I’m about to lose my fucking mind.
A stressbomb is ticking… :05 left and that sucker is about to explode – all over a four year old’s birthday party. I do this to myself, I know I do. 40 people are descending upon our little tract home tomorrow afternoon. We’re cooking everything from scratch, I’ve handmade 16 custom superhero capes and masks for decorating activity purposes. In an hour we’re about to go forth and rent a helium tank so we can blow up the balloons OUR OWN GODDAMN SELVES!
Why can’t we be those parents who order pizzas, rent a bounce house and let everyone fend for themselves? I’ve been to those kids’ parties. They’re fun. The crotchfruit have a blast, they could give a shit about artisanal cheeseplates and white sangria. I’m not critical of those parents, I’m envious… I know that no one expects us to do this stuff – well, actually they do a little bit because we set this precedent for our parties while living in NYC – but these kind Austin folks don’t know about it! This was our chance at a fresh start – at embracing slackerdom and liberating the family from our relentless, self-imposed pursuit of entertaining perfection and we’ve totally blown it.
The to-do list for the next 24 hours is now coming in at 100 items long. I’ll be whipping up homemade buttercream at 10pm and F will be up at 4am to start slow-cooking the carnitas.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH US?
I’ve said it every year and I’m saying it again. Oliver’s 5th birthday? Chuck E. Fucking Cheese.