Savoring the moment, for once

Recently, my son turned nine. Every birthday brings with it nostalgia and prompts a stock-taking, but this birthday seemed different, somehow, and not just to me. I talked to some other moms about it, friends I've known since our kids were in Mommy Group together as infants, and they agreed, this birthday felt different. Not more meaningful or anything -- it just felt like the kids had suddenly gotten really, really old. Like they'd stepped onto the bridge that takes them from little kids to the thing that come next .

My friend Grace, whose daughter is one day younger than Primo, told me: "She's nine, and that marks the halfway point of the years she'll spend living with us. We're halfway done with that part of her life. And it's happening so fast, I can't even pay attention most of the time."

I didn't stop to tell her that what with the trend of twenty and thirtysomethings continuing to live at home, her daughter might have another decade before she reaches the halfway point.

"It just made me think," Grace went on, "Am I doing a good job as a mom? I don't even have the time to think about it."

And we won't, I suspect, until much much later, until it's too late in fact, to make a difference. You'll never "enjoy them while they're young" as much as you wish you had. You'll never "savor every moment." But you savor some, and that just has to be good enough.

On Primo's birthday, all three kids were home sick: strep, strep and a double ear infection. It wasn't the birthday I'd hoped for him. I was exhausted from being up half the night with a suffering baby and I suddenly went all Tiger Mom on him and forced him to write thank you cards and drill his times tables and I yelled at him about watching too much TV. When I stopped to ask myself "Am I doing a good job?" that night, I thought, "No."

Then, a few days later, when he was back at school, I met him for lunch. We had burgers and he told me about Ponce DeLeon. And I looked at him, awe-struck, just bowled over by the enormity of it, all of it. That he was my son. That I'd carried him in me for those long months at a time that was now long ago. That there was a time before he existed. That despite of me and because of me, there was this beautiful, kind, loving, funny person sitting opposite me, a person I'd never be whole without anymore, a person I would think about, and worry about, every minute for the rat of my life and beyond, a person that was part me but more and more not-me every day.  I just sat there and marveled at him, and motherhood, at time. And the moment stretched on, like something out of a Virginia Woolf novel, and it felt, for once, that I wasn't missing any of it.

Time flies

Overheard through the door at bedtime:

Seconda: "When its my birthday, I'm going to be a teenager!"

Crazy part is, the kid'll be 12 going on 13 before I freaking know it, and I'll be remembering how I laughed. Blink of an eye.

My big brother's birthday

Primo's VIP Jekyll and Hyde Birthday Outing was such a huge success that Seconda wants one just like it. She had more fun than anyone there, including Primo, because she was getting a chance to hang with the big kids and proving her mettle. I genuinely marvel at how fearless Sec is -- even when one of the seven year-olds had to step outside of the restaurant to "get some air," Sec hung in there, watching the revivification of Frankenstein with interest.

The day after the party, she said, "Can we go to Jekyll and Hyde for MY birthday?"

"Maybe," I replied, "We'll see."

I find it best to be evasive about these sorts of long-way-off decisions. She'll forget about it by February and be on to the next thing whatever the hell that will be.

But Primo piped up, "You can't, Sec, because your friends will be too scared."

"But I won't invite my friends," she clarified, "I'll invite YOUR friends."

Nothing like a kid sister.

Birthday Outing, VIPS only

Last weekend was Primo's birthday celebration. This year, in an innovative move which has revolutionzed my birthday-celebrating-world, we decided not to throw our usual DIY, invite-way-too-many-kids, takes-me-three-days-to-recover-and-I-dread-the-whole-experience party, as has been our tradition. I mean, I WOULD have done it, since I am still trying to secure the martyr crown but it occurred to me that at 7, Primo was really old enough to try a VIP birthday outing where we invite just a few kids and take them somewhere fun.

We pitched the idea to him and at first he balked because he'd already decided he wanted a Harry Potter theme to his huge party and that I could make a Hedwig-shaped pinata and craft a cake in the shape of Hogwarts. But David and I kept spinning how cool it would be do take his best friends out to a special afternoon at the world-renowned Jekyll and Hyde restaurant, and eventually, we won his over. So on a recent Sunday morning, we collected our gang of six -- four friends plus Primo and Sec -- and headed on the subway for a five-hour-long adventure.

Despite my fears about being in charge of so many children on the MTA and midtown in December, the whole thing went wonderfully. It even approached enjoyable. Nay, let me amend that. It WAS enjoyable, particularly seeing all the kids hold hands and walk down 6th Ave together. All of them were genuinely impressed by the talking gargoyles and special effects of the restaurant and Primo had a real smile on his face the whole time. Then we returned home for cake, which was supposed to be a simple affair but which ended up taking me the better part of the day before. I made it out of a box, too, so that should tell you one of two things: A. how incompetent I am at decorating theme cakes or B.how hard it is to make one.

