Warning: this post contains language my mother will be offended at. I’m still a little seething from my experience. Mom, cover your ears.

Rules for kids’ birthday parties:

1. Don’t hold the party more than 15 minutes away from your house and the general vicinity the invitees live in.

2. Put the address of the location on the invitation.

As you know from my last post, this was birthday party weekend. Today was the obligatory party; a classmate of Max’s invited him. Tomorrow’s the one I really want to go to; it’s my friend Miss Britt whose daughter is having the party. Needless to say, I started out with the wrong attitude about today’s party.

I spoke to the mother about the party at school. She told me the general vicinity of where the party was when she noticed she didn’t include the address but I wasn’t really listening. Blah blah, he takes gymnastic lessons there. No big. I’ll just Google it.

I Googled it. A single address appeared. One about 30 minutes away. That’s fucked. Why would you have a party so far from where we all live? That’s a little inconsiderate. So I planned well, left early, and rolled up right on time.

Max and I go in the gymnastics place. Didn’t recognize anyone.

Me: Hi, uh, are you guys here for a birthday party?

Woman with fake breasts: We sure are!

Me: Eric’s?

Woman: Um, no.

Me: Oooh. Is there another location?

Woman: I think so.

So now we are officially late for the party that is 30 minutes in the other direction from my house. That’s an hour from where we currently stand. I do the courteous mom thing and call, a bit ticked, to the mom who left the effin’ address off the card. Oh I’m so sorry, blah blah blah. I told her we’d be late.

So I drive through the toll roads yet again and wrangle my phone to get a location as I’m driving. Why would she assume her location was the only one? That’s kinda rude. Whatever. I can’t let Max down.

I call husband so he can laugh at me. I’m getting madder, since it’s Saturday in Orlando and the world is headed west on I-4 to either IKEA or theme parks. I take the wrong exit. I navigate back to I-4. I then go the wrong way on John Young. I then go the wrong way on LB McLeod. By then I am a seething, frothing mess. I have been in the car an hour going to the wrong location because a crunchy granola mom can’t be bothered to identify on the fucking invitation which fucking location her fucking kid’s party is at. Fuck it.

Sorry Max, we’re not going to make the party.

I felt worse about how sad he was but after I promised he could pretend it was his birthday and open the walkie-talkies we got the kid and have cookies, he seemed over it. Thank god for the elastic sadness of children.

As I’m complaining to said husband yet again, a woman on an electric wheelchair heads out into the middle of a busy street without fucking looking. FUCK! I do not need to hit or yell at a physically challenged person today. I break down in tears with a stream of epithets (for you non-English degree holders: cuss words).

I seethed for a few hours. I hoped that everyone else made the same dilemma and didn’t show at the party. Then I realized I couldn’t really blame this woman because I really hadn’t listened to her tell me where the place was, but I try not to be hard on myself, therefore she received the brunt of my anger.

I envisioned me meeting her at school and biting her head off (physically) like a praying mantis. Then I decided I’d just be cool and say It just took so darn long to get from the other location we didn’t have time to make your little ole party before you served the cake. Bat my eyelashes and leave it at that. Max doesn’t even play with her stupid kid. Gah.

Britt, your party better be good. Or else we’re taking Emma’s present and staying our asses home.

Sorry for all the foul language (but not really). I’m trying to be honest and real on this blog and FUCK sometimes I just need to let it out.

I have a block when it comes to buying presents. I end up doing an ok job but being in the store, I’m paralyzed.  I don’t want to succumb to the pressure that 4-year-olds are already putting on us to buy them character stuff (I know I get a mite irritated when our friends cop out and buy Max Power Rangers. How hard is that?). We have years for that, right? And I admit I kinda want to be known as the cool mom that bought this really forward-thinking-organic-recycled-education toy. I want moms to like me. I know the kid could care less.

So imagine my dismay when not once but twice in the past few days I’ve found myself at Target in the toy aisle. Asking Max what his friends want is worthless because he just picks out what he wants.

“Mama, Emma probably wants Bakugans. Or Transformers.”

I’m not that dense.

Either sex is hard to shop for (is he a rough and tumble boy? His mom seems more earthy. I bet she’d like it if I got a nice wooden puzzle), but girls are the worst. I don’t know their world. I wasn’t all princessy when I was a kid (nevermind that there wasn’t a franchise on being a princess back then) so I never like to assume a girl is all pink-loving. But then again, she might not be into toy bugs.

It’s a delicate balance, gift buying for kids. Adults are much easier. A bottle of wine, some nice smelling soap. Easy.

At least I know my toy will wind up at the bottom of a toy box with the rest of ‘em.

And just so you know, Miss Britt, I bought Emma stuff that I liked. You’ll laugh when you see.

Max is at home sick. For him that means being whiny and puny for an hour then watching tv and acting normal the rest of the day. The school freaked me out by telling me on the phone he might have pinkeye. He doesn’t.

This is Max being sick.

For New Year’s, I resolved to take a day off every week or so. Ha. Hasn’t happened. Being on social media, blogging, and frenetically checking my email can fill every day. But here was the excuse for me to take off at least a few hours (just as soon as I finish writing this post. And checking my email again).

I made a very good, healthy lunch (read: tortilla pizza, tomato soup and grapes. that’s healthy, right?) and swept the floor. I cuddled with him. I felt his head. I will read next to him as he watches Courage, the Cowardly Dog (weird choice for a 4-yr-old to watch, right?). I will play Good Momma today.

Too bad by tomorrow I’ll be short tempered and impatient again.

Why does he always get sick on a Friday? So I get 3 long days with my sick little boy?? Or better yet, when Monday’s a holiday? Why can’t kids get sick midweek so you have time to mentally recover??