Chapter Eleven: Birthday Parties​​​

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     Growing up, I always loved my birthday. When you get right down to it, what kid didn’t?  Mom and Dad would throw a party, inviting my cousins and best friends. After an hour or two of sugar-induced frenzy, I would get to open whatever toys were on the docket that year. Parties were fun. The haunted look in Mom and Dad’s eyes never registered when I was a kid.

 

     Those memories returned when Emily requested a party with friends, cousins, and various other dignitaries on the occasion of her sixth birthday. No fool, Emily asked my permission while Alma was conveniently elsewhere. I said yes, a unilateral decision that later left Alma unexpectedly amused.

 

     “When did you say she wants to have this party?”

 

     “The afternoon of April fifth, the Saturday before her birthday.”

 

     “That’s what I thought. Emily can have her party then – no problem at all.”

 

     Clearly, I was missing something. Thoroughly enjoying herself, Alma then dropped her bomb.

“Remember that grantee agency training session I told you about two months ago?  It’s being held on Saturday the fifth. The session runs from eight to four, and I may even be later than that. The party’s all yours, big guy.”

 

     I was doomed. “You’re laughing now, but think about your house. I’ll talk to Emily. Maybe we can change the date or hold the party in the evening.”

 

     “Yes - all parents want their kids out in the evening. Regarding the date, we taught Emily how to use the phone, remember?  In the time since you agreed, our daughter has no doubt phoned her cousins and neighborhood friends. Do you really want to be the one to tell her the date needs to change?  This party is happening whether you want it to or not.”

 

     I was sunk. Emily had three cousins her age, and there were at least ten other little girl faces I remembered floating through the house this past year. That would make thirteen potential guests, a fitting number when you think about it.

 

     Telling myself I might get lucky, I still asked Emily if she would consider postponing. You would have thought I asked her to quit watching SpongeBob. As Alma said, this party was happening. The sooner I accepted that fact, the better I would be.

 

     The date decided, Alma and Emily went into planning mode as I listened and occasionally objected. That session became a true family affair after Jack, no doubt preplanning his own birthday party, joined to offer his own opinions. No stranger to negotiations, Emily started with the easily defensible.

 

     “I want a chocolate cake, cherry ice cream, and a piñata; oh - and I also want a clown and a magician.” 

 

     I knew Alma would veto the clown, and she did not disappoint.

 

     Shaking her head, Alma said, “I told you once before; I am deathly afraid of clowns. We are not having one in this house.”

 

     “Mom, you won’t even be here!”

 

     “It doesn’t matter - I’ll sense his evil clown presence.”

 

     I thought this would be a good time to chime in. “I’m afraid of magicians. We’re going to have to cut that one out as well.”

 

     Never assume your kids have no memory. “You’re not afraid of magic men,” Jack reminded me. “We all watched that magic show the night you let us stay up.”

 

     Luckily Alma had my back. “No magic show either. This is going to be a normal birthday party, not some neighborhood spectacular.”

 

     “And speaking of the neighborhood,” I added, “there will be no Aidan from down the street.”

 

     That drew unanimous agreement, but then the demands started anew. Jack was listening, and Jack had ideas.

 

     “How about a bounce house?  My friend Tommy had one at his party. And how about a roller coaster that would go around the backyard?”

 

     Emily looked at her brother with newfound appreciation. She knew a roller coaster would never fly, but a bounce house?

 

     “I don’t need a roller coaster, but a bounce house would be great!”

 

     “First of all,” I replied, “Tommy’s birthday party was at a Chuck E. Cheese. We are not having a bounce house in our backyard. Any party requiring a rider in our homeowner’s policy will never happen.”

 

     Having ruined our children’s dreams, Alma and I returned to the genuinely possible. The party was still three weeks out, and Alma would order a cake from the bakery at our Giant Eagle grocery store. That left me with a happy birthday sign, ribbon, and a piñata. The ice cream, birthday candles, pop, paper plates, and candles would be purchased later as part of my usual grocery run.

 

     I planned a head start on my assignment. After breakfast the next day, I dressed Emily and Jack, strapped them into Banzai and Ed, and headed to our local “Party Smarty” party store.

 

     I saw the issue as soon as we stepped through the entrance. It wasn’t that Party Smarty lacked choices. Instead, the Smarty people had stocked far too many – the majority aimed at adults. To add to my woes, the store was filled with what appeared to be perpetually smiling store assistants, most of whom looked to be auditioning for the next Joker movie.

