Raise your Juice Boxes...

Well, we made it! Suttie is now an entire year old. Suck it, SIDS…bring on the blankets and the pillows! Yes, not only did March 4th mark my son’s big day, but it also celebrated a whole year that his father and I have managed to keep him alive - well fed (as if you doubted), well clothed, well loved, and moderately cleaned. So to commemorate our achievement, we decided to add a final trial to our first-year parenting stress test - we had a party.

Now, being a card-carrying Type A personality, I booked this party at the local children’s museum when Suttie was 5 months old and came to set up on Saturday with a pre-designed room layout and a flowchart of objectives. However, my careful planning did not account for the fact that another 1 year old’s party was running late. Obviously, they did not have a room layout or a flowchart. So, we sat impatiently in the lobby waiting for little Skippy or Dana or whatever his name was to blow out his candle and mosey his Strausburg-covered butt out of the space. Finally, the museum workers had to ask them to vacate, leaving us 15 whole minutes to set up 6-months worth of party planning. Thanks, guys.

Now, I’m going to skip over the parts where I lost my cool, snapped at almost everyone, and dropped a bowl of goldfish on the carpet. With help from my parents and a couple of friends, the party was back on track and guests started to arrive. Then came the standard party run-down: we ate, Suttie massacred a piece of cake and his face in the process, he opened presents, he cried about opening presents – you know the drill. Finally, it was time for the kids to go into the museum and completely wear themselves out, which is the whole reason why anyone takes their kids to birthday parties to begin with. At this point, I’m going to plug Biscuit’s Backyard, which is the toddler-specific area at Early Works. It is an awesome play place for little ones! And I’m not anywhere near important enough to get paid for plugs, so you know it’s true. Since my child refuses to walk on the principle that it burns too many calories, he and a couple of the other tiny littles crawled amongst and over each other in a padded playpen, which seemed to be a form of Nirvana for them. He also pretended to be a farmer in a potato patch, getting back to his poor Irish roots and rode a life-size cow. If that doesn’t spell “Happy Birthday,” I honestly don’t know what does.

The only hiccup was when we visited a large talking tree, which completely freaked him out and, coupled with the fact that he was exhausted, signaled that the ship was beginning to list and the party was nearing an end. So, am I glad it’s over? Hell, yes! Have I thought about next year? Of course, I have – who do you think this is. But, no matter what we do, I’m going to be looking to farm the whole thing out, so prepare yourself, Chuck E., cause we may be heading your way. You better start stocking up on pizza now.