On Birthdays...

When it comes to birthdays, I have one word for you. Outsource. I’m old enough to remember when this concept first became the biggest buzz ever to hit the business world. At the time, I neither knew nor cared about why I should pay attention. But today, the very idea I considered with such laissez faire has become the single most cherished, mental-health-preserving strategy I’ve had the good fortune to come across. Well, Mom’s Day Out is good. And, of course, there is the well-placed glass of red wine…movies by myself…Girl’s Night. But you get the picture – it’s right “up” there with the best of them.

As with any good revelation, it came at a price. And here’s where you may as well know that before I began using “Mother of the Year” as a facetious moniker, I actually believed that the notion was within my reach. In my previous life, I’m pretty sure I was able to juggle complex events, multiple projects and whole groups of colleagues while using my “free hand” to have some semblance of a life. Despite all that heady corporate experience, I now find myself at a bumbling loss managing two diminutive humans who can’t even read.

But at the time, I had high hopes for pulling off my ill-fated attempt at an event of Martha Stewart proportions for my son Jack’s three-year-old birthday party. I thought that I could have my perfect mother, perfect entertainer, eerily-in-control magazine page moment in the sun. I spent months ripping through glossy periodicals, scanning the Internet, and revising “to do” lists that were too long in the first place. I’m not allowed to go into the details as my therapist has advised me not to, but let’s just say that the occasion was enough to snap me into reality and put me off home-celebrated birthdays forever. The bits of blood red icing from the themed sandcastle cake I botched, still embedded in my prize Persian rug, help to keep me honest, too. (My apologies, by the way, to the eight people I thanked for the wrong gift because twenty toddlers converged on all of your beautifully wrapped packages like a pack of hungry wolves.)

So that brings us back to today, cured of my delusions and happy to report that birthday years four and five – while not without their challenges —were pulled off without a lingering twitch in my left eye. This is because I outsourced the details to somebody else: People much more talented and better equipped than I to pull off a child’s birthday party of any proportion. Yes, there is a God. And sometimes He comes in the form of JumpZone, Pump It Up or Mid-America Karate. I mean, really, you’ve got to hand it to these places. If you can find the staff equipped with the iron stomach necessary to handle breaking up fights, teetering ice cream cones, regurgitating toddlers and flying cake, then you deserve every red cent you get to pull it off.

In fact, both birthdays ended with me thanking the poor high school students they hired to host the little rascals for two hours of sheer mayhem, while doing my cutest, shoulders up, wincing apology for all the little mishaps and colossal mess left for them to clean up. Then, after delivering the classic Saturday Night Live skit send-off, “Buh, bye” and sinking into my seat for the drive home, a satisfied calm came over me knowing that I wouldn’t have to spend the next three weeks digging smashed cake sprinkles out of the grooves of my kitchen table with a toothpick, rubbing greasy little handprints off my mirrors and windows, or gluing the heads back on Jack’s Star Wars action figures. Now, if only I could outsource getting back into shape…