I haven’t picked up my “real” camera in ages, and I can’t remember the last time I downloaded and edited photos that weren’t going from my camera to instagram. So, pretend there are photos that have nothing to do with this post, but illustrate what I’m trying to say beautifully.
Wren turns 10 next week and we are throwing a party on Saturday. Not a big deal to most people. Luckily (unfortunately?), I am not most people. I do not enjoy entertaining. It makes me anxious. It makes me nervous. I imagine that I will clean the guest bathroom only to have one of the boys pee all over the toilet seat after I’ve done so and have a guest find that instead of sparkling cleanliness. (Boy moms, you’ve all sat down on a wet seat before, right?) I worry that no one will show up and enjoy my lovingly handmade party decorations. Or worse, everyone will show up and stifle giggles about them.
I also do not enjoy social settings in which my family and friends mix. I am paranoid that they will cross share information about me that I don’t want shared. I like to think of myself as this mysterious, wondrous figure, and I don’t want anyone to blow my cover. I worry that we will run out of games for the kids to play or that they will trample the squash that reaches from one end of my tiny yard almost all the way to the other.
And so, my kids rarely have birthday parties. Last year would’ve been Wren’s first with friends, but it was the day the Hurricane Irene hit and we cancelled at the last minute. I was relieved. I feel we are nearing the age where an adorable whimsical party at home will cease to be adorable and it doesn’t appear a natural disaster will stop this weekend’s party. So I’m going to Mom Up, smile, and try to have a good time until the last goody bag walks out my front door.