So now that I’ve committed to this, I find myself wondering why. As in, why am I compelled to do this?
Do you remember that scene in The Breakfast Club, where Ally Sheedy’s character dumps her purse on the couch? Well, this is my invitation to you to see all the crap that I carry around inside my heart and head. I’m an exhibitionist, I admit it. I love to complete those e-mail questionnaire thingees that everyone claims to hate but everyone seems to forward anyway. (What did you have for dinner? What is under your bed? What is your favourite inane question?) For goodness sake, I dragged Beloved onto the flippin’ CBC to discuss our infertility issues on national television. So when the opportunity arises to have a soap-box in my own little corner of cyberspace, how could I resist?
But ya gotta be careful. Frankie is not really the name of my darling one-year old son, neither is Luigi the name of my gorgeous and brilliant almost-three year old. Just about any name you come across here could be real or fictitious, although I do promise not to make stuff up just to entertain you. Well, if I do make it up, I’ll be sure to let you know – fair enough?
Today’s parental angst:
What to do about birthday parties? With one just past and one in less than a month, I’m agonizing on whether to spend what I don’t have to entertain a bunch of kids I don’t necessarily like for a party that my kids probably won’t remember once they are in grade school. So why do I care? Why do I feel so guilty about having a relatively big party for Luigi’s first birthday, and a small but still lovely family gathering for Frankie? Why am I worried about a party for a bunch of three year olds? Poor Luigi, last year he spent his birthday yakking his guts out with a day-long stomach flu – he’d probably be happy with a birthday that doesn’t involve barfing. I don’t have the time, the brain cells or the cash to do it like I want to, so should I do it at all?
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