Someone cried at my 9yo’s birthday party, but she wasn’t 9yo.
We had this whole party planned, we would let them cook their own pizzas and decorate their own butterfly cakes. Everything had been planned the best that it could, toppings and drinks, pans and movies.
We didn’t plan that Pete would have to work.
When the girls were ready to make pizza.
While I was in my chair and so limited.
I had to do everything I could do with one arm, in a wheelchair, to make it feel like a party for my girl. We’d sent the other two kids to their grandmother’s, so I didn’t even have emergency backup of a twelve year old.
So, after I helped the six girls create the pizzas of their dreams, with flour everywhere, and cheese sprinkled everywhere, I got my husband to stop long enough to help put pizzas in the oven.
The girls giggled, the pizzas cooked, and Anissa bawled like a baby.
I remember a time when birthday parties were nothing. Doing all the stuff that made it fun was no problem at all. Man, I was a party queen.
And I was crying.
Even though no one else noticed, I felt the worst sort of failure.
The girls made pizza because I couldn’t help them make anything more adventurous.
The girls used store decorator icing because I couldn’t use food coloring to make my own.
We had to use two cakes instead of one because my husband was forced to make it.
Fail = me.
Dude, I had to cry.
It was that or explode.