Don’t Be Tardy For the Party

I partied today like I was in college. There was drinking, vomiting and someone got hurt. The only difference is I was at a party for my 5-year-old.
I had the best of intentions. The problem is I organized this shindig a few days ago. Some Moms, those who wear candy corn sweatshirts at Halloween, book parties a year in advance.

My kindergartener wanted to go to an indoor trampoline park. We invited a few friends, cousins and then I called to book tickets. Now, the problem with doing things in that order is the party rooms were booked. Hakuna Matata. We would just snag a few tables to sit and eat. I brought plenty of Gatorade, snacks and cupcakes. We would order pizza once we got there. I loaded the kids in my minivan and headed to the park. I live about 40 minutes away from civilization. I grew up in this town, moved away and it sucked me back in. Anyway, at about minute 30 two kids gasped in sync. One of the party guests in the third row seat got car sick. Yep, poor kid puked all over himself and he was out of my reach. I passed paper towels back and ordered my eldest to help him. I was on a highway and could not pull over. Besides, we couldn’t be late to our own party. My 13-year-old looked at me like You’ve got to be kidding me. “It is time to earn that IPhone,” I said. “Do it!” We handed the kid a new shirt and kept moving. I booked an hour at the trampoline park which is about all I could take. The safety patrol nazi’s were blowing their whistles over everything. “You can’t jump there.” “You can’t walk there.” “No accessories on the floor.” By accessories he meant the camera in my hand. I understand this place is one big liability, but back off. I paid $200 for tickets and $10 for a bag of Depends. I am going to capture this moment, damn it! I managed to get this Where is Waldo picture before he threatened to call his manager.

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The kids were having so much fun.
The birthday boy was beaming from ear to ear. “This is worth all the hassle,” I thought to myself. My cup over floweth. Then, my cup was knocked over and spilled. It turns out you cannot order pizza unless you booked a party room. The kids were starving. While I had a panic attack, my husband googled and found a pizza joint a few doors down. We loaded the kids back in the van, other parents followed and we drove .05 miles. My initial impression of this restaurant was that we wouldn’t make it out alive. It looked like a shack. I put on a Stepford wife smile and encouraged everyone to go inside. Eager to feed their growling bellies, the kids raced to the door. Unfortunately, one child ran smack into his own mother delivering a crushing blow to her face. I thought she was going to pass out. Then, I noticed blood was trickling down her nose. Really, God? Really? I guess I can forget a job as a party planner. Luckily, she turned out to be okay. The pizza place was clean and the food was absolutely delicious. It really turned out to be a good day. The kids were content and exhausted as we made the trek back home. I handed out vomit bags just in case that all changed.

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