Primo wanted a haunted house cake and I had the GENIUS idea to achieve this by building onto a gingerbread house. Would have worked perfectly if I had done what I usually do and gotten a gingerbread-house-making kit with all the stuff inside. Instead I was lured in by the super-cheapo kit I saw at Ikea which -- in typical form-- contained the gingerbread house walls but no icing or base to affix it to. That's how it was that I ended up making five tons of ineffectual mortar icing which couldn't hold two pieces of tape together. I gloped that shit onto the Ikea gingerbread walls but they just kept falling over, much like the real Ikea furniture when I build it.

"I'm going to use Krazy glue," I told David.

"No, don't do that," he cautioned.

"WELL THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" I shrieked, "It would be easier to build a REAL house to live in."

Then I had the brainwave to sink the gingerbread walls into the sheet cake I'd baked, to brace them. I sloped green icing all over the cake to make it look like a grass lawn and then sunk the walls in. It worked pretty well. I mean, the walls were slanted and the house was so crooked I could only manage to put one half of the roof on but that worked out to our advantage since it was supposed to be a haunted house. Then Primo had the great idea that since one half of the roof was missing and you could see into the house, he could make a zombie guy out of Swedish Fish and gummy parts and lay him inside the house. That way, it looked intentional. To cover up for any inadequacies, we put the remainder of their Halloween candy all over the cake, ala Hansel and Gretel.

When we were done, Primo and Seconda oohed and ahhhed.

"That's the best cake I've ever seen," they marveled.

God bless children. They are so easily impressed. It redeems them for being so whiny and obnoxious most of the time.

Primo's friends were equally wowed by our masterpiece cake even if, after sitting at room temperature all night wrapped in Saran Wrap, the gingerbread got so soggy that the roof caved in.

Plus, I got to hand out my favorite party favors ever -- easy reader versions of Jekyll and Hyde. Pretentious, yet accessible and -- most importantly -- theme-specific. Feels good when you achieve all three at once.

All in all, a resounding success.

Day of Thanks

That stunning specimen of babyness regarding his impeccably made-up mother with suspicion a mere day after being born -- that's my boy, born on Thanksgiving day five years ago.

I remember it took me 15 minutes to put that suit on him, I was so terrified to more his little appendages. But despite being terrified to the point of nausea, I was as happy as I look. And proud. My golden boy.

Seven years ago, he was a mystery lurking in my belly. And on his birthday, I like to look at his baby pictures and tell him the story of his birth.

During my pregnancy, I imagined many ways that my labor might unfold. I'll be honest: most of these scenarios involved candlelit deep breathing in the hot tub. What I did not imagine is being on all fours in my parents' living room, bellowing in agony as my family enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner. I didn't imagine childbirth as spectator sport.

After a long day of first-stage labor pains, I demanded that David take me to the hospital despite the fact that my contractions weren't of the proscribed duration and all that. I was pretty convinced that my doc would report I was at least 5, maybe 8 centimeters dilated. Instead, she told me I wasn't technically in labor.

"How is that possible?" I sobbed. I was very little concerned with being brace and even less concerned with seeming so. The disappointment was awful.

"Your make-up is still perfect," the doctor said, "Come back when your mascara is running?"

This is what passes for medical advice nowadays, I thought? Come back when your MASCARA is running?

Since I was already totally demoralized, I figured my parents couldn't make things much worse. And since the thought of returning to our apartment where I'd spent 8 hours laboring to no avail was so unappealing, I decided a change of venue was in order. To my parents' place on the Upper East Side, where Thanksgiviing dinner was in full swing.

My father harassed me with his cameras, documenting every grimace over anitpasto. My grandmother forced me to eat, against doctor's orders, maintaining I needed my strength. And my mother offered moral support, if by support you mean asserting that i didn't look like I was getting very far with this labor of mine.

Two hours later, by the time dessert was served, I was writhing around in the tub, buck naked, moaning and crying, while my grandmother, aunt and mother sipped wine tub-side and offered unsolicited advice.

I was really very regretful that I'd eaten a bowl of homemade cappelletti when I upchucked the lot of it over the side of the tub. I put on a pair of my father's boxers and instantly they were wet. I sobbed to my sister that I'd wet my pants and she pointed out that perhaps, seeing as I was in labor and all, perhaps my water had broken.

Oh yes! That's it! Good thing for sisters.

I got David, threw up on him a bit, bellowed in agony, sobbed a lot and gasped that we had to go to the hospital. If the doc said it wasn't time for an epidural yet, then well, I'd vomit on her until she changed her tune. But I knew it'd be time. My mascara was running.

My sister Melissa came with David and I to the hospital and since I was a very respectable 5 centimeters dilated, I received a big needle in my back. By midnight, I was fully dlated. At long last, and after a sizeable injection of morphine, here was the tranquil labor I had hoped for. As
I waited for this famous "urge to push," Melissa brushed my hair and David held my hand. We listened to the Beatles and I put on a fresh coat of lipstick. After nine months of wanting things to hurry along, I was finally in no rush. I had this keenly poignant sensation of being in the moment before, and I wanted to linger here, savoring the anticipation of the great encounter which was about to unfold.

