“You are not going out with that boy unless his parents are driving and that's that. I'm not just Spitting Grits here, young lady!”

. . . My father, John Thomas Cravey, USAF, to me in 1956.

Happy Birthday Party to Me

This birthday party fling is working well.

Since Joanna Leigh turned only three two weeks ago, I had thought that I could get away with one more year of not having a birthday party. Wrong.

Birthday parties have become such thematic productions that we can only dread them. The theme cakes from the grocery store bakeries are beyond awful, even though the kids like them. They are basically a tiny bit of flour and tons of food-coloring Crisco and sugar, shaped into Dora or a Princess, or Spider Man or . . . .

But, hey, this is working better than Christmas.

I’ve decided on a Cupcake tea party theme. We’ll have small tea sandwiches, like mini-grilled cheese, banana, and cucumber. The homemade cake will be a huge cupcake; there’s a cake pan for that as well as anything else you can imagine.

2010 05 25_birthdayparty_0014_edited-1

I read in some book that the terrible twos could spill over into three; it has. But every time I tell Joanna Leigh to stop doing something, like pouring her juice into and out of her play kitchen utensils – and missing everything except the floor and rug – and she stands there looking straight at me with this defiant smirk, I say, “Ok, young lady. There will be NO birthday party until you can do what Mama Jo says.”

“Noooo,” she wails.

“Are you going to do what I say?”

“Yes, m’am.”

As soon as the party is over on Sunday, then it’s only six months’ til Christmas – NOT any too early to begin invoking Santa Claus!

Oh, baaahhh, Humbug, TOTALLY. But, look, if it works, I’ll get past it.

 

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