 

     Upon entering, one such assistant asked me if I needed help. I politely refused, but she followed us anyway. I didn’t lose her until we hit the pinatas in aisle three.  

 

     The pinatas we discovered there were almost as frightening as the assistant we had just ditched. In our brief walk down pinata alley, I saw a donkey, a horse, a T-Rex, and a unicorn, as well as something that looked like the death star from Star Wars. While I was examining the latter, Jack spotted the real prize.

 

     “Dad, what’s that?  Can we get that?”

 

     Emily, in the midst of examining a unicorn, looked over at what Jack was holding.

 

     “What is that, Dad?  It looks like a bottle. What’s that writing?”

 

     “That, my children, is a Piñata version of a Tequila bottle. You wouldn’t like Tequila, though I might be drinking some by the time the party is over.”  I removed the bottle from Jack’s grasp, wondering briefly what it disgorged when broken.

 

     Jack put down the bottle, though he didn’t stop looking for a new prize. His next choice resembled a well-known politician.

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     “Put that one down, too, unless you want to alienate half the adults at Emily’s party. I need as many there as we can get to keep track of you ruffians.”

 

     While Jack continued his hunt for objectionable party games, I talked Emily into taking a purple unicorn. That brought us to Smarty’s banner aisle 

 

     Smarty’s had banners for every sort of occasion, some of which I didn’t even know existed. There were divorce banners, happy new car banners, a “Happy Barkday” banner with a picture of a dog, and one “Thank God you’re not Dead” banner set nicely in black and white. Emily asked me about that one.

 

     “I think they were trying for get well soon, but I’m not sure I really want to know.”

 

     Jack, God love him, found a “Snip, Snip Hooray” vasectomy celebration banner decorated colorfully with pink and blue surgical blades. Before I grabbed it back, Jack asked me about the wording. Happy he hadn’t yet discovered how to read, I told him the banner was for kids who had learned how to use their scissors.

 

     “Can I get one someday?”

 

     “Wait till you get married, then talk it over with your wife.”

 

     Eventually, Emily found a birthday banner she liked. In a fortunate bit of coincidence, it included a purple unicorn that almost matched our chosen piñata.

 

     “This is good,” I told Emily and Jack, “after you guys get done beating the pinata, we can show this to the police to help identify the body.”

 

     Around the corner, another distraction loomed. The kids had found the aisle with candles and paper plates. I had planned on the old-fashioned ones sold at our grocery store - Party Smarty had other ideas.   

 

     Facing a wall filled with candles of different shapes and sizes, Emily held up a small box.

 

     “Look, Dad, these candles have the letters for happy birthday.”

 

     “Honey, the cake we get for you will already say happy birthday.”

 

     It didn’t matter – we bought the candles anyway. I was afraid if we stayed in the aisle any longer, Jack might find

“Happy Vasectomy” candles matching the banner he had spotted previously. We then capped off our Party Smarty sojourn with some bright purple plates that caught Emily’s attention.

 

     Our list now complete, we were ready to check out. Taking our items to the front of the store, we were again faced with another of Smarty’s perpetually smiling assistants. She checked out my items and asked if I was interested in one of the store’s Smarty discount cards.

 

     “You can save five percent off all your future purchases. It’s Smarty’s smarter way to shop.”

 

     I suspected I could legally kill her just for saying that, but I knew Alma might object if I did so in front of our children. Taking my silence for indecision, my smiling assistant tried again.

 

     “It really is a great deal.”

 

     “It’s intriguing, but I think I’ll hold off. I do have a buddy who’s getting a vasectomy, however. You give me one of your cards, and I’ll have his wife call you when it’s time for the party.”

 

     She continued smiling – perhaps she had no other expression. After successfully checking out, we drove our loot home. Emily and Jack were both reasonably happy with our purchases.

 

     Two weeks later, we spent half our usual one-hour grocery trip in the ice cream aisle. No longer sure about cherry, Emily insisted on discussing the merits of every ice cream flavor before finally making a decision. Even Jack was getting tired, and ice cream was Jack’s favorite food in all the universe.

 

     Hoping to put a stop to the madness, I said, “Let’s buy chocolate and vanilla, and we’ll call it a day.”

Emily would hear none of it. “Toni down the street says she can only eat gluten-free. We have to have some that’s gluten-free.”

 

     “Maybe Toni should just learn to eat like a normal person.”

 

     “Daddy!”

 

     After extensive market research, we chose chocolate, Neapolitan, and gluten-free vanilla. Alma had already ordered the cake via phone from the Giant Eagle bakery. We picked up her order, and we were ready for the big day.

