Is it a sign of incompetent parenting to dislike hosting birthday parties? No, not hosting actually—planning. I do not enjoy planning birthday parties. There, I’ve admitted it. I actually get stressed induced pain in my neck from worrying about creating the perfect birthday for a 6 year old. Our most vivid birthday party memories seem to center on a guest becoming ill—including a little 5 year old who threw up while eating pizza— or the weather playing havoc with our best laid plans— the January snow play party on a 60 degree day with marshmallows in the place of snowballs or the 30 degree May carnival party covered in snow.
Each year I hope that my daughters will say, “this year mom let’s just have a family party.” Then I won’t have to happily think up a plan, worry if someone is being unintentionally excluded, decorate with enthusiasm, and fret over whether everyone will like the chosen activities. Don’t get me wrong, I do love celebrations, I just am not a party planner.
So how excited was I when my older daughter asked if she could plan her own birthday celebration?
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“No thanks mom.”
“How about pick up pizza?”
“Oh, that would be great.”
“Make breakfast?”
“Sure, thanks!”
And that was it! She invited eight girls for a sleepover, everyone came and they self-entertained from playing basketball to walking around the block at midnight. They watched a movie and of course, talked, A LOT! By and large I kept my ears open and my mouth closed—a parenting tip I picked up from a friend which has served me well. Well that is as long as I follow through on the mouth closed part, which I admit, I sometimes forget.
Stories told and untold
I have been sitting working on putting together some notes on my children’s ancestry while I listen to the news on NPR. A large portion of the news is focused on the devastation in China. I listen, stunned, to the personal, tragic stories of individuals waiting as workers dig through rubble looking for children, parents and other family members. The contrast between my cataloguing of my ancestors’ lives and the family trees that have been brought to an end in the span of only moments is stark. So many people lost their lives and so many people have only one child, that whole lineages ended abruptly; a forest of family trees has been felled.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
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