Birthday Party from Hell

It’s here: my first real test as an empty nester.

My son turns 18 next week, far from home. For the first time ever, I am mailing his birthday presents.

How do I feel about my boy celebrating a birthday miles from home? Well, to be honest, a tad melancholy. It’s bound to be very odd to wake up to a quiet house that stays quiet. I’ll sorely miss the McKenzie tradition of the birthday child leaping onto my bed, their arms overflowing with the wrapped gifts and cards found on the kitchen table. And yes, it’s a dead certainty that I’ll miss sharing the always requested breakfast of cinnamon buns and chocolate milk!

All is not bleak though.There are two things on offer that are making me feel decidedly better about the away birthday.

The first is this year’s “Birthday boy gift wish list.” Amongst the usual solicitations for magazine subscriptions, clothing and cash are two new requests. Laundry detergent and fabric softener. Excuse me? In addition to the undeniable fact that these are extremely odd things to ask for on one’s birthday, I must point out that my lad is not squirreled away deep within a cave, but actively thriving in a large metropolis. The opportunities for purchase of both are endless.

My rabid curiosity gets the better of me; seconds after reading this text my fingers fly to the phone.

“Are you out of your mind? Surely you can simply tumble down the street, pop into the nearest shop and BUY some?”

His answer is staggering.

“It’s expensive. I need to save my money for clothes, special dinners, drinks … If I have to buy stuff like detergent, I’ll run out of money.”

Aw love, thanks for the heartwarming realisation that the-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same. Your often astounding view of how things should be can still get a rise out of me. Welcome to the real world my boy. You’ve got money. Just stick to the budget. I won’t be winging those cleaning products across the country any time soon, thank you very much.

The second thing that helps me feel better is the knowledge that I no longer need to deal with his birthday party.

Before you brand me as a “dreadful mommy” allow me to enlighten you to “the birthday party from Hell.”

It’s 2005. My son is turning 10 and he is having a party at the local pool, just ten minutes from home.

There are ten guests. The game plan is to have pizza and cake at home, open presents and then head for the pool. After two hours of observing their water play and handing out the requisite loot bags, my work will be done. The kids are to be picked up by their parents. Perfect.

One guest, Z, has to leave early for basketball practice so he’s just partaking in the home visit. His father insists on staying so that he can whip his son away in a timely fashion. I’m a tad nervous as I don’t know the dad well and he seems a little stern; his refusal to eat intensifies said uneasiness.

The pizza arrives in a timely fashion and I happily call everyone to the table. Z,  proudly sporting his basketball uniform, plops into his chair. The noise in the room ramps up as boys clamour for food and drink. With his dad hovering at my back and Z requesting a root beer, I reach for the bottle and pour. Something is wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. I keep pouring, becoming rather more cognizant as his dad grabs my elbow.

“What are you doing? Stop pouring!” he bellows.

Oh my Lord. Through sheer distraction I’ve poured out more than half of the two litre bottle of pop. Onto his son.

Apologizing profusely, I throw a pair of the birthday boy’s sweatpants at Z and toss his uniform into the dryer. There’s no time to wash them. Twenty minutes later, Z staggers to the car, his dry, now cardboard-stiff uniform making even walking rather difficult. Sorry Coach. I suspect it’ll be a less than satisfactory practice.

It’s cake time. Aware that one of our guests is allergic to peanuts, my 10 year-old has opted for a Dairy Queen ice-cream cake. Everyone tucks into it happily. Within minutes, allergic boy J, turns pale and darts to the bathroom. Loud retching noises emanate down the hall. There are peanuts in the crust. Fortunately, with all traces of the toxin purged from his body, J bounces back to good health. No need to pull out the epi pen.

We leave for the pool. As I haven’t enough room in my car for all the guests, I’ve recruited a pal to drive as well. Once we arrive safely on site, I dispatch him to his home and a stiff drink. Everyone charges off to the changing room with the exception of my son and J.

“Mom. J has forgotten his suit at home.”

Of course. Poor guy has just had an allergic reaction. He’s bound to have forgotten something.  Ordering the two fellows to remain in the lobby, and acutely aware that I’m leaving 12 kids unattended (sister M is here as well) I zip home faster than normal. With my backup driver dispatched, I’m glad the drive is a mere ten minutes.

A little worse for wear, I arrive back at the pool to find my lad hopping from foot to foot.

“Mom, I forgot my suit at home too.”

He has got to be kidding. Could he not have told me before? I stomp to the car, already dreading the tiresome roundtrip journey.

Twenty minutes later, decidedly hotter than normal, I fly back into the lobby clutching his bimmers, only to find my girl now looking rather forlorn. But she’s wearing a suit.

“Mom. We left the loot bags at home.”

It’s officially the birthday party from Hell.

Ah yes, I’m very glad the days of dealing with my son’s birthday parties are behind me.

Happy Birthday dear boy. Enjoy your day and know that I love you. Fabric softener and all.