 

     Admitting she felt slightly guilty, Alma helped me the night before with housecleaning, loading the piñata, and setting up the decorations and folding chairs. We decided to wait on the piñata until the time arose for its dispatching. Neither Alma nor I felt it was wise to do so beforehand.

 

     After we finished hanging the banner, I decided to give it one more try. “You could just blow off the training session, stay here, and help me with the party.”

 

     “My guilt only goes so far.”              

 

     “Think of the gluten-free ice cream you will miss.”

 

     “That stuff goes down the disposal the second the party’s over.”

 

     Party day arrived. Despite the noon start time, Jack and Emily woke up around seven, two hours before their usual Saturday wake-up time. That meant both my children, particularly the birthday girl, would be bouncing off the walls when the party arrived.

 

     I underestimated their wind-up time. Stepping out of my bedroom at seven-fifteen, I almost ran into Emily, already in full bounce mode. Already dressed, she was wearing the party outfit she and her mother had chosen the evening before. Rebounding off my legs, she looked up and asked,

 

     “Daddy – how many hours?”

 

     “Too many hours for you to be already wearing that outfit - Mom will have my head if it gets dirty.”

 

     Alma had a full hour’s drive to the training session, so she had already left. Now the lone parent, Emily and I went back to her room, trailed by a now-awake Jack, to trade out Emily's clothes. Even more enthusiastic than his sister, Jack had forgotten to wear anything at all.

 

     “You know, buddy, we need to talk about this nudist phase of yours.”

 

     Jack would hear none of it. “Can we have some ice cream for breakfast?”

 

     Wondering if I would even make it to the party, I found an outfit for Jack that he agreed to wear after being reminded breakfast was only for the fully clothed. The three of us then went downstairs, where Emily and Jack surveyed every inch of our now-decorated first floor. Emily had suggestions, lots and lots of suggestions.

 

     “Can we move the banner from over the fireplace so it hangs off the ceiling?”

 

     I did what I do best in these situations – I lied through my teeth.

 

     “I’m sorry, honey. This is a fireplace banner. A ceiling banner is a completely different design. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to go back to the store.”

 

     Jack began to chant, “Party Smarty, Party Smarty …”

 

     How I longed for the days he could barely talk.

 

     “Jack, If you want to survive until the party, you will not ask me to return to Party Smarty’s. The banner stays where it is.”  Looking directly at Emily, I added, “Mommy hung that banner herself. You wouldn’t want to hurt Mommy’s feelings, would you?”

 

     When in doubt, throw your partner under the bus. Assuming I lived, I would worry about the consequences after the party.

 

     Somehow we made it till noon, the party’s scheduled start. Arriving first was Alma’s sister Ellen, a woman who held me in the same high regard as Alma’s mother. Ellen escorted her twins, Gardner and Patricia. Like Emily, they were both six years old. Other than that, the twins were a study in contrasts.

 

     Perhaps reacting to his parents’ unfortunate choice of names, Gardner was a quiet young man. That was particularly true when contrasted with his sister Patricia, an annoying twit with a habit of sneaking into our study and turning on my laptop computer. When told that was not allowed, Patricia would comply only to return later when our backs were turned.

 

     My sister-in-law thought this was hilarious. My suggestion we stick with friends and avoid relatives was ignored in the party’s planning process, so I locked my computer in the hallway closet.

 

     The neighborhood kids came next. Tammy Fuller, Emily’s best neighborhood friend, was first in this group. Escorted by her mother, Connie, I politely suggested Connie was welcome to stay. Recognizing a con when she heard one, Connie laughed, pushed her child through the door, and ran home as quickly as she could.

 

     Connie’s retreat became a pattern repeated with each arriving child. Hoping for at least one adult companion, I offered Ed Costanza, the mildly obese father of Theresa Costanza, a slice of cake and ice cream. Pointing to the horde of frenzied children in my front room, Ed simply laughed.

 

     “Trust me – there’s not enough cake in the world to get me to stay with those kids.”

As he hustled back down our driveway, I said, “Come on, Ed.”

 

     “If you were me,” he replied over his shoulder, “would you stay?”

 

     He had me there. In situations like this, it was truly every parent for themselves.  Having no luck with the adults, I returned to my juvenile horde and prepared for the party's next phase. We needed pizza, lots and lots of pizza.

 

     Unfortunately, I forgot to contend with the dietary restrictions inherent in much of today’s youth. After polling the crowd, I discovered we had two vegans, two gluten-frees, and one lactose intolerant. This would be tougher than I expected.

