Did Someone Say 'Mimosa?'

Birthdays for children under three.

Also known as blessed events where you can throw yourself a party.

Where the child has no idea what a birthday is or why grown-ups sing stupid songs or why he’s wearing an outfit that makes him look like the cover model of Yachting Digest.  Or the youngest member of the National Croquet League.

Where you have the sure-fire recipe for Adult Social Occasion Magic.  If you actually enjoyed planning adult social occasions.

Which I don’t.  They give me the willies and they suck the life-force out of me.

And since I’m currently running low on life-force, I’d like to preserve what little I have.

But you gotta do something to commemorate the day that the heavens opened and the angels sang and a shirtless Mikhail Baryshnikov did manly split leaps around the precious newborn while Sir Elton John performed a celestial serenade.  Right?

I mean, everyone’s doing it.  And because you’re the type that caves to social pressure, you should too.

Presenting the Fool-Proof Guide to Birthday Planning for the Easily Overwhelmed:

1. Keep the guest-list small.  It’s not called ‘last-minute.’  It’s called ‘selective.’
2. Acquire a co-host.  Co-host = 50% less work for you = 50% less blame if and when the party travels south.  Towards hell.
3. Make husband do grunt work.  Husband + Co-Host = 25% work for you.
4. Start the email invite with the word:  MIMOSA.
5. End the invite with the reminder: MIMOSA.
6. Greet the guests at 10am with a MIMOSA.
7. Have gracious friend bring bouncy house.  Shove kids in bouncy house, so you can chat with a MIMOSA in hand.
8. Have pizza and cupcakes ready to avoid toddler meltdown.
9. Have MIMOSA ready for you, just in case.
10. When 1:00 p.m. arrives, bid guests adieu with the gracious offer of a ROAD SODA.  Each child bursts into simultaneous tears and guests leave in a mass explosion of light and screaming and highly combustible gas.  Like the Big Bang.  With diapers.
11. Avoid cleanup.  Out of MIMOSAS.  Open a bottle of CHARDONNAY.

So there you have it.  The Chalupa’s 2nd birthday.

It doesn’t compare to your Average Girl’s last-minute shindig for 50, but it does share one thing:  fun was had.  Moments were made.  My little boy got his first bike.  He expressed supreme disgust at cupcakes for the second straight year.  He screamed with delight every half hour for the entire duration of the party.  He didn’t push or throw sand or give a hoot where the heck his parents were.  Surrounded by kids and fun, he was – as grandpa likes to say – happier than a pig in shit.

And just as we did last year, my beloved co-host and I clinked our MIMOSA glasses together and said, “We did it.  We survived another year.”

Still jubilant over the magical success of my Adult Social Occasion – what a mother I was!  What an event planner!  MIMOSAS were the solution to everything! – the family and I attempted to run some errands the next day.

While in a furniture store, the sales lady asked the Chalupa’s age.

“He’s two years old today!”  I proudly told her.

“Oh,” she clucked sadly, “Out shopping on his birthday!”

I narrowed my eyes at her.  Yes, I thought, and on Christmas, we make him clean the chimney.

Bitch needed a mimosa.