I'm Done with Over-The-Top Toddler Birthdays

And it feels so good.

When my daughter’s first birthday rolled around two years ago, I was excited; eager to throw a fitting fête to celebrate our family’s survival of her first year on earth.

On the morning of however, she woke up with eyes so red and goopy, her top and bottom lashes glued them shut. Her nose oozed mucous like an applesauce pouch left without its cap. Her face was beat red. To top it off, the weather sucked. Outside, where we planned to host said party, relentless rain turned our venue soggy. By 9AM we decided to cancel.

When her second birthday came around, I knew I had to redeem her. And myself.

Born at the end of October, neither the theme of the party nor the inspiration for décor was difficult to decide: Halloween, but make it cute. We’d have pumpkins and mums, helium-filled balloons and twisted crepe streamers. We’d buy one of those Fisher Price bouncy houses for the kids to burn off some energy, and let them get a little extra mileage out of their Halloween costumes. I’d bake a bunch of cupcakes, top them with orange frosting, and provide a smattering of themed sprinkles for the kids to dump on top as they pleased. The parents would drink beer and eat pizza. The kids would drink juice and eat goldfish. We’d listen to music that wasn’t Cocomelon or Ms. Rachel. It would be a quintessential backyard bash: chic and tasteful, yet laid back and worry-free. After last year, I knew how to temper my expectations. Or so I thought.

Party number two didn’t go off as planned either. Our whole family wound up with COVID so we were forced to postpone by a week. By then, Halloween had come and gone. About half of her friends could no longer attend. The DIY 152-piece balloon garland kit I purchased from Amazon wound up looking more like a 22-piece partially deflated and misshapen balloon sperm. My daughter ripped off her Pebbles Flintstone costume after just eleven minutes — too itchy, mommy! — and instead spent the afternoon in a food-stained, once-white onesie. Not a single sprinkle made it onto the frosting of a cupcake, but instead went by the fistful into the mouths of just four choice toddlers. Two kids had a head-on collision in the bouncy house. Our dog ate half a pizza. We ran out of plates.

Again, I was disappointed. The party I had envisioned hadn’t turned out at all as I had planned or hoped. I had wanted to give my daughter the moon, but felt like I had landed not amongst the stars, but instead, somewhere in the midst of the hole-riddled ozone.

However, when all the guests had gone and the house was put back together again, I sat on the couch and scrolled through the photos I had taken throughout the afternoon. A megawatt smile was plastered across her sprinkle-stained face in every single one. I watched the video of the crowd singing her “Happy Birthday,” and noticed how her whole body beamed when we got to the part where we sang her name. I laughed aloud when I regaled Wesley of the moment when I spotted her and her tiny conspirators beelining for the cupcake-decorating station and, within seconds, emptying the bowls of sprinkles into their gaping mouths. And my heart swelled, thinking back to her asking, “Can we have another party tomorrow mommy?” when I finally wrangled her into her bed.

As it turned out, all the things I was worried about didn’t matter. Because what I secretly wanted, although I’m not sure I even realized it at the time, was charming photos worthy of posting on Instagram. Photos that would make other mothers swoon. Photos that would make me look like not only a great mom, but also a great hostess, a great interior designer, a great landscape architect, a great party planner and a great decorator. But what I had neglected to narrow in on, was that this party wasn’t for me — nor was it for my meager collection of followers on Instagram. It was for my daughter, the birthday girl, and she didn’t give a hoot about all that.

When I was a kid, back in the 90’s and early 2000’s, birthdays were a whole different animal. Without the presence of social media, without the internal forecasting of what photos you’d post and what caption you’d write, the focus of a birthday party was pure and simple: the birthday girl or the birthday boy. Sure, there was entertainment (a clown who did face painting!) and decorations (grocery store balloons and iridescent party hats!), and of course there was pizza and cake. But the song and dance stopped there. And, as far as I can remember, it still felt really exciting! It was, by far, the best day of the year.

As I looked back through the photos of my daughter at her second birthday party, it hit me: the point of a birthday party isn’t to show off. It’s to show up. And when I remembered that (and felt a little ashamed in hindsight) I got a lot more excited about throwing the next one. Instead of worrying about the reactions of our guests, I’m focusing on the reaction of my soon-to-be three-year-old — and giving myself a god damn break.