Pity Party

Two birthday parties in one weekend just about did me in. The first was for nephew #2, turning 2, whose mama was still in the hospital and thus unable to dote. Nicholas did his level best to keep up with the big boys as they ran around outside. There were Happy Meals and cake and almost-exclusive Lightning McQueen presents. (Big brother Jack has finally retired Thomas the Tank Engine in favor of the Cars star, so Nicholas is now a fan by default.)

I swear they had more fun than this.


And the birthday boy even found his smile when the cake showed up.


Then we were impromptuly (I know it’s not) invited to girl-next-door’s party on Sunday at 2. Smack dab in the middle of my naptime, but what are ya gonna do? I had fleeting hopes of sending Alex over solo; after all, the party was in the backyard so I could keep an ear on him if nothing else, but at the last minute he decided it would be best if I were there to sweat and swelter and watch him interact with his strange species.

It was an art party; evidently Liddy and family are very artsy. (I was relieved to see from the Happy Birthday banner that I’d made the right choice in deciding her name was Liddy-short-for-Lydia instead of Livvy-short-for-Olivia.)

I parked myself in a pseudo-shaded lawn chair and made decent small talk before the sweat started pouring off me in rivers and I gave up all attempts at pretending to be good company until at least early July, when I’m not carrying around what’s feeling more and more like a small-statured water buffalo.

The kids painted tiles that were all pushed together into one big canvas, and it was a group effort but try explaining that to a sweaty 5-year-old who has just watched some other kid squirt brown paint all over the square he had painstakingly decorated with red dots and glitter. And at some point most of them drifted away but Alex stuck to it like he aimed to salvage the whole drippy, gaudy, blobby, sad-looking piece. He failed, my child, but I give him points for effort.


There was almost a brawl between two little girls, and I was debating whether to mediate or place bets on the angrier of the two when we were saved by the cake.

The cake was artsy, too, and a little bit shocking. I think Liddy made it herself.

We escaped when it became clear to me that my choices were to succumb to heatstroke or go home and try to cool off. Alex, because tolerance for heat and noise and overstimulation is proportionate to youth and not-being-pregnant, went directly out to the backyard to rejoin the party from our side of the fence.

I took a freezing-cold shower and put my puffy feet up and waited for the Lost series finale to punch me in the heart.

Baby Andrew is still in the NICU; jaundice and a less-than-hearty appetite both standing in his way of coming home quite yet. I watched her feed him when I went to visit on Saturday. He’s tiny, his little head the size of a softball, and he looks, in true newborn fashion, like an angry little old man. Absolutely precious. Here’s hoping she can take him home soon.