Today I almost plunked down a big ol' chunk of change on reserving a party space for Kathryn's seventh birthday. I had the money in my hand, when I had a flashback to the Time Out New York Kids article in which I was happy to be included, and while at no point in the article did I openly mock people who plunk down big ol' chunks of change on party spaces, I gladly would have if only I had been asked. (The whole article is well worth a read, by the way, if you haven't done so already.)
And so I resisted. Kathryn's seventh birthday party will be held here, in my house, a space so small we can barely host ourselves. It will be a low-key affair. Sure there will still be a theme, and we'll still give out goody bags to those who come, although I do agree wholeheartedly with Laid-Off Dad's take on goody bags. Back in the day, the only things you got in exchange for attending one of my birthday parties was a slice of cake and a chance to see me throw a fit.
The Mom will bake another of her cakes, thereby almost doubling the amount of time she will have spent in the kitchen for the entire year up to then. She bakes wondrous cakes, my wife, multi-layered carnivals that come as much from her imagination as they do from recipe cards. Only at one of Kathryn's parties will you hear children argue over who gets to eat the piece with both the shark and the drowning Teddy Graham. The stories their parents must hear when they get home.