 

     Luckily, I was able to kill not two but three birds with one stone. After speaking with a surprisingly helpful Domino’s assistant, I ordered a thin-crust pizza with a tomato-based sauce, satisfying all three categories in my list of culinary outliers. While the pizza would be devoid of most items conveying actual taste, I thought it was a pretty good solution under the circumstances. For the more food-tolerant, I also ordered two pepperoni and sausage pizzas along with some pasta.

 

     I let the crowd run wild until the pizza came, that freedom lasting until the kids started a modified slalom run down our second-floor stairway. The run included a jump off the third step from the bottom, with Jack judging who went the farthest.

 

     Homer thought the game was heaven on Earth. After trying a few stair runs of his own, he retired and contented himself with licking the face of any participant unfortunate enough not to remain on his or her feet.  

 

     I tried to convince myself the game was Darwin at his finest, but Darwin never had to concern himself with homeowner’s insurance. I stopped the festivities, but not before Tammy Fuller almost ran head-first into our TV stand.

It was during this period I noticed Gardner standing off to the side, simply observing the fun. I walked over to keep him company.

 

     “This isn’t your kind of thing, is it Gardner?”

 

     “No, sir. I’m more of a reader.”

 

     The kid was smart and polite. You couldn’t argue with that.

 

     “Gardner, you can call me Uncle Alan. I’m married to your Aunt Alma.”

 

     “Thank you, sir, but Mom says that’s just until Aunt Alma comes to her senses.” 

 

     Gardner called me sir for the rest of the day, a formality I could live with after he agreed to assist when the pizza arrived. After a lunchtime free of vomiting or any other olfactory damage, Gardner and I cleaned up the mess. It was time for the piñata portion of the festivities.

 

     Alma had provided detailed instructions on where to hang Emily’s soon-to-be-crushed unicorn. She even left me the right kind of tape, a brand that wouldn’t leave a mark on the carefully sanded and stained overhang between our TV and living rooms. Unfortunately, neither of us had thought to test our plan beforehand.

 

     As it happened, our recalcitrant unicorn had no interest in being pummeled by a horde of six-year-old girls. After watching our piñata slide through the tape for the third time, I briefly mulled asking Gardner to hold the unicorn off to his side. After reminding myself Gardner was one of our few guests I liked, I then considered his sister.

 

     No, I decided Patricia was safe as well. Alma would be upset, and my sister-in-law would no doubt sue. I needed to come up with another solution, one that wouldn’t leave a tape mark or bloodstains on Alma’s carefully lacquered ceiling.

 

     Increasingly anxious, my roomful of innocent post-toddlers had begun to look disturbingly like a scene from a Purge movie. I needed a resolution that wouldn’t involve me dodging a horde of crazed children armed with a piñata weapon.

 

     I found my answer in the basement, specifically our laundry room. Long ago, Alma had purchased a garment rack for drying clothes she deemed too delicate for our dryer.

 

     Throwing one of Alma’s work outfits on top of our washer, I carried the rack upstairs. Maneuvering past Homer, who no doubt thought I’d gone insane, I placed the frame in the Pinata-approved location so designated by my wife. After hanging Emily’s purple unicorn from the center bar, it seemed we were finally ready.

 

     As things turned out, ready was the last thing we were. When planning our unicorn massacre, I decided to make use of my old childhood bat. Given my lack of baseball skills, I figured it was appropriate it experience at least some physical contact. Not wishing to threaten any partygoers, I hid the bat in our hallway closet until our unicorn was ready for slaughter.

 

     Weighing about a pound and a half, the bat turned out to be a horrible idea. As the birthday girl, Emily was the first to try. I wasn’t sure if the bat swung Emily or the other way around, but my child ended up about four feet off the mark, her swing almost leveling our recently purchased Sony TV.

 

     Considering the problem, I couldn’t imagine the other kids doing any better. Like Gardner, most had the physique of your average yardstick. I paused then to reconsider my approach. The thought of yardsticks still running through my head, I grabbed our own from the kitchen and handed it to Emily.

 

     The yardstick solution resulted in a different sort of problem. While Emily could now swing with more accuracy, contact with the Pinata led to the stick breaking after only three swings.

 

     Desperate and not thinking straight, I grabbed our letter opener. I figured it was either that or a piece of rebar from our basement. Both were potentially lethal, so I chose the least heavy option. Handing the weapon to Emily, I cleared the suddenly more interested crowd of girls well back from our clothes rack Piñata. Wielding the opener like a serial killer, Emily then went to work. Blade in hand, it was like the scene from Psycho without the shower.

