One guy just straw-stabbed and shot-gunned an entire Capri Sun in ten seconds. Another dude is sloppy swallowing cupcakes way past his personal capacity. Someone tells him he’s had enough and he throws a fit like a total baby. There’s always that certain point past which each burp threatens to become barf. Some girl dances to no music in the corner while another two chicks are acting too cool for this shindig. They still smile as a bunch of bro’s make cross-eyed faces and poot noises from their belly buttons. A brave one gets macho when he tries to steal another man’s new remote control car. Calmer heads prevail, and we narrowly escape a full-on bar brawl. By the end of the house party, I survey the damage: someone missed aim in the bathroom, ground littered, faces covered in slobber, sprinkles stuck in hair, and an overall expression of zombie-ism. Ever responsible, I tell the crowd “Y’all are drunk, and I need a nap”, and send them on their way. Lucky for me they all came with designated drivers… because they are four.
As I’m cleaning icing up off the floor with a toothpick and a prayer, it occurs to me we’ve reached the stage in life in which a two-hour, mid-afternoon toddler birthday party has all the trappings of the crunkest, hypest, cray-cray-est throw down. A bunch of sugar-doped kids,
Animal Bounce House, and a little freedom makes for one riotous rager. Today we’re still sleeping it off, hung over and sure to regret some things when we sober up (I’m looking at you, kid who tried to fly off side of inflatable castle. You too, kid who licked paint during crafts time).
While Thomas begs for more frosting (Hair of the dog, eh?) and I settle in for a nap, enjoy these pics of the boy’s Racecar Party.
A PHOTO JOURNAL OF HALF-PINT HEATHENISM
KIDS THESE DAYS
THE PROBLEM WITH AMERICA