When I couldn't resist the urge to push any longer, my doctor told Melissa and David to each grab a leg. I felt like a wishbone. Everything moved very quickly then and after only a few pushes, I was reaching down to feel the top of my baby's head, which was unthinkably soft and warm and so near. After that, I didn't need any encouragement. I pushed with a vein-popping force and within minutes, his head crowned. "Look down and see your baby," the doc said.

How can words encompass something this sublime? "Miracle" has never sounded so mundane. His tiny head was just wedged there - perfect, oblong, intricate beyond imagining. Nothing could have made me look away. I was roused from my wonder by my doctor's words: "Come on girl,
one more push!"

I bore down and as I watched, my baby's body slipped right out of me, in an enormous rush. He was revealed to me entire -- shoulders, arms, torso and legs poured out in a wriggling mass of life. It was then that I screamed.

Later David would tell me he'd never heard anything so animal-like coming from a human. My sister thought that maybe I had torn. But it was a the sound of release, of relief, of marvel.
There he was, my son.

They placed Primo immediately on my chest and he was heavy there and warm and wet. We were all hysterical, David, my sister and I, all of us shaking and crying, in the moment now, the great moment which had ruptured and was pouring over us. "My son," I kept repeating, "my
baby." I sobbed with my eyes wide open so I could drink him in. Every inch of him, all 20 of them, was a masterpiece, and so brand new. He reached for my face then, stretching his spindly fingers toward my chin in a jerky gesture that some might think accidental and I thought totally, perfectly pre-destined.

It was after midnight and I was a mother. The prayers I prayed each day for nine months, and for a long time before that, were answered all at once. The day of Thanks had ended about an hour earlier for everyone else but not for me. Not for me.

A real pool party. Crap.

Speaking of bikinis, let me tell you something I’m dreading.

Taking the kids to a swimming birthday party this month. The party is for my good friend’s daughter, who is one of Primo’s best friends, so there’s no way out of it. Not to mention, the kids will have the time of their life. Not so for me. As soon as I got the Evite, I called my friend:

“What’s the situation with this party? Do I have to go in the pool with the kids? And if so, how the hell am I supposed to do that without putting on a bathing suit, the which I try never to do in front of people I know????”

“Trust me, I know,” she said, “Do you think I want to run the party while wearing a bathing suit? What can I do? She wanted a swimming party.”

“How thoughtless of you,” I said, “To put the hopes and dreams of your child before my vanity. I don’t know if we can still be friends.”

Thankfully, she solved my problem by suggesting that I appoint David as the In-the-Pool-Guy and myself as Pool-Side-Supervisor. That way, everyone would be happy. Except David. Because though he cares not a fig about being half-dressed, he does care about being splashed so much its almost water torture and getting kicked in the groin repeatedly as the kids launch off him to try and “swim.” Suspiciously, David has since informed me that he will be visiting a friend out of state that weekend so I’m back to square one.

“Do they really need a parent in the pool with them?” I asked my friend.

“Not if they can swim,” she replied.

Nice. Now I’m the bad guy for considering giving priority to preserving my vanity rather than preserving the lives of my two can’t-swim-in-a-bathtub children.

The last time I wore my bikini, it was in Italy and it didn’t matter how I looked since I was so pale compared to the suntanned Italian ladies that I think I blinded beachgoers with my whiteness, rendering them incapable of seeing my body at all.

I TOLD David we should have signed those kids up for swim class.

At least I can record this in my martyr ledger. That’s some consolation.

Zebra Cake

Sec went to a birthday party this weekend which was jungle-themed and when it was time to sing Happy Birthday, the mom brought out this tall, impressive homemade cake, which was covered in white frosting with black stripes. "Like a zebra!" the kids shouted.

I was standing on the side, chatting with some parents when I heard Sec yell urgently for me.

"MOMMY! MOMMY!" she blared.

"Yes, honey," i rushed over to find her with a plastic fork poised to dig into the cake, "What's up?"

"I hope this really tastes like zebra, " she whispered.

God.
I.
Love.
That.
Child.

Snow White Adventure Birthday

When I asked Sec what kind of a birthday party she wanted, the answer did not surprise me. It would be a Snow White Birthday. But I dared to dream that there was a way to throw a Snow White Birthday that didn't make me feel like I was Disney's bitch.I'm not sure I succeeded, but I did manage to nearly die trying, and to throw a pretty pretentious princess party. So for that, I do deserve credit.

Thus the "Snow White Adventure Party" was born.

