Kids' birthday parties are going to destroy me

No, I love ice cream. Really, I do.

No, I love ice cream. Really, I do. Don't mind that kid wrapped around my ankle screaming for no apparent reason.

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.

10376992_10155203654995145_1336828601152711309_nCall 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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    Annie Swingen

    Chicago-based hyperbole enthusiast. Mom to a kid and sometimes my mom. Overboard (1987) obsessed weirdo. I like the funnies in life.

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