The Twisty Bits of a Good Party

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Here’s a true confession of motherhood:

Birthday parties freak me out.

Not the kind with just my kid and some of his friends, but the ones where I have to host a whole bunch of my relatives and mommy friends, many of whom don’t get along for some reason.

I try to avoid throwing these big birthday parties at all costs because, in addition to costing a fortune, they inevitably take my attention away from the birthday boy or girl. I’m so busy filling odd, arbitrary social obligations that I miss my own kid blowing out the birthday candles.

Still, every now and then, the planets are aligned just so and my husband gets a wild hair and invites everyone under the sun.

Saturday was one of those days. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, grandmas and grandpas are all going to gather with my son and four of his best friends at the bowling alley, because my son wanted to bowl.

I’ve been psyching myself up for this since the Tuesday before last. It’s not the thought of my child’s friends running wild and out of control, hopped up on soda and cake, without the disciplinary help of their parents. It’s the cousins and other little friends who are running wild and out of control, hopped up on soda and cake, in full view of their parents, who are sucking down pitchers of Coors Light and grinning while watching their kids doing things like vandalizing soda machines and running into waitresses at full speed. It puts the host (me) in a precarious position – one that this terribly non-confrontational mother wants to run from.

The bowling alley is about a 40 minute drive, which takes us over a majestic but occasionally icy Rocky Mountain pass, so I am offering my son’s friends door-to-door service for this party. I’ll fill my minivan with my son’s friends and drop them off again when we are done. Our other family friends and relatives will meet us at the bowling alley.

As I drive to the first guest’s home, my eye drifts to the clock and I calculate how many hours will have passed before this party is finished, and I can come home again; before I can once more drive down this street, drop off the last guest, collapse on my couch with my daughters and my dogs, and sip a jumbo glass of merlot while my son puts together the Star Wars lego kit he’s about to get.

And then I see our first guest on the sidewalk in front of his house. He is clutching a bright blue be-ribboned box, and he is boogying. It is quite a show, and he is giggling his brains out. He wiggles to the left and then to the right. He does some John Travolta, “Stayin’ Alive,” finger-pointing moves. He does a little mambo. He does a little cha cha.

Watching him, I decide right then that this is what this day will be about. My son and his friends. That’s it. The cousins and aunts and uncles can take care of themselves. I mean, I’ll feed them and all, but my focus is on the birthday boy.

The little boys my son has invited spend quite a lot of time at my house. We know each other, we respect each other. I would even say we love each other.  When my van is full and it starts to get a little noisy, one little boy says “Ssh, you should all be quiet so Susanna can drive. We don’t want her to get in an ACK-si-dent.”

Another says, “Yeah. Let’s play the quiet game.”

But that was too good to be true, because pretty soon another boy pipes up: “I’ll be the distracter. The first person to talk or laugh loses.”

It’s quiet for a minute, but then “the distracter” starts in, and it doesn’t take long to tease out his strategy. It is this: Append the word “butt” or “poop” to every single thing he sees. “Telephone wire butt.  Waterfall butt. Waterfall poop. Waterfall poop from the waterfall butt. Rock butt. Butt rock. Rock poop. Poop rocks.”

Of course, I am the first to laugh. I lose, and a new distracter is chosen. The second boy has a similar strategy, but he adds “pee” to the mix, just to keep us guessing.

All of these boys are 8 except for one 5-year-old, whom we invited because he is the little brother of my son’s best friend. Also because he is particularly cute and particularly sweet, and I love him, in particular. Today he is wearing a plaid shirt with a starched collar and wide wale corduroy pants. His eyes are wide and baby blue and innocent, almost wistful. He is sitting just behind me in the van because it was the easiest place for me to install his booster seat.

He likes to say my name, as many little kids do. He holds the “s” until it hisses. Susssssana.  “Guess what, Sussssssssanna.” And “Do you know what, Sussssssana?”

“Tell me.”

“I like it when we make the turns in the roads,” he says as we go around a tight switchback.

“Lots of people call this part of the road the switchbacks,” I tell him. “But I like to call them the ‘twisty bits’ because I like the way those words sound together.”

Evidently, he likes it, too. He says it over and over. “Twisty bits. Twisty bits. I like the twissssssty bits, Missss Susssssana.”

Little boys’ thoughts are so linear. One follows the next in methodical fashion. It’s nice.

For this moment, I am delighting in being a part of their afternoon, just driving them to a party all together in the car, getting to eavesdrop on their guileless games and their frank, undemanding conversation.

I discover that I am driving to this party pretty slowly. Is it because I have such precious cargo in my van or because I know this might be the best part of the entire event?

It did, in fact, turn out to be the highlight of the day. The cousins did try to break open the coin changer and unplug the arcade games and pour soda on the carpet, but I heard about it only later, from my daughters and my husband, who stopped them. I was too busy bowling with my boys.

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