First, we gave the kids feral animal masks, to pretend they were the wild beasts who nearly tore SW to pieces in the Enchanted Forest:

Then I invited children to consult, if they were so inclined, our library of Snow White tales from around the world (they were NOT so inclined):

Then I cracked open the craft box and things started hopping. I don't have pictures of this stuff because I was too frantic running around and making sure the children had enough adhesive rhinestones and the like. But I will tell you what I learned: the only thing four and five year old girls want at a party is more and more surfaces on which to spread glitter glue. I handed them each a magic mirror to decorate, some string on which to put Fruit Loops for an edible necklace, and then, I handed over the crowns made out of poster board which I had spent LITERALLY hours drawing and cutting out by hand. The reason it took hours is that I am nota very talented artist and I don't have a very good sense of perspective. So it took going through several sheets of poster board - all the while, worrying about how I'm murdering trees with each artistic failure - before I got a decent crown to use as a template. So I cut out exactly enough crowns for each kid and basically had to tell them, as I handed them out, "This will be your one and only shot at this. Don't fuck it up, now."

We did some games:

Duck Duck Dwarf
Pass the Poison Apple
Potato Sack Race (yeah, that one wasn't themed but I has the sacks, so what the hell?)
And of course. . .
Pin the crown on Snow White.

Then it was time for party bags, in which I placed a printed copy of the original Grimm's fairytale (I'm shocked I didn't get more emails from irate parents whose kids woke in the wee hours with nightmares). I then gave the kids the materials to act out their own AUTHENTIC Snow White tale - with laces to suffocate each other with, apple to choke on, and a "poison" hair comb. At first, I didn't include parentheses around the word "Poison" but then I panicked that parents might think it was actually poison and try to sue me or something. Candy bracelets and pixie sticks need no justification, ever.




But no party would be complete without a cake that took me half the night to create but looked as if a child had done it. This time, I was fixated on making a special glass coffin cake with Snow White lying dead on top, and the dwarves keeping guard. Finally, I thought of the perfect way to do it -- the butter dish:


And so, another overblown theme party is behind me. Next year, I swear I'm putting on a movie and serving popcorn. End of story.

Its just a homemade pinata, whatevs . . .

I am not a crafty person, at least not in the good-with-a-glue-stick sense. In the sly and clever sense, I do qualify but that's a different blog post. Though I am not arts-and-crafty by nature, a few times a year, I strive to be. These are typically Christmas-time (refer to Time to Make the Stockings for evidence) and birthday party time.

Sec just turned four, which means it is party time again. And this year, I decided to make a pinata. A poison apple pinata, naturally, to fit the theme of her Snow White Adventure party. I knew this would be a long shot for us but as Sec's party was at the end of Mid-Winter Break, where we holed up in New Jersey doing nothing for nearly a week, I figured we'd have plenty of down-time to work on it. Plus, it wasn't a pirate or a castle or a double helix or anything - how hard cold it be to make an apple out of paper mache?

I figured it would be a fun, multi-sensory activity for the children and I to do together. The kind of activity I imagine myself doing with the kids in my daydreams where I am Mother Superior. As I set up the materials, and the children waited eagerly, with their sleeves rolled, I found myself wondering why I didn't undertake this kind of activity more often.

In the first minute of two of the activity, as Primo dipped his hands in the flour/ water mixture and a feeling of Earth Mother-ness suffused the scene, I resolved to be more adventurous about crafts

And then four minutes later, I took it all back. After laying on about three strips of newspaper, the kids decided it was a total borefest and I found myself alone, looking at a good hour or two worth of work. The worst part was, the kids had made such an infernal mess and fought so bitterly in those five minutes, that I actually felt RELIEVED that they ran off.


It didn't turn out half bad though:


I know it doesn't look like a poison apple, but it does, you must admit, look strikingly like a poison pear, could pears ever be blood-red. In any event, you get the idea. And it was operational and managed to hold the weight of Whoppers, Lemon Drops, Sour Straws and the other junk I found at the Dollar Tree to fill it with.

You could say, mission accomplished. Or you could say, that's a great idea I'll never do again.

Big Girl

Four years ago, at 9:11am, I held my daughter for the first time. I can still remember how it felt to have her little, squirming body on my chest. She was bigger than I expected, 8 whole pounds, and she looked hardy, too. From the start, she' s been my strong, indomitable darling. What I didn't know until later was how she'd make me finally understand that tired old expression about a smile lighting up the room. Her smile does that. Its positively luminous.

A very special birthday

Ferragosto is a huge national holiday in Italy which you’ve likely never heard of. Officially, it’s the day to celebrate the Assumption – the day the Virgin Mary’s soul ascended into heaven. I’m not sure the thousands of drunken youth having sex on the beach know that’s what their celebrating, though. In practice, Ferragosto means a day off (not that the Italians need it, since they’ve got the whole month of August off). And in the beach town of Terracina, where I (and hundreds of other braniacs) go to celebrate, it means a huge, blow-out bash on the beach culminating in fireworks and a midnight dip in the ocean.