 

     It took three quick strokes. A hole opened after Emily’s first strike; her other two swings were just for fun. Of course, the other girls wanted to try, and Jack even brought down his latest modified shank/screwdriver from his upstairs bedroom.

 

     Unfortunately for the now-homicidal crowd, the candy had already poured out of the Pinata. I halted the proceedings, retrieved the letter opener, and laid the deceased piñata on the living room carpet.

 

     The candy was gone within sixty seconds - a pack of hungry weasels couldn’t have done better. Some sweets were eaten, some were stuffed in pockets, and others got stuffed God knows where else. Even the paper wrappers somehow disappeared, a development I chose not to think about too closely. I reminded myself that only two of the participants were my kids. As for the others, I hoped they would have the courtesy to delay throwing up until they returned home.

 

     I knew Alma would ask why I didn’t take pictures of Emily as she dispatched her Piñata. With no other recourse, I would say I forgot. Even if Alma believed me, my stay in my execution would be only temporary - the kids were bound to tell Mom the real story in all its gory detail.

​

     To my shock, neither of them ever did. In Emily’s case, that might have been sympathy – a father’s murder is something no child would ever choose to contemplate. For Jack, the decision likely had a more practical aspect. Deep down inside, my son hoped I would allow him to wield his own pinata weapon for his next birthday. Knowing that, I vowed to keep a closer eye on the kitchen knives from that point forward.

 

     As things turned out, none of the other kids told their parents either. In the end, children were the most practical of creatures. They wanted candy; they got candy. The method used to get them from point A to point B was entirely irrelevant. Even Gardner and his sister never said a word.

 

     Having completed the staged violence portion of our festivities, we moved to unwrapping presents, an activity that presented a different sort of mayhem. With all the kids bringing gifts, Emily moved through the massive pile of boxes with a speed that surpassed even Christmas morning.

 

     Alma had tasked me with tracking who gave what so thank-you cards could be sent. I wasn’t sure what a thank you card from one semi-literate six-year-old to another would look like, but I figured that was a question best unasked.

Pen and notebook in hand, I strained to keep up as Emily tore through enough brightly-covered wrapping paper to decorate the Goodyear Blimp. Designated by me as Emily’s assistant, Jack began to cover himself with leftover paper, eventually resembling some sort of demented float from a Macy’s parade gone horribly wrong.

 

     Jack’s paper monster aside, things didn’t go truly awry until Emily accidentally decked her brother while passing around her new “Talking Tina” doll for her party guests’ perusal. Tina, whose facial expression could make a Chuckie doll appear benign, managed to land directly on the side of Jack’s head. Not happy being decked by his sister, Jack attempted to return the favor.

 

     Having witnessed similar brother-sister wrestling matches, I started moving as soon as the devil doll made contact with my son’s right ear. Grabbing Jack as he started his leap, I maneuvered him away from the combat zone.

More stunned than angry, Jack said, “Emily hit me with that big doll.”

 

     “I know, buddy, but this isn’t the time or place for a fight.”

 

     “That doll looks nasty.”

 

      I couldn’t argue with him there. Giving Talking Tina another look, I reminded myself one more time to secure the knife drawer.

 

     Jack somewhat mollified, I returned to cataloging the rest of Emily’s gifts. There were more dolls, none as scary as Tina, as well as an elephant game, a soccer ball, and a new version of Candy Land, a game that stood just above Yeti in My Spaghetti on my list of worst children’s pastimes.

 

     Emily continued as I supervised Jack from the back corner of our living room. No longer able to see the names on the boxes, I tried to be as descriptive as I could – short doll with pink dress; tall doll on steroids; doll whose mother should have never let her leave the house in that outfit - the gifts finally ending with a game that looked like a modified version of Pong. Running out of descriptors, I wrote, “game that might actually be fun.”  I then took more pictures, hoping to make Alma forget about my Piñata faux pas. Thanking God we only had one more hour, I released Jack after threatening him one more time to stay away from his sister.

 

     The last hour was devoted to Emily’s cake, a chocolate concoction designed to ensure those eating it would continue bouncing off the walls long after they reached the safety of their own homes. I viewed it as payback for those parents who chose not to help with the party.

