“Every kid in the entire daycare and their parents? No way!”
That’s a censored snippet of my reaction to my wife’s suggested invite list for my son’s fourth birthday party.
Over the course of my life, I’ve tried my best to expunge the ego-wrenching drama of childhood birthdays from my mind, body and soul, mostly because I had a summer birthday and kids rarely ever showed up.
I have a particularly painful memory of sitting alone at a table for eight as my ice cream panda cake slowly slumped over in the sun.
Now, as an East Vancouver parent to young kids, I have been dragged back into the birthday party vortex. Make no mistake: These days, kids' birthday parties are a full-on industry unto themselves, with an infrastructure of etiquette and rules almost as long as the invite list.
On any given weekend in East Van, children’s birthday parties occur everywhere. They are as frequent as drum circles in Grandview Park.
There’s a popular kids store on Commercial Drive called Dilly Dally and I swear they must make their rent solely from parents rushing in at the last minute to buy birthday gifts. The presents are easy to spot, since they’re wrapped in Dilly Dally’s signature brown wrapping paper with frilly ribbon, and there’s piles of them at every party. Really, Dilly Dally should consider selling pre-wrapped gifts in a bin by the door to save parents valuable time.
When my son first starting receiving invitations to East Van birthday parties, my wife was thrilled and informed me that full-family attendance was expected.
I was stunned. I couldn’t understand why we were both expected to also attend.
I protested, citing a desperate need to drink beer alone, but I was warned that if I didn’t attend Edouard’s second birthday party at the Circus Play Café on East 12th in lock-step with my wife, she would be pitied, judged and eye-questioned by the rest of the dutiful parents in attendance. Over avocado toast and turkey roll ups, they’d glance at my solo wife and discuss in hushed tones how her absent husband must surely be the worst kind of hairy old drunken bastard.
Am I wrong in remembering that, when we were kids, our parents would never go with us to birthday parties? They’d just drop us off and pick us up a few hours later when we would emerge, loot bag in hand, right?
When my son was invited to a birthday party while my wife was out of town, I decided to test that memory. First, we rushed over to Dilly Dally. Then I trotted Josh over to the party on Kitchener Street and knocked on the front door.
A happy, beaming mom answered, a pointy party hat placed jauntily atop her head. Chaos reigned behind her. The house was packed. It was like a cross between Romper Room and Old School. Simultaneously, over shouting adult conversation, I could hear the sounds of children uncontrollably laughing and sobbing.
“Hello!” I said cheerfully. “Happy third birthday to sweet little Brooklyn! Here’s Josh and a gift we thoughtfully selected weeks ago. See you later!”
As I turned to leave, the mom’s hand darted out in rapier-like fashion, grabbing my arm. She dug her fingernails into my elbow as her face turned dark and stormy. She suddenly looked exhausted. Her eyes narrowed. Through gritted teeth she growled, “You are not going f***ing anywhere.” Then she dragged me inside.
For my son’s party, we somehow managed to not invite the entire daycare, but we did rent a bouncy castle. Once the kids were loaded inside, the frothing scene quickly rocketed me back to the mosh pits of the ’90s. At least bouncy castles are padded. Happy fourth birthday, Josh!