Besides all of this, there is one particular reason our family loves Ferragosto. The big bash always takes place on Ferragosto Eve, August 14th which also happens to be my husband’s birthday. Before we had the kids, I took him to Terracina for Ferragosto and the two of us swam into the ocean at midnight – me, probably topless – and watched the fireworks explode overhead as we swayed in the black Tierian Sea. It was a pretty incomparable birthday celebration. So when I realized that we had happened to book our travel to Italy over Ferragosto, I was thrilled to repeat the experience and to bring the kids into the festivities.

We started the celebration at 6:30 on the piazza, watching some very trusted churchgoers carry the Santa Maria della Assunzione – a huge icon – down the stone steps of the ancient church onto the street, where they loaded her onto a pick-up truck to get the procession started. I’ve walked in the procession with my grandmother, years ago, and it was an incredible experience, even if I was the youngest person in attendance by oh, 50 years. My mother likes to joke that my grandmother can’t walk across the street but if she has a procession to go to, she can walk for miles without complaint. So me and about a hundred old Italian ladies walked up and down the hills of the town, singing hymns and, when it got dark, bearing candles. I pitched it to the kids this year and they were totally gung ho, for about five steps. We hadn’t even made it out the piazza before they were over it. It’s walking and singing. Got it, Now we can go get a gelato?

So we headed back to my aunt’s apartment for a little party she threw in honor of David’s birthday – spaghetti alla vongole veraci, mille foglie cake and plenty of red wine. With all that wine, by 10pm, I was lying in bed, nodding off as I read King Arthur to Primo. Seconda was already asleep in the other room.

“Mommy, Mommy, wake up!” he yelled, “Aren’t we going for a midnight swim?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, looking over at David, “Is that still happening?”

“I don’t mind if we skip it.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m exhausted,” I said, “Primo, do you want to just stay home and read?”

”No, I want to go!” he said.

“Really? Because it’s a long walk to the beach and then a long walk home, up the huge hill.”

“It’s OK.”

“Are you sure? Because if you don’t want to go, we can just stay home.”

“I want to go.”

David and I exchanged the “Do-we-really-have-to?-I’m-freaking-fried” look. We wearily got up and put on our swimsuits. We wearily walked the 20 minutes to the beach.

When we got there, it was like New Year’s Eve. In fact, in this beach town, Ferragosto is bigger than New Year’s Eve, because no one there’s on Jan 1st but in the middle of August, it’s where everyone is. Every club on the beach was blaring house music and all the Casanovas were out with their shirts unbuttoned, hanging on the ladies with their gladiator sandals and bikini tops.

The three of us sat in beach chairs by the water. Primo was so overcome with excitement to be part of something so special and adult, that he kneeled on the sand and told me he was saying a prayer. We began to feel peppier after that. Soon it was minutes away from midnight and we took off our over-things and shoes and watches and held hands by the shore. Then we heard shouts and whoops and fireworks and we knew it was time. Holding hands, we ran into the dark water, which was cool, but not cold, and jumped the waves and laughed.

Then we wrapped ourselves up in towels and looked up because directly overhead, and I do mean right over our heads, fireworks were booming. I’d never seen fireworks so close up and it did occur to me that we might end up burned to a crisp in a freak Italian fireworks accident. But we stayed anyway and held our breaths and watched the sky explode with color. It was a moment I’ll never forget. It was a moment you squeeze into a tiny. neat bundle and stick somewhere inside of you to remember later. It was sublime.

“I’m glad we didn’t stay home tonight.” I said, “Thanks Primo, for giving us a reason to come.”

He just smiled, stars in his eyes.

And that’s why, despite the jet lag, and the crowded quarters, and the heat, we had one helluva time on our Roman holiday.

The Three-Legged Race

On Saturday we went to an old-school kiddie birthday party in Prospect Park, full of field-day type games and races, including the three-legged race. The children were not familiar with the concept of the three-legged race and it took them a while to catch on, though they had a lark of a time in the process. Primo’s leg was tied to that of his best friend Leigh, the girl who got his first mix tape, and with whom I once heard him comparing the work of Roald Dahl and Walt Disney. They hadn’t figured out yet hoe to move their shared leg at the same time so one or the other was always on the ground while the other one dragged the fallen one around by their ankle.

As we stood there watching this spectacle, David observed: “This, right here, is a metaphor for marriage.”

“Yeah,” I said, “They’ve tied themselves together and as a result, one or the other is constantly falling down, while the other one forcibly drags them against their will forward.”

“Sometimes the falling down is fun and sometimes it painful,” said Leigh’s mother, “And there's no prize at the end except having made it through without serious injury."

Yep. Sounds about right.

I'm your useful party planner-helper!

