Am I the only one who thinks that we always do too much for our kids’ birthdays?

I know there have been some past articles on the subject, but we are 4 weeks and counting until our daughter’s number FIVE birthday, and the storm has been brewing.

Let’s take a look at the list of stuff that needs to happen, and then we can make an objective decision as to whether a five year old really needs this much to happen, just to celebrate the day of her birth (shouldn’t moms be more worthy of gifts on that day?).

Heregoes:

1. Create list of all school and other friends to invite
2. Choose party destination (because we now refuse to do it at our house because it was a literal zoo for the first three years)
3. Coordinate time and date with destination; send deposit
3a. Pay balance and wonder if it would have been cheaper to do it at home
4. Mail invitations (yes, we could have done an evite, but the destination sends you pre-made postcard invites that are more fun); also had to buy postcard stamps for this step
5. Field incoming RSVPs and keep track of who’s coming; casually remind those who do not respond by the day before that we kinda need to know - now
6. Choose bakery from among 73 in local area
7. Choose cake or cupcakes; actually go and pick up chosen baked goods on day of party and bring them to party destination while driving in the breakdown lane and AC blasting (which inevitably causes post-nasal drip)
8. Choose pizza place; coordinate pizza delivery for date and time desired
9. Provide (researched) gift suggestions to all interested relatives
10. Deal with screaming children for 90 minutes
11. Be thankful that we have an SUV (a small one) so we can carry all of the presents home
12. Decide how many of the old toys can go to the Salvation Army
13. Earn PhD in box-opening (online certificate)
14. Convince ourselves that our daughter is not spoiled
15. Vow to have a “small” party next year

Tell me: What has been your partying experience?

I’ve been blabbing to anyone who listen (and even those who won’t) that my first book is coming out in August and it’s super funny and super poignant and buy it, buy it, buy it. It all feels very narcissistic and self-congratulatory and awkward, and this morning I finally realized why.

While the book is about me and my penis and my struggle to recover from a crippling episode of clinical depression, the real hero of the story is my wife.

I didn’t realize it at the time, mostly because my brain was virtually immobilized and up on cinder blocks in some musty repair garage, but my wife saved my life. I was in no condition to be a parent, a husband, or even a guardian. I lost control of myself. I had nothing to offer – emotionally, spiritually, supportively – and yet she stayed. She filled the roles of mother and father, husband and wife, disciplinarian and playmate. She fought for me. She suffered for me. She endured for me when she had no endurance left.

I don’t know how she did it. I spent most of the last year writing the book, going back to those dark, ugly places to re-examine how badly I was broken, how hopeless and helpless I was, how difficult I must have been to live with, talk to, and understand. It is not a pretty picture, and it occurs to me that the easier course of action for her would have been to err on the side of self-preservation. To shield the kids from seeing their father crumble into a huddle mass of tears and weakness. But she didn’t feel that way. She stayed. She stuck it out. And we’re better for it.

With Mother’s Day looming, the annual dread of finding the right gift has again surfaced. But this year, thanks to my newfound awareness of the impenetrable love and support my wife has shown me, the search is harder than ever. Although she’d probably say a convertible Benz would do the trick, I have this feeling that no material possession or sappy Hallmark card could ever do justice to the gratitude I feel for her sacrifice during those tough years.

I suppose the only way to communicate that is to show, not tell.