On Sunday afternoon, EK and I attended the second kid birthday party of 2015. And we have another one scheduled for this weekend. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy socializing with parents-now-friends and EK always has a blast, but the actual party usually ends in tears...mine and/or EK's.
After I returned home from the most recent soiree in a near coma, I searched the Internet for cheap fares to Montenegro because that is a completely reasonable response to spending time with
shrieking gleeful children.
What is wrong with me?
Following one party last year, when I was "that mom" saying her kid's name so many times I couldn't stand the sound of my own voice, I strapped a screaming EK into his car seat, rested my forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed. Because that too is a normal reaction to hanging out with a bunch of happy kiddos running amok.
I remember another party that ended in me calling Mr. Swirley and yelling, "I WILL NEVER TAKE OUR KID TO A BIRTHDAY PARTY ALONE AGAIN!". I was so, so sweaty.
Sometimes I seek out hiding spots like the men's bathroom or a coat room to engage in
neglectful behavior deep breathing exercises. Or I roll my eyes so many times I am pretty sure they are going to fall out of my head. Why? Because my kid refuses to play with anyone, eat, speak to me or wear pants. True story.
Call me a me a jerk, but I'm counting the days until drop-off parties are the norm and we have no idea in Hell what our kids are doing. Or not. Maybe I'll miss these chaotic two-hour celebrations with these tiny, joyful yet terrifying human beings. And the open bars. We'll see.
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