Need to know what NYC bakery will make a cake in the shape of a castle? Or where to buy clown noses and wigs downtown? Or what to serve kids at an out-of-this-world space-themed birthday party in the park? Look no further! I put together 20 soup-to-nuts season-specific NYC birthday parties, for all budgets and it is in the current issue of Time Out NY Kids. You can read it here:

Birthdays for All Seasons

Party hearty, y'all.

My Birthday Girl

My baby girl was born three years ago today. Here she is, as a baby:


And a toddler:




And now my baby is a preschooler:
She's standing next to me now, in her Alice in Wonderland dress - the white eyelet number you see in the picture -- ripping off her sweater, despite the lack of heat, because "ALICE DOESN"T WEAR A SWEATER." At least she's Alice today and not a mermaid because mermaids don't wear ANY clothes, especially not underwear. How can they wear underwear when they don't even have a butt to cover? The kid's a logician.

Before I had Seconda, I never knew a child could be so charismatic. She's the best (and worst) company you could ever wish for. She reminds me of this Mae West expression that I used to quote when I was her age (and if that doesn't make us birds of a feather, I don't know what does):

"When I'm good I'm good, but when I'm bad, I'm better."

On my husband's chests are two tattoos -- one is an anatomical drawing of a heart, under which Primo's name is printed, and the other is a star, for our girl. Its just right. She lights us all up.

No gifts please! Just come angry!

I’ve been working on this article about birthday party ideas for kids in the city, so I’ve been in heavy-duty planning mode for the past few weeks, noting party supplies stores, investigating where one might purchase a dragon piñata, which bakery will make a cake in the shape of a mermaid, things like this. In the middle of this hard-hitting journalistic work, I was watching Celebrity Rehab.

Now, I’m not proud of this. And I don’t go out of my way to watch it – it’s not on my Tivo or anything -- but it happened to be on when I turned the TV on and I couldn’t summon up the energy to channel surf so I left it. The thing is, I have this ability – maybe I’d do better to call it a liability – to become hopelessly invested in any programming that I watch for over 10 minutes. It doesn’t matter what it is, if I watch it for 10 minutes, I am fully hooked. There must be a name for this syndrome. So it was that I was DEEPLY interested in Celebrity Rehab, and the plight of the Heidi Fleiss and the roid-ed up beefsteak with anger problems who used to be on The Real World.

What does this have to do with birthday party planning, you may wonder. I’ll tell you. To work on their anger problems – as a kind of scream therapy – Dr. Drew took the rehabbers to a junkyard; gave them a crowbar and told them to whack the bloody hell out of whatever they wanted. It was wonderful.
“This would make a GREAT birthday party!” I said to David.

“I think you’ve gone postal.”

“For grown-ups, of course,” I explained, “How insanely cool would it be to bring a few of your closet friend to a dump, give them each a 2 x 4 and invite them to go apeshit? I would LOVE to smash up old TVs and bust out car windows with no repercussions. So much better than martinis at a lounge in Alphabet City that I’m too old for.”

So its decided. Get ready for the Evite:

Nicole’s Tear Shit Up Birthday Bash!
You bring the rage, we provide the crowbars.

Underwear on the outside and other forms of fun

We had one of those All-About-the-Kids weekends where I basically functioned as a chauffeur, ushering the children from one diverting event to the next. Except that since we live in New York, I’m a chauffeur without a car, so it is my body that does the labor -- pushing the stroller, carrying the child on piggyback or dragging them forward by the hand, since their natural rate of walking is about twenty feet an hour. Add onto that the snow, 20 degree weather and the fact that all of us have been hit with a whopper of a late-winter cold and you get one cranky mommy on Monday morning.

Saturday was back-to-back- birthday parties, culminating in a dinner party where Primo had the time of his life playing with the daughters of my high school best friend. Apparently, the time of his life hinges on him wearing his underwear on the OUTSIDE of his pants so that he looks like a superhero. The upside of having a five year-old is when you go to dinner parties of friends with kids, they can all vanish into the basement and play together happily without your direction. The downside is that sometimes this playing involves the brief removal of all of their clothes.

Seconda, meanwhile, had the time of her life with the best playmate she’s ever had – herself. Her favorite pastime now is to carry on long and involved conversations with herself. Other people talk to her but she shuns them in favor of this internal repartee. It is as though she is so woefully disappointed by the conversational skill other people display that she’s resorted to just picking up their slack and playing their part too. Usually these conversations involve her berating and belittling characters like the evil stepmother from Snow White, or when she’s in a more magnanimous mood, reciting a list of all the things they cannot do.

“I’m sorry but you CAN’T have any mac n’ cheese stepmudder because you are TOO evil. No no no, you just can’t . . . if you say that one more time, I’m gonna give you a TIME OUT. No! Stepmudder you are driving me NUTS!”

Am I concerned about the fact that my daughter
A. Is fixated on the evil characters from every story?
B. Has well-developed conversations with them?

No, I am not. Because at least she’s not eating my lipstick or painting her face with nail polish..

