At the end of the school day today, approximately thirteen boys ranging in age from eight to twelve will descend upon Chez Mr Lady for something in the neighborhood of 20 hours for a 9th, a 10th and an 11th birthday party all rolled into one.

There is not enough Febreeze in the world to make this okay.

My sons have birthdays one month to the day apart from each other, and since they still have more-or-less the same social circle, we save ourselves and everyone we know a whole lotta headache by just throwing them one big party together.  My neighbor’s son’s birthday falls right in the middle of my boys, so we lump him in with the group, too.  It’s like a bandaid; the quicker it’s over, the sooner we can start pouring the drinks.

It’s not just because we get away with the 2-fer that we do this, though.  You know how Christmas day, your kids tear through a stack of presents and then totally sugar crash, just without the cavities?  And your Jewish friends have these blissful children who’ve had eight days of one gift at a time, and they’re all calm and serene and grateful and you start wondering if you could really give up bacon and how you’d look in a yarmulke?  Yeah, it’s the same thing here with the birthdays.  We get to buy each boy ONE gift on his birthday, and then they each get ONE more at their party.  It’s spaced out,and  it saves us from over-doing it. (Correction: it saves me from over-doing it. My husband isn’t overcompensating for his crappy anything with our kids.)

So my neighbor and I have been “planning” this “party” and by “party” I mean we’re throwing all the boys in my basement with the big tv that I just got done dragging out of my living room down to the basement, a bag of Doritos, some pillows, a Wii, a GameCube and all the National Treasure movies.  And 18 air fresheners.  By “planning” I mean we’ve sat on the phone and said, “Um….?”  a lot.  

It’s interesting, planning a birthday party with another parent.  My neighbor and I both share the view that once they hit a certain age, the pomp and circumstance can take a flying leap and be replaced with reality.  She didn’t bat an eye when I suggested that each kid invite only 3 friends.  She agreed that the idea of just having a sleepover sounded like party enough.  She asked what she should get for the goodie bags and when I told her I didn’t do goodie bags, she said thank god and what would we get for a bunch of 10 year olds anyway?

I didn’t have birthday parties as a kid, and I didn’t go to any either, so I really have just winged the crap out of this whole thing for the past decade plus.  It seems to me like the whole idea of what IS a birthday party has a lot to do with what everyone around you thinks makes a birthday party.  If everyone in the class invites everyone in the class to every party, maybe you feel the pressure to do the same when your kid’s birthday rolls around.  If everyone does Something Grand, maybe you feel like you have to do Something Grand, too.  Ever try to take 30 kids for laser tag?  And then make your mortgage that month?  Yeah.  If every time your kid goes to a party, he comes home with a bag full of plastic toys that end up in the dog’s food 2 days later, maybe you feel like you’d better have some at the ready as well.  If you have to stay and make awkward conversation with a bunch of parents you don’t know for 3 hours while your kids throw water balloons at each other, maybe you find yourself pricing a keg the next time you throw a birthday party at your house.

I can’t keep up with my inbox, let alone The Jones’.

Do my kids need some huge party every year on their birthdays?  Hell no they don’t.  They get the big, bright, thematically correct (and totally made from scratch; I’m so cheap) parties when they’re little, when it’s all still magic, and then once they hit 1st grade, we go to a movie.  Or we have a sleepover.  Or we have a cupcake decorating and subsequent eating extravaganza.  Because when they’re 9 years old?  11 years old?  They don’t need all that other stuff, do they?

I don’t think they do.  I think they want to have one day or one night when they can feel a little grown.  When they don’t have a bedtime, and they do have Nintendo, when vitamins don’t show their ugly faces and soda pours like rain from the heavens.  When their parents leave them alone and they can watch their movies and listen to their music and be dorky kids together.  When they can just be and do what they want to be and do and not be scheduled or managed, just supervised.

That’s what I remember wanting when I was 11, at least.  So that’s what I give them.  I give them a lot of laughter and a little freedom and a bit of a break from the rules and the time to be themselves.  

And lots of air fresheners.

Saturday morning, March 14th, 2of3 came into my room at 7 am and said, “Mom, it’s seven!”

I said humnaschmurna blageldorf.

He came back at 8 am and said, “Mawwwm, it’s EIGHT.”

I said okaerg.

At 8:30 I shook The Donor awake and we headed downstairs. The kids were all on the couch watching cartoons and three bowls of Lucky Charms were decomposing like Johann Pachelbel on the kitchen table.

So began my son’s ninth year. He opened his gifts, and by “opened” I mean “looked behind our backs” because really, I suck at even thinking about wrapping things.

Which totally explains why I have a nine year old. Bygones.

