I have a confession. I hate class parties. Lucky for me, my children only began preschool a year ago, which means I made it through the first four years of parenthood without ever having to endure one. For that I am grateful. I can’t imagine how much more awkward these things could get if they were thrown for a room full of immobile infants.
It seems that at least once a month my son’s class holds one of these celebrations. Thanksgiving! Christmas! Valentines! Okay, okay. I guess I understand those, but today’s “Circus Party” and next month’s “Spring Celebration?” I’m becoming more and more convinced that Anders’ teacher is just searching for a reason to eat baked goods.
I love a good cupcake as much as the next person, don’t get me wrong, but asking my boss for the fourth time this year if I can cut out early to go to a party at my son’s school (yes, that’s right. Another party.) is increasingly difficult. Not quite as difficult, however, as explaining to Anders why I was the only mom that didn’t come watch their child eat sugar cookies in a room full of balloons and uncomfortable looking adults dressed in business casual.
I am never going to be a cake-baking, craft-making, president of the P.T.A., but I do want to be involved in the things that make my kid happy. Even if that means making forced small talk with strangers while our children eat lethal amounts of sugar. Actually, I’m pretty sure that is 40% of parenting. (The other 60% is telling them how many minutes they have left of something and wiping sticky surfaces and body parts, obviously.)
So, because I am addicted to seeing my kid smile, you’ll find me this afternoon sitting in one of those tiny plastic chairs between him and his friend with the perpetually runny nose, dishing about the latest episode of Spongebob and eating our weight in icing.
The things I do for love.
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