I have noticed that her imaginary conversations have become more hostile, almost bordering on abusive lately. This corresponds to the fact that she’s been experimenting with telling me and others that she “hates” them and though I’m not one for censorship I consider hate more or less a curse word when it comes to leveling it against real people. The same goes for “shut up.” Is there anything more of a horror show that your 2 year-old telling you to “Shut up!” It’s worse than the f-bomb. So we shut that down right away.
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But now she’s figured out a loophole, and that is to use all this nasty language with her imaginary friends, and I can’t really object to that, now can I, since they are A. homicidal maniacs and B. pretend?

“SHUT UP URSULA! You’re a BAD sea witch and I hate you!!!! If you don’t SHUT UP, I’m gonna kick you! BAAAAAD URSULA who I HAAAAAATE!!!!!”

Everyone needs a catharsis.

Birthday Bash

My son was born on Thanksgiving and now, five years later, his birthday falls on Turkey Day again. Don’t worry – you’ll be treated to a FULL recapitulation of his birth and how I labored during Thanksgiving dinner with my whole family in attendance. But that’s not the subject of today’s post, Today’s post is about

Kids Birthday Parties,

Because that’s what we spent this past Saturday throwing. Yes, I’m aware we had the party before his actual birthday and trust me, as a superstitious gal, it’s something I avoided for several years. But those of you whose child’s birthday falls on a holiday, particularly a holiday where you get a four-day weekend and people tend to travel, know that all bets are off with party planning. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to get the asses in the seats, Or the asses jumping up and down on the sofas in your condo’s common room, whatever the case may be. I can’t have the party on Thanksgiving weekend and after that its dicey because nowadays, people started celebrating Christmas in late November and by the first weekend in December everyone’s already booked with holiday parties. This isn’t my first time at the rodeo. Weekend before Thanksgiving -- perfect time for a party.

As you know from reading my posts about my own birthday, I love to celebrate. And not in a low-key kind of way either, but a balls-to-the-wall, put-your-hand-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care sort of way. Several weeks before the event, I begin singing, “Hey Primo, it’s your birthday/ Let’s party like it’s your birthday/ Going to drink Bacardi like it’s your birthday.” I don’t rent out the Russian Tea Room and offer pony rides or a Venetian hour and our parties won’t end up on MTV or anything. But I do like to bring in entertainment -- mostly because I’ve found it makes the party a thousand times more enjoyable for me. The times when I’ve tried to manage it myself, doing arts and crafts and games, I’ve been so stressed gathering the supplies and forcing kids to partake, to say nothing of the ulcers that result from watching them trash our place when they choose not to participate in my brilliant activities, that I end up hating birthdays. So this year, since I decided to hire a magician.

The great thing about living in New York is that the magician you get for your kid’s birthday party is likely to have performed at the Gershwin and entertained Peter Sarsgaard’s kid for his birthday. I interviewed a bunch of candidates, and here are the factors I considered in making my decision:

How much do you cost?

Do you wear creepy makeup or perform any tricks which might be interpreted as scary?

Is the bunny in your act a real rabbit? (Dealbreaker.)

After this rigorous interviewing process, there was one magician who stood out from the rest -- Amazing Ken, who uses not just a live rabbit but a live goldfish, which he then gifts to the birthday child. I figured with so many live animals, I got a magic show and petting zoo all at once.

For party food, my grandmother insisted on making homemade pizzas for the lot of us. And I do mean insisted.

“Why you gonna spend a fortune and buy dat lousy pizza?” she said, “Save you money I makea da pizza.”

I know you’re not going to believe my, but my grandmother actually enjoys waking at 4 am – no shit – and starting to cook. OK, I’m not entirely sure she likes the cooking per se, but she does enjoy the gratification of feeling like a martyr and the idea of saving money.

My kid sister who is in business school offered to make ogre-face cupcakes. And my mother volunteered to make her world-famous dip with accompanying vegetables.

I bought four thousand dollars worth of crappy party bag supplies and balloons (why does this shit cost so much money? Next year, I’ll save all the cardboard boxes I get for a few months and give each kid one of those -- with a marker – as a party favor.)

And thus, a party is born.

Amazing Ken was perfectly amazing, and kept the kids – even the two year-olds – rapt for the whole show. A highlight was when he brought Primo up as a helper, and of course Sec, never one to get short shrift. Jumped up to stand right beside him.

“Who’s this?” asked Amazing Ken, “Is this your wife?”

Uproarious laughter. Sec faux-guffaws although she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what is so funny.

“No?” giggles Primo.

“Is she your business partner?”

Cackles of laughter from the kids. Sec covers her mouth and bends over like it’s just too much, she can’t take the funny.

“No,” replies Primo.

“Then who is she?” thunders Amazing ken.

“She’s a BABY!” exclaims Primo, like Sec is just some strange child whose wandered in off the street, means nothing to him, just a face in the crowd.

