laws, and my sister and her child would be there, I was already down to 14 tickets. This meant I couldn’t invite every kid in the class. So, my daughter had to select only five classmates. But I cautioned her to choose wisely. Meaning classmates who didn’t have siblings or didn’t come from a two-parent home.
When she made her selections (she changed it every day for a solid week), I started a spreadsheet to tally up the total. On this spreadsheet I made sure to include all scenarios. So, counting one classmate if her/his sister(s)/brother(s) came, if both her/his parents came, if only she/he came with one parent, one parent but all the siblings, both parents but no siblings, and on and on until the entire spreadsheet looked like an intricate equation that measures the mass of Mars.
The other thing to account for was families who already had zoo memberships. I knew one of our neighbors had one, so they were on the list and staying. The other neighbors didn’t, but they only have one kid, so they weren’t costing me too many of the precious tickets. Other parents I tried to scope out casually so as not to let them think they were teetering on and off the list daily depending on how the spreadsheet was computed. I’d send a casual text:
Me: Hi, how’s your day?
Possible Invite’s Parent: Fine. Why are you texting me?
Me: We are all in this parenting thing together. Such a village.
Possible Invite’s Parent: Ok.
Me: So, our family went to the zoo today.
Possible Invite’s Parent: Ok. So?
Me: Do you like the zoo?
Possible Invite’s Parent: I guess.
Me: But not enough for a membership, am I right?
And on and on to each parent until my spreadsheet had enough accurate data points to analyze.
The zoo mailed me an envelope containing the 20 tickets. I assumed, as stingy as they were about the tickets, these would be barcoded with holograms and a sensor that would go off if you tried to leave the zoo with one of the flamingos. But instead, I opened the envelope to find 20 tickets that were printed on purple construction paper and cut out by hand.
Now, I had the spreadsheet tabulated and I knew the winning invite list. I had worked tirelessly to casually and discretely figure out which parents had memberships. And I knew which families needed to receive the tickets that were clearly made by a first grader.
The struggle was, I had to give tickets to people in advance, not knowing whether or not they would come. I had to be liberal with the tickets, which meant a family of four was getting four tickets, even though only two might get used. Or, even worse, a family of two got two tickets but may not be able to come. My biggest concern was wasting a ticket, which could have gone to another child in the class. I seriously considered forgetting to put a stamp on my parents’ invitation just to have a two-ticket buffer.
This shit was keeping me up at night.
Noticing the dark circles under my eyes, my husband tried to help me figure out another option. One option—which we drew on a rotating white board like coaches at half-time—was to have one of us stand at the entrance of the zoo and hand out the purple construction paper tickets to our guests as they arrived. The problem with this idea was that the Kid’s Gazebo is a half of a mile into the zoo. Most parents tend to come and go at different times, or might stop to sightsee along the path to the party, which would leave one of us manning the entrance the entire party.
The other option, if you turned the white board over, was to just go to Michael’s and get some purple construction paper and make hundreds of copies of the tickets. But we both decided that while we are willing to do unethical actions to protect our children, we are not willing to do unethical actions just to please them.
When I called the zoo to explain the absurdity of this “ticket plan” in the hope of getting it resolved and getting me some sleep, the party planner seemed as though her hands were tied. She had clearly worked with the U.S. Mint to print the zoo tickets and, therefore, no additional tickets could be made unless I could get a signed letter from Joe Biden. Or pay an extra $100. Even when I asked if she could just tabulate the number of guests that checked in under my child’s name and have us pay the total after the party, she said that wasn’t possible.
I guess it’s because they wouldn’t be able to get a precise enough estimate of how many guests we would have. Because typically, visitors of the city zoo RSVP a few days before they actually go so the zoo has a precise number. This is so the zoo can know how many rolls of toilet paper are needed in the bathroom by the gift shop, and then they subtract two dozen. And I get it, zoo people. With an 85-acre campus, you need to know the exact number of extra children and adults who will be at the Morgan birthday party on the hottest day of the year for two hours in the afternoon. You wouldn’t want a surprise visit from the fire marshal.
Despite it all, the party was a success. Sure, my in-laws got so lost in the zoo they eventually came riding up on a golf cart driven by a grounds keeper 45 minutes into the festivities. But still, my daughter was happy, and my husband and I maintained our moral center.
The alternative to the renting of a facility at a place that is fun for children is to host a party at my home. I like this option because I can invite any and all people—even some my children don’t know—and, most importantly, I can get cases upon cases of beer. The problem with the home party is the gear up. My husband inevitably finds me, a few hours beforehand, crying in the bathroom because I’m so sick of cleaning.
But luckily, there’s alcohol.
I suppose the problem with any kid’s birthday party is that it has very little, if anything, to do with the kid. I’m sure my child would have been happy just to go to the zoo last year with her mom and dad and infant sister. All she really ever cares about is the cake, and those are for sale in nearly every grocery store across America most every day of the week.
And while I enjoy having a party at the house, I’m sure there’s a part of my kid that thinks, “This place again?”
That’s because she’s not old enough to drink.
So why, why do parents subject themselves to the Herculean effort of party planning when the kid would be happy with a spoon full of cake batter and a new Lego set?
Because, kids’ birthday parties are a wonderful excuse to surround oneself with other parents who are burned out from putting on and attending birthday parties.
And that, above anything, is cause for celebration.
Buy the Book!
