It’s MY Party
I’m trying to run interference on a battle between my three year old son and my five year old daughter.
“Nico! I can’t believe you did that to me! You are NOT COMING TO MY PARTY!” She yells at him.
“Shaila….” I interject.
“Oh yeah?!” yells Nico back, finding his voice. However high pitched it might be. “Well you’re not coming to MY party!”
“Nico….” I start.
“Well MY party is going to be bigger than your party. And I’m going to have pinatas!” She yells. She turns to me. “Mommy, I can have pinatas, right?”
“No, MY party is going to be biggest-er than yours and I’m going to have a water slide and you can’t go on it!” He screams back.
“At MY party, I’m going to have ice cream. And I’m going to eat it right in front of you and say, ‘Do you want some ice cream?’ And you won’t be able to HAVE ANY!” She points her finger at him. “And you won’t be able to talk to any of the princesses that are there likebelleorarielorjasmine!” Her words stumble on each other and she is short of breath from her proclamation.
“Well at MY party, you won’t be able to ride the elephant!” Huh? This ain’t no show about rich kiddy bitches on MTV, kid.
“OOOOH. I can’t even believe you, Nico! Mommy! Nico says I can’t ride the elephant!”
“Mommy! Shaila won’t let me have ice cream with a princess!”
This can go on for hours.
Let’s be clear about something. It’s February. Their birthdays – both of them – are in August.
They’re planning for hypothetical parties that are over six months away.
But I understand how mortifying it can be when you’re the only one not invited to a party. How much did that suck? I always hated feeling left out when I found out about a party that my other friends were all excited to go to, only to find that I was the only one not invited. It’s worse than getting picked last for kickball.
If not worse, than a close second.
As an adult, I don’t really care if you invite me to your party. Or to your wedding. Seriously. I’m tired and would rather hang out in my pajamas that night.
I wonder what would happen though if I ever started using the same cold, calculated method of alienation that my children use on each other. I mean, what would I even say?
“At my party, you are so not getting REAL wine glasses. Here’s a paper cup!”
“At my party, you’re are so not going to roll VIP.” You have to drink Bud Light and wine from the big ass Woodbridge bottle.
“At my wedding, you’re going to be at THAT TABLE.” You know. It’s the one furthest from the bride and groom and you’re so close to the bathroom that you can see a groomsman peeing in the urinal.
“At my party, you are so not getting any Tostitos!”
“At my party, my ass is going to look so much better in these jeans than your ass does.” Well, just because. It’s my party.
I don’t know. I don’t think I carry it off with as much aplomb as my kids.
Whatever. There’s more than enough space for all of you at my party. Send special food requests in advance if you are vegan or I have to make gluten free cupcakes or something else I probably suck at.
And try not to step in any elephant poop. It’s impossible to get off!