To which my daughter shrieks, “I’m NOT A BABY! I’m a GUUUUUURRL!"

Magic wands were made floppy. Clothing was set on fire. A real, live rabbit was conjured and finally, one scared-looking goldfish was produced and adopted by our family.

All in all, a whopping success. Especially considering that a few hours after the party, in the middle of the night, Primo woke with an explosive case of the runs and was stuck to the toilet all day Sunday.

But he had tons of new presents to play with while convalescing. And a new pet. We named him Swimmy and got him a spacious tank with pink gravel and a tree to hide behind and the spot of honor on the dresser in the kids’ room. Cross your fingers for old Swimmy. We’d love for him to last more than a day.

Ok, fine, you wrung it out of me - its my birthday

Folks are strange when it comes to their birthdays. People get secretive, try to hide the fact that it’s their birthday and should the news happen to leak, they get all embarrassed and urge you not to make a big deal, no hubbuh, please, no cake with candles and definitely no presents. I guess it has to do with the fact that once you’re 21 there is only disadvantage to aging and, I suppose, people think if they don’t acknowledge the passing of time, it will cease to pass. That, and some people don’t really like attention.

Well, readers, I don’t imagine this will come as a whopping surprise, but I do like attention. And I’ve done plenty of outrageous, ridiculous things in order to get it (acting career, see-through clothing, starting a blog). Which is why I would never, ever, turn down the opportunity -- the wholesome, don’t-have-to-regret-it-in-the-morning opportunity -- to receive a bunch of positive attention. I relish the chance to tell the world that today is the anniversary of God granting me life! Consequently, I should be celebrated. Today I should sleep late, get breakfast in bed and a free cup of Joe at the coffee shop, receive preferential treatment, VIP service, move directly to the front of the line, and hey, if you’d like to give me a gift, who am I to stop you? I do like the bubbly –doesn’t have to be the good stuff, either – and you can’t go wrong with a handbag. Those with limited means can always offer favors to be redeemed at a time of my choosing – babysitting offers never go bad. And, if you must, feel free to throw me a surprise party.

Let me be perfectly clear about this point:

I. Love. Surprise. Parties.

Now, I’m keenly aware that not everyone does. As a matter of fact, I think most people dislike them strongly. My husband is such a one. I learned this when -- that’s right – I threw him a surprise party a few years ago. .

We had recently moved to LA and didn’t have that many friends but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from planning festivities. So I made a German chocolate cake – his favorite – and hid it in the closet. Then I rounded up a half-dozen almost-friends and had them creep into the apartment while he was napping. When everyone arrived, I tried to wake him gently but he was out like a light and I was forced to take drastic measures, which in retrospect, were ill-advised.

“There’s a flood!” I shouted, “A pipe burst and there’s water EVERYWHERE!”

He jumped out of bed in his boxers and ran into the kitchen where he found a small and half-hearted assemblage of people he sort of knew.

“Surprise,” they ventured, none too enthusiastically.

David stood there for a few seconds and then, without a word, he about-faced, walked back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

It was a pretty lousy party. Yet I still think he should repay the effort by throwing me one. And I tell him so, all the time.

“I want a surprise party,” I say, “Why don’t you just throw me one already? I’ll give you a list of everyone to invite and their email addresses! It will be so easy!”

“I hate surprise parties,” he replies.

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter what YOU want because it’s MY birthday,” I counter, “Its like giving your wife a set of golf clubs. I don’t want the golf clubs. Keep the golf clubs!”

“I hate golf,” he says, “and I’ve never given anyone a set of golf clubs.”

“I’m just giving you an example,” I say, “The point is, I want to feel SPECIAL and for a large group of people to show me how much I MEAN TO THEM!!!!”

You know how it is when you’re married. Have argument. Repeat as needed every 4-6 weeks or, in this instance, on an annual basis.

What this all boils down to is that I truly and fully expect NOT to get a surprise party (which means that this is the very best time to throw me one).

Birthday and etc

Today is David's birthday and I've got some pressing matters to attend to, such as baking a cake from a box, acquiring his other presents (tradition calls for a bottle of beer and a BJ), and preparing my home for the arrival of my whole in-law family from Tennessee, and LA, so my point is, this post will be short and sweet.

A glimpse of last night:

7:45pm. When Primo complained that his sticky white rice was too "boring" (isn't that the whole point, you picky little sucker?) I added some soy sauce, and he said, his brow furrowed with worry: "I hope that's not beer!"

7:50pm: My daughter felt compelled to remind me: "Goddamnuit is not a nice word, Mommy." I need a swear jar.

8:30pm: After all the pains I've taken making the kids' bedroom into an outer space paradise, like something out of Cookie magazine, I asked Primo if he liked his room, and he said apologetically, " I like it, but not severely."

Happy birthday to my hunky and chronically under-appreciated hub.