Heal the World, Plan a Party

It is well known that one of the most important jobs a mother holds is that of throwing the themed birthday party. The themed birthday, of course, requires designating a subject matter the birthday child may or may not show an interest in—Batman, Dora the Explorer, Lil’ Wayne, or gingham plaid—and then incorporating the delegated subject matter into the party invitation, the decorations, the craft, the games, the cake, the drinks, the goody bags, the ribbons that tie the goody bags, the name tags tied to the ribbons attached to the goody bags, etc.

The themed birthday party is why, despite unemployment rates, there will always be a demand for grown adults to dress up in clown, dinosaur, and super hero regalia for minimum wage, and —at least in Central Florida—incur massive amounts of heat rash so two-year-olds can be thoroughly terrified on their birthday.

It is also a well-known fact that throwing a themed birthday party usually involves more planning than healthcare reform, which is good, because as we all know, the fate of mankind hangs in the balance.

One version of the book of Genesis imparts the importance of the themed birthday party.

“You know, Cain turns five in just eight-and-a-half months and I’m thinking I need to get started planning his themed birthday party,” Eve told Adam over a candlelit dinner of medium-rare wooly mammoth steaks. And then, refusing to accept Adam’s silence as disinterest, Eve announced over her kabob that this year’s party theme for Cain would be—wait for it—Apples!

“We can serve applesauce and have apple-bobbing games and—oh! —Cain could blow out his candles on an apple pie and I could even tie apple scented strings on the party bags!” Eve chattered on with the behaviors, heavy breathing and intoxicated euphoria only mothers who are planning a themed party or people on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown exhibit.

“Well? What do you think?” Eve, now flushed with excitement, asked her husband. At this point Adam set down his steak and stared at his wife wondering what the return policy on a left rib would be.

“Adam! Are you even listening? What do you think about the apple-themed birthday party for Cain?” Eve asked again.

If apples hadn’t been such a sore subject for Adam, he probably would have just done what dad’s everywhere do when their wife announces their child’s birthday party theme—he would have grunted, handed over that month’s mortgage payment, and made forty-seven trips to the store for juice boxes and ice. But even though Adam didn’t talk about it, he was still pretty sour on the subject of apples, which is why he told Eve she would need to figure out a party theme other than apples for Cain that year.

And, well, we all know how the story goes—Eve’s themed-birthday party spirit was crushed. Lacking momentum and a Target nearby, the alternative theme for the birthday party— teenage mutant ninja tortoise— just was not inspired. Meaning, the nametags tied to the ribbons decorating the party bags had nothing to do with the party theme. It was a disaster.

Eve knew the party was a disaster at the time, but it was not until years later, once Abel was dead and Cain was attending court-ordered anger management that the consequences and emotional trauma of denying the apple-themed birthday party came out.

As a mother, I take my responsibility as themed birthday party thrower very seriously. Today our prisons are filled with inmates whose mothers did not throw them themed birthday parties—maybe the color scheme was mismatched, maybe their mom screwed up and bought a Star Wars cake and Smurf napkins. Maybe the nametags, attached to the ribbons, tied to the goody bags did not coordinate. I shudder to think, but maybe there were no ribbons. I am determined my children will not become another statistic and for this reason I will spend massive amounts of time planning themed birthday parties. Sure, I may lose my mind in the process, but if I’m lucky, maybe the arm restraints of my straight jacket will coordinate with little ribbons, which will match my nametag...