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A birthday party like mom used to make
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
Being a child in the 1960s meant birthday parties out in the yard with streamers, flags, pin the tail on the donkey and baked birthday cakes--parties right out of that scene in The Birds just before Tippi Hedren had to usher all the little tykes inside.
Modern parents in this valley don't make parties, we drive to them. With Petroglyph paint-a-bank, Chuck E. Cheese pizza feasts, "The Jungle" play parties and rented pools, we millennium moms tend to give parties for our offspring that do not involve decorating or small kids using our bathrooms. We also try to avoid having other moms evaluate our housecleaning skills too closely. We have people over in small, manageable groups.
But, recently I had a case of temporary amnesia and forgot this truth of the valley.
My son turned 7 last week. While still mourning my mother's passing, I also remembered how she baked, chauffeured, decorated and planned so many wonderful parties for me, and the wonderful memories I have from each of them.
So, in a moment of idiocy not unlike the Russian sale of Alaska, I told my son yes, when he asked for a pirate party. It was a fluke after my recent discussions. He had happened to see a children's party book that a misguided friend of mine had given me. The next thing I knew I had actually volunteered to have ten 7-year-old boys (and one very sweet 9-year-old girl) come to my house, eat gooey chocolate food and drink flavored sugar water.
My biggest mental lapse was when I armed them with swords, but what pirate party would be complete without sidearms?
The first thing that told me I was in over my head were the invitations--handmade on the computer, printed backward (secret pirate writing) and accompanied with maps, raiding plans and a pirate food list.
I started delivering them by hand under cover of darkness at midnight on the Fourth of July. I thought I should get them out immediately rather than lose three days with the mail. What I didn't count on was that several other overactive moms would also still be up late at night. I didn't get home until after 2 a.m. because everywhere I went one of my friends was up, and we had to stand around to talk a while under the stars.
I spent the week prior to this event looking for pirate music. I eventually found the original Disney theme music to the ride Pirates of the Caribbean, along with a copy of Peter Pan. I also hunted down little treasures to use as "booty," and old pirate movies to watch.
I don't know what's funnier: Peter Ustinov in Blackbeard's Ghost or Kermit the Frog as Captain Smollet with Miss Piggy making Long John Silver jokes. Both, I decided, are way too adult for anyone under 17.
So there I was, walking around the house for a week saying things like "aye me bucko" and "avast ye hearties," while baking a "treasure chest cake" made of two chocolate funnel cakes, two cans of chocolate fudge frosting, two pounds of chocolate M&M's, a bag of jelly beans, a bag of hard candies and a bag of sugar jellies. It was an exploding artery disguised as a treasure chest. (I later had to take an oath that I was not in collusion with any dentist.)
I spent all my time wandering the party stores looking at eye patches, matching up napkins, and weighing the merits of having a real "plank" for the kids to walk as they entered the pool (a decision that was made moot when the day became overcast and too cool for the pool). I know things turned strange when I decided to paint a pirate flag to hang up in the front yard.
I tried to scrounge old white pillowcases from friends or neighbors, and had to give up when the closest I could come was a nice peach floral with eyelet-cut edges--definitely not the basic pirate white.
I went shopping with 24 hours to go and found a huge piece of muslin that fit the bill. So I ended up outlining and painting a pirate skull and cross bones at 2 a.m. the night before the party (so it would dry in time) and toddling off to bed around 3 a.m. I dreamt so deeply that when my pastor asked me how I was the next morning I almost said "Dead men tell no tales." But I bit my tongue.
Eleven happy kids later, with a painted treasure map on the garage for "Pin the X on the treasure" and crocodile brew in rum bottles, my left foot cramped up and I limped off to the bathtub while my spouse cleaned up the pirate banners, flags and chest of booty. What can't be cleaned up, however, is a great memory.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