 

     Overall, however, this final segment went smoothly. I ignored Jack when he asked if he could light the candles; I joined in as the crowd sang Happy Birthday; I held Emily’s hand as she cut the cake, and I even managed to hand out individual cake slices and ice cream without anyone being injured or vomiting. The way the rest of the party had gone, I considered that a win-win. Now amped up on sugar, Jack even managed to forget the indignity of being taken out by a two-foot maniacal-looking hunk of plastic. My few hours of hell almost over, I cleaned up the remains of the now-annihilated birthday cake. That job complete, I released the mostly female horde to play with Emily’s newly opened presents.

 

     As things turned out, I probably could have organized this final act somewhat better - pieces from at least four different games ended up strewn across our living room floor. All of that aside, Emily seemed happy; the house was still standing, and the risk of a lawsuit appeared negligible. All I needed was to get rid of the interlopers, and the day would be a success.

 

     Fortunately, the other parents showed up on time. Most exhibited a certain amount of sympathy, though not enough to regret the brief vacation I had so thoughtfully provided them. Even Ed Costanza appeared somewhat sheepish regarding his earlier retreat. Staring at the wasteland that was once my home, Ed tried to buck me up.

 

     “It doesn’t look so bad. Our house looked worse after Theresa’s birthday. You’ve got time to get it cleaned up.”

 

     “Alma will be home in just one hour.”

 

     “Alma loves you. Besides, divorce attorneys are really expensive these days.”

 

     Unlike the other parents, Alma’s sister exhibited no sympathy whatsoever. Arriving late to pick up Patricia and Gardner, she walked into our house without even a hello, appearing surprised her children were still alive. After summoning her twins, she turned to me with the same look of disdain she had worn since the day we first met.

 

     “You exceeded my expectations. I would have bet there would be at least one trip to the emergency room.”

 

     “You never know, Ellen; with you here, there’s always time.”

 

     Instead of responding, Ellen chose only to sniff her contempt. Turning away from the bozo her sister had so shortsightedly married, she summoned Patricia and Gardner. Patricia came immediately while Gardner had retreated to Emily’s bedroom, paging through the last of her young readers.

 

     As he was leaving, I thanked Gardner again for his help at the party. Polite kid that he was, he told me I was welcome, this time calling me Uncle Alan. Now validated as a relative, I smiled at his mother, who didn’t bother smiling back.

 

     With Ellen and her brood now out the door, I once again felt in control of my own home. Unfortunately, a text from Alma shattered my good mood. The house still looked like a disaster area, and my wife would arrive in just thirty minutes.

 

     Having forgotten their previous dispute, Jack and Emily played quietly with one of Emily’s new games. No sibling fights to referee, I flew through our home, grabbing paper plates, half-finished glasses of pop, and the few pieces of candy left from Emily’s now-butchered piñata.

 

     I put away the cake, the now liquid ice cream, and any leftover pizza good enough to be stored in our refrigerator. Just as Alma was pulling into the driveway, I pushed the toys Emily and Jack weren’t playing with into a Mount Everest-sized pile in the corner of our living room. I was wife ready.

 

     Alma hugged me at the door. Deep down inside, I suspect she feared I might abandon the children mid-party.

 

     “You’re still alive. From the look on your face this morning, I thought I might find you lying dead on the floor.”

 

     “It wouldn’t have been a big deal. The kids would have played around me.”

 

     Jack and Emily picked that moment to run in and greet their mother. While holding a new doll in each hand, Emily still managed to wrap her arms around her mother’s waist.

 

     “Mom, look at Jenny and Chrissy!  Come in and see all my stuff.”

 

     Hoping to delay Alma’s inspection of our living room, I said, “Give your Mom a chance to catch her breath.”

Emily, still in full sugar mode, said, “The party was great. No one vomited, and no one died. Dad said that made him two for two.”

 

     Alma looked around for the first time. “The house is still standing. Maybe that’s three for three.”

 

     “As long as you don’t look in our hallway closet.”

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     Alma took one more look around. “So we won’t be hearing from any neighborhood attorneys?”

​

     “I made all the kids sign NDAs when they arrived. We should be in the clear.”

​

     “Smart move. Now tell me why our clothes rack is sitting in the corner of our dining room.”

​

     I knew I had forgotten something. All I needed now was for Jack to drag out the remains of Emily’s murdered unicorn.

 

     “I think we can agree, the most important thing is no one got hurt.”

 

     Emily saved me. Walking back into our kitchen, she threw her arms around Alma’s legs and said, “Mommy, thank you so much for the party.”

 

     After spotting the demonic Talking Tina doll, Alma decided discretion was the better part of valor. I then noticed Emily looking back at me.

 

     If I didn’t know better, I could swear my six-year-old just winked.