The Kid and Nostalgia

Today is the day of my kid’s 2nd birthday party. Here, a party is expected. To not do it might be close to abuse. I was telling a friend of mine, whose child is around the same age, that it’s exhausting to be the party logistics person— just complaining/venting to a friend type of thing. She asked a couple questions and we started to realize that maybe there was a cultural shift between us. To her, planning a party for someone so young is extreme.

“Well, it’d be just a shame not to have a party,” is what would be used in my direction. People always think we use “Bless your heart,” for everything, but really we use the word “shame.” We say it in a special tone made so sweet it’ll sting your teeth. It’ll be wielded against me like an angel’s fiery fucking sword.

Luckily for those who might be like that: I LOVE parties. I don’t care if they’re for occasions, kids, adults, even pets—any group setting of friends and family getting together to laugh, play games, or just joy in being around each other is special. I didn’t realize how much I took it for granted until Covid. (Not to worry. I know the Rona beast isn’t over, no matter what anyone fucking says.)

I plan a party for ease and fun. I do not go all out. This isn’t a structured thing. This is a handful of friends and family who will gather outside to eat pizza and cake. I have decorations, bright Cars theme, like the movies and show. It’s that theme because my child LOVES it. I have made attempts to get him into a dozen other shows and movies, but nothing beats Cars.

When I was a kid, maybe turning 6 or 7, my mom asked me what I wanted for the theme. She probably thought I’d pick The Little Mermaid or Lion King (Maybe it wasn’t out yet.) But I picked Rock’N’Roll, or rather, a rock star. At three, and still at ages six and seven, I was sure that I would front a band. I made up songs on the fly everyday. I didn’t own the first musical instrument other than my voice. My parents promised vocal lessons if I got A’s in school, but they knew, even before I did, that my learning disability and an allergen to authority meant I was going to have a hard time in school.

My mom cranked out black guitars and edged everything in neon pink for the party. Records danced in confetti. My party might have been a handful of kids on small plastic tables in a garage—eating pizza and cake. But I remember it as fucking awesome.

My kid won’t remember today. He will only have pictures and video. This is about the trappings, the nostalgia of our youth that has me getting the right number of plates with cartoon faces and my husband going out of his way to get the goodie bags when I refused.

For now this’ll be a get together, a small party to laughand enjoy company as safely as possible.

Sometimes I find it hard to get past the fucking trappings.