The first year, the girl turned two. I was pregnant with the boy and my huge belly felt like it was strained under one of the few summer tops that still fit me. We invited lots of friends. We had lots of food. The kids were handed pails and shovels when they arrived and sent off to play. There was cake. I loved it and decided that this is what a party should be.
The next year, the girl was three and boy almost one. He wore his blue striped romper and walked around the park holding onto my two fingers. Our friends were there and so were the girl's. Most of our extended family were there. There was too much cake and lots of wasps.
This year, the party was small. Us. Old friends. New friends. Most of the kids were the girl's friends and their brothers, who are also the boy's friends. I was at the park early hiding cut out letters of the alphabet for our scavenger hunt. A friend helped me transport all our supplies to the park in our wagon. The husband frantically cleaned our messy house in case the rain didn't hold off until after the party and we needed to return home for cake.
The rain didn’t hold off. A light drizzle fell throughout the party but we all ignored it. The kids hunted for letters, decorated their snack bags and threw the sad looking piñata we had made in the air like a basketball to break it open. There were healthy snacks and once again, too much cake.
There was walking hand in hand with friends, lots of hugs and impromptu picnics on the ground of snacks dumped out of snack bags. Like any good party there were tears. The husband took the boy home when his repeated crying told us it was nap time. I took the girl home when she started crying about not being passed the soccer ball.
The party broke up. Until next year.