My daughter turned 18 this summer, a huge celebration — and not just because it’s a rite of passage. No, I’m doing the happy dance because in our family it means the end of mandatory birthday parties. I might be a bad mother for hating my own kid’s birthday party, but the truth is, these annual celebrations have nearly killed me.
In the early days, it was easy enough to throw together a bunch of my own friends and their kids. I tried my best to cook up good plans, worthy of a parenting magazine spread. Build-your-own pizzas, bunny-shaped cakes and an activity that kids of all abilities could enjoy. My crowning achievement was the year we stamped T-shirts with a real fish dipped in acrylic paint, an activity that embedded a two-inch fishbone in my index finger and stank up the clubhouse so badly I had to pay an extra fee.
But over time, things got tricky — her birthday party serving as a painful litmus test of her sketchy social graces. The fact is, Cristina has friends she’d like to see, and other classmates she barely tolerates for reasons no one really understands. “Be nice. Why not include everyone?” I would say. Or, “Don’t talk about your party at school.” I’ve tried every tactic, but someone was always crushed.
Presents have been awkward too. It doesn’t matter what the recommended age is on a toy box — Cristina is a special case. At 14, for instance, she longed for Barbie, mostly so she could chew on the shoes. Last year, she was still a die-hard fan of Hannah Montana, long past the time when most tweens have torched that wigged impostor’s CDs. And even if, God bless their hearts, everyone we knew got her a Target gift card, it still left me with the arduous task of helping her write thank you’s, which Cristina approached with the same joy she reserved for getting shots.
We’ve had some scares, too. Most of my daughter’s friends are young adults with cognitive challenges, just like her. It’s a lovable, but unexpected bunch, even on the best day. And it’s a group whose parents sometimes disappear to cherish an afternoon off, even when they should know better and take pity on the hostess. It took a while for me to figure out that I needed reinforcements in the way of my own friends and family to help with everything from transport with walkers to making sure guests didn’t wander away during a game of tag.
Even so, there were mishaps. One year, I lost Claire*, who has autism, in a dark bowling alley. We found her hunched behind the wheel of a video racing game, happily mimicking the game’s sounds with several cigarette-smoking teens staring on. Another time, I crawled on my belly in a public bathroom to unlock a stall where 19-year-old Susie* had barricaded herself to cry over her present being opened last.
There is one thing I’ll miss about these soirees, though. It’s the two-minute span that happens when the lights are dimmed and burning candles are reflected in Cristina’s glasses. Her guests are howling out the Happy Birthday song, arms draped around each other like a bunch of drunken sailors. No one’s on key and a few are fudging the words because speech issues make it tough. Not even the spray of saliva that hits the cake as she blows out the candles can ruin the moment. It’s a time of wishes, of looking ahead — if only to the moment when we’ll all dig into chocolate icing and decide that life, in the big picture, is good. Just because she’s here.
*Name has been changed.
Meg Medina is a wife, mother of three and author of numerous short stories, poems and a book for young readers called MILAGROS: Girls from Away.
