No More Birthday-Party Madness For Me!

I have spent the better part of an hour looking for a toe ring.
Not mine.

My five-year-old's. She received it as a prize for showing up at a birthday party last Saturday: an inexpensive, easy-to-lose, and yet-oh-so-essential accessory.
As annoyed as I am about having to search for it, I can't get that mad at the Birthday-Party-Mom. It's her oldest child. She hasn't yet realized kids can become well-adjusted, productive adults without annual over-the-top-Martha-Stewart-inspired-bank-account-clearing festivities - the pinnacle of parental wisdom. I don't remember attending such over-the-top events when I was a kid.

Maybe I just had the wrong friends.
Or lived in the wrong neighborhood.

Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. Truth is, I was always more interested in exploring someone else's home than paying attention to Grownups' instructions.

Nowadays, you can't get away from the notion that every child deserves a big party every year.

With a great theme, amazing food and a craft that belongs in an art museum. While we're at it, how 'bout a petting zoo? And you'd better have a stellar gift bag for the kids who came.
That's right.
Everyone gets a gift! I've had friends that have constructed mini-water parks in their backyard, and others who pay a small fortune to rent game rooms.
I'm guilty, too.
I've spent hours with crepe paper and masking tape transforming the living room into a pseudo-castle.

I've hosted a cowboy cookout in my fireplace and rented an Olympic-sized pool.
I had an American Idol-like party before there was American Idol.

My first daughter's third birthday party included a "make-your-own-grilled-pizza" bar, where - thanks to my fabulous logistical planning - each child was able to create her very own pizza, just the way she liked it! That is, until she dropped most of it on my living room floor on her way to the patio where my husband, obeying the five-second rule, would pick up and rearrange her toppings and throw the pizza on the grill.

He managed to do all this between the torrential downpours that weren't in the forecast.

A month after the party, Gourmet magazine featured an adult version of that same party.
Except, it looked like those people had a lot more fun.
My homemade ice cream party was a huge hit with everyone except my husband, who naively agreed to help me make the cones the night before.

Turns out, rolling the cones is a lot more complicated than it looks.
You have to do it while they're hot, and my husband didn't take well to the idea of burning his fingers for the cause of gourmet food at a kid's birthday party.
I'm pretty sure he hid the recipe after that.
Another time, I hired a clown.
That was the day I learned some children have an aversion to clowns.

An aversion which can transform them into screaming, biting, hitting, kicking obnoxious party guests.

At that same party, I learned some mothers come to kids' birthday parties, not to watch their kids, but to visit with other moms. And some moms become so engrossed in adult conversation they become completely oblivious to the fact their clown-fearing child is having a complete emotional meltdown, inflicting bodily injury to some poor clown, and basically ruining the party for every other guest.

I cringe a little to think there may be a child emotionally scarred forever as a result of that party, but at least it's not like the scar from the row of stitches my husband's friend received at his one (and only) childhood party, courtesy of a fellow party-goer with a toy golf club. After that, my mother-in-law quit having birthday parties, cold turkey.
I'm not ready to completely shut down my party business. After all, while I don't remember any over-the-top parties growing up, I do have some sweet photos of myself and childhood friends, wearing ridiculous hats and playing standard birthday-party games.
And, even though I've toned down the party planning quite a bit since the clown incident, the kids who come to celebrate my kids' birthdays have never asked why we don't have an inflatable slide or a rock band performing. They don't even object to our rules: no trips to the emergency room and no clown-fearing social misfits.
I've got a few rules for myself, too. No party favors you can't eat.
(Chocolate will disappear before your child gets home, and there are no small parts to break or lose.) Also, serve finger food, at room temperature. Make it all ahead of time.
And please: no teeny tiny toe rings.