I’m not an old shoe at parenting, but I’ve been around this block now for about eight years. When did we all decide that children need to have humongous birthday parties at barn-like locations with boats and slides and nets and rock climbing and zip-lines? The entertainment is non-stop; the music so loud it reminds me of being a misfit college student trying to act cool and talk to my friends over the loud band between bopping around on the sweaty dance floor.

There’s no doubt the kids love it. Who wouldn’t it? Since Coco is getting older, she isn’t invited to as many. So she gleefully jumps in the car whenever Addy’s got a gig. At the first few parties I sat stiff in a corner, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak Spanish. If I can’t hear every syllable, I don’t get what’s being said. So I spend most of the time nodding, smiling, and making a good guess at what I should answer. Then while the kids bounce or swing around, I have to keep telling myself to NOT eat another one of those fattening, yet yummy little bocas the parents always get. (I don’t think I’ve outgrown the misfit thing.)

The theme party then carries over to a large cake, mounds of presents (that are opened at home), pizza or hot dog for the kids, and of course the finale - the piñata.

I accept these parties now, like I accept the rain. There’s parts I don’t like, but the kids have a ball. Addy’s third birthday is coming up. And since he’s stuck with me as a mother, he’ll be getting the balloons at home and the scoop of ice cream for a cake.

We skipped the piñata, which disappointed Coco. I reminded her she still had a bag in the refrigerator from the last party/parade/whatever full of sugary delights. Addison couldn’t take his eyes off the huge butterfly Coco decided to get on her face five minutes before leaving. The traffic had thinned. It was 6:00 and time to get ready for bed.

Party animals. We’re just party animals.