Just call me Colonel Smith.

For some reason, the kindergarten and first grade years are birthday party hell years.

It’s probably because the kids haven’t started thinking that members of the opposite sex are gross yet.

So if a kid has a party, he or she invites the whole class.

Even if only half of the kids in the class have parties, that is still 10 parties a year.

Which I would say is about average.

When you see that invitation in the mail, you consider hiding it from your child.

You slowly open up the envelope.

Please,

don’t

let

it

be…

Fuck.

Chuck E. Cheese.

So now you start plotting.

You must find a way to convince your husband that the alternative to taking your kid to the Chuck E. Cheese birthday party is much worse than sitting in that germ-infested hell hole…

I’m not very good with names.

Now that it’s June, I only know the names of three of the moms in Number 5’s preschool class.

A while back, one of the moms (whose name I did NOT know) handed me an invitation to a party.

It was in a business-sized envelope.

Phew.

No chance of a Chucky Cheese invitation in there.

Those babies are always the ones printed on the home computer.

Which means the party is at the kid’s house.

Which, if I have to go to a party, is my favorite kind of party to attend.

So anyway, she explained to me that this was not a birthday party.

It was a beginning-of-the-summer-bring-your-whole-family-luau kind of a party.

I asked if that applied to us.

The bring your whole family part.

She said yes.

And we were able to arrange our schedule so that we could actually all go.

I had told my husband this wasn’t a birthday party; it was just a party party.

I don’t think he remembered, because kept asking why we were all invited to this kid’s birthday party.

He was a little confused.

We got there a little late.

Like we do to pretty much everything.

I saw one husband and wife that I knew.

It was Number 3’s  baseball coach from last year and his wife.

Who I like a lot.

She’s one of the moms whose name I actually know.

And my husband knows them, so he’d have someone to talk to.

Now my husband is worse with names than I am.

So as we are walking across the lawn to the backyard where all the people were, he asked me,

“What are these peoples’ names again?”

We were late, two of the kids were already crying, and there were a couple of piles of dog poop in the grass, so I was a little distracted.

And annoyed.

“I have no idea,” I said.

He looked at me.

“You have no idea what their names are?” he asked, incredulously.

“No. I don’t,” I said, giving him a glare.

So we made it to the backyard and the kids scattered.

I looked around for the hostess but didn’t see her.

So I went over to the baseball coach and wife whose name I know.

We started talking.

And then my husband came over.

He shook the baseball coach’s hand.

“Thanks for having us,” my husband said to the baseball coach.

TBC just looked at my husband.

“Yeah, this is great,” my husband continued.

TBC was perplexed.

“Well, it’s not my party,” TBC said.

“But I’ll take credit for it if you want me to,” he chuckled.

Ha.

My husband was more confused than I thought.

And now it was clear why he couldn’t believe that I didn’t know the names of the people hosting the party.

Because he thought we were at someone else’s house.

I’m sure I was clear with my husband.

I don’t know.

Maybe I wasn’t.

But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him know that.

Because I’ve just set myself up to avoid all future Chuck E. Cheese parties.

I can already picture it.

“Today is that party at Chuck E. Cheese for Number 4’s friend,” I will tell him.

“Why are you telling me?” he will ask.

“Because we decided that you were going to take her…

Don’t you remember? Or did you forget?

Again…”

Aaaaah.

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