We sat on the couch and read the pages in his baby book were I’d scribbled out the story of his exodus*. I showed him which bones of his caught on which bones of mine making an otherwise run-of-the-mill labour last two motherfucking glorious days. I billed him for the previous year, like I always do, and he promised to pay me in Reese’s Pieces one day, like he always does.

I was disappointed that it was raining, so he couldn’t go out to ride his new skateboard. He thought it was totallywickedawesome that he was allowed to ride it in the house just this once. He thought the tie he chose for dinner that he’d clearly outgrown a year ago looked ‘mature’, I thought it looked like a great opportunity to explain the joys of ‘business casual’. He loved how his hair looked with the half jar of pomode he’d gooped into it, I thought he looked like Hitler after a rumble with The Jets.

So it goes with the boy born on the day of Relativity.

He had his very own steak at the restaurant that night, and no one even tried to cut it for him. He got the big knife and the huge dessert and the happy birthday song by the staff at the restaurant where they Do Not Sing happy birthday for anyone. He got to sit in the front seat with dad and choose the radio station and tonight as we tucked him in, he got double jumped with tickles and a million kisses.

So ended the first day of my son’s ninth year.

No matter how old he gets, how mature he grows, he’s still that baby boy I met nine years ago. When I saw his little face for the first time,  I knew him, like I’d always known him, like he was an old friend.   He looked like a lizard, but that’s totally beside the point.  I knew he’s walk the paths I did, only with more grace.  I knew he’d pick up where I left off and soar.  He’s a mirror of me, all of his grandeur, and every one of his flaws.  He’s what I’d hoped I could be and more.  Because he’s him, and I’m pretty damn glad I got a piece of him.

*God, there are just so many Red Sea/parting thereof jokes to be made there, but I’m betting I’ll be in enough trouble for defiling my poor son’s birthday post as it is. You, however, can feel free to have at it.

All day, every day, we interact with other people. Maybe the guy at the bank doesn’t make much of an impression, but maybe the checker at Safeway makes you feel something. You never know where it’s going to happen or when. It could be on the stoop of an apartment building, at a bar, or while you’re pumping your gas, but all around us are people, and sometimes a person’s spark jumps out to you, and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you’re just open enough to catch it.

And then, on rare occasion, you get to cross paths with someone who is made out of nothing but Aluminum and Nickel and Cobalt, and everyone who crosses his path is pulled to him by a force that they can’t even explain. Someone who is a living, breathing magnet. Someone who is beautiful and kind and amazing and authentic and just the type of person that, once you get him, you know you’re never letting him go.

Maybe you’ll meet him at the dollar store, maybe at the swimming pool with your kids, or maybe, just maybe, if you’re really insanely lucky, maybe one day, he’ll stumble across your blog and leave you a comment.

Today is the birthday of my very favorite dad blogger, BusyDad. If you’ve read his blog, if you’ve met him in person, if you’ve ever talked to him, you’ll know that he’s one of those people, the kind you just can’t live without, the kind that makes you smile even when you don’t think you can, who draws you in and keeps you there.

Now that I’ve met him in person, now that I’ve sat in a room with 8 other people watching him interact with them, I can tell you that what I imagined is totally confirmed; he laughs with his whole body, he listens with his eyes, not just his ears, he is kind and caring and gentle and silly and charming and, and this is the kicker, he can totally roll with a bunch of drunk chicks who really like hip hop and period talk, and not even flinch. That boy is pure gold, I tell yah.

Before he left to catch his entirely too early plane out of San Francisco on Saturday morning, a friend and Jim and I had a little time with just the three of us. We walked through a city none of us knew, all three of us essentially strangers to each other, and it really felt like we had known each other for a lifetime after only 20 hours together. Maybe that’s the joy of reading people’s blogs, the way you can take someones life into your heart before you ever get to take their hand into your hand. Or maybe we were all destined to know each other. Who the hell knows?

What I do know is that I am glad BusyDad found the courage to leave me a comment one day a long time ago. I am glad that I followed it back to his site. I am glad that we accidentally met, and that we allowed our friendship to grow. I am glad that we write a little blog together, and that we are parents at the same time, and that the paths of our lives get to not just cross, but intertwine for a while.

And I’m most glad that he’s super stinking hot, because really? You could dip Steve Buscemi in all the chocolate and sprinkles you want, he could be the sweetest man on earth, his veins could pump Nutra-Sweet, but yeah, he’d still look like Steve Buscemi. Call me shallow. Bygones.

Happy birthday, my old friend, my new friend. I hope I don’t annoy you to much, because I kinda think you’re stuck with me for a long time comin’. Thanks for all that you are, all that you do, for your humour and your kindness and your unconditional friendship. It means more to me, to all of us that you touch, than you could ever hope to know.