And the Baby Turned Five

Ainsley's birthday party was upon us, so I was busily hanging curtains in John and Kolbe's room.

Don't analyze this.

Really, don't even try.

Would anyone be entering John and Kolbe's room during the party? Not if I could help it. No, no, no, no. John and Kolb'es room was designated The Repository of All The Things. By Things I mean the treadmill that we are finally getting rid of (but not before the party). And the computer that is housed in a public area. The fish tank we think we're in the process of restoring to use. And anything else I rendered superfluous when a legion of little girls (and by "legion", I actually mean six) came through my front door. John and Kolbe could enter their room at a low crawl and exit through the small window on the far left. The one sporting a new curtain. Dave stumbled into The Repository, surveyed the damage, and quipped, "Hmmm, I like what you've done in here."

You know, I am not an entertainer.

I wish I were. Really, I do.

I love the idea of just opening my door and being all gracious and inviting and relaxed. And I can do this. As long as you don't call the event A Party. Call it Hospitality and not Entertaining, and I do just fine. I have a long and checkered history with regard to Entertaining and probably am in need of prayers for healing. I think it dates back to Tim's First Communion which was a lethal combination of bad weather, little sleep, lots of guests, burnt ribs, wildly fluctuating hormones, and a late miscarriage in progress.

Seriously, a nightmare. Night. Mare.

But back to the birthday party . . . I made the birthday thing easier on myself by not sending out invitations but merely texting a few friends saying something like "I'm having a few girls over for Ainsley's birthday." Somehow erring on the side of Get Together versus Party kept my panic at bay.

I forced myself to remember the fact that they're five. No matter what I did, they'd love it, right? A little chocolate, a little fluff, balloons or bubbles, and we'd be good.

I headed over to Pinterest because that's what we do these days. Just when I think I've got the girly-girl thing moving in the right direction, Pinterest dispels this illusion once and for all. Myth busted, busted, busted. Really, head over there and search "little girl's tea party."

I dare you.

Cookies in the shape of lipstick.

Cupcakes garnished with -- and I'm not even making this up -- nail polish.

More tulle than the Spring Formal.

Dining rooms more lavish than a wedding reception I once attended at the Ritz Carlton.

Did these mothers paint their dining room chairs pink just for the party? Or did they rent them?

As for me, I washed the tea pots. I bought balloons. We had place cards -- Ainsley wrote them out. With red crayon. Does that count? We had tiaras and wands. True, they came from the dollar store. Do I still get credit? I think I do.

No matter.

I may be out of my league with all things fluffy, but we had a nice tea party, a very nice party indeed.

I made cucumber sandwiches. The girls went for the Goldfish and M and M's. They chose milk over tea. In a sad and cutting development, they were thoroughly unimpressed with the sugar cubes that I located after scouring store after store.

Three stores and $5 for 8 ounces of sugar cubes. It's all in the details, people.

But those girls giggled and blew their horns and ooohed and aaahed and were everything that is sweet and fun about little girls.

The baby is now five.

Quirky and funny and smart and full of life she is, my girl with the blue eyes and the yellow hair, the soft cheeks and the flair for the dramatic.

And I'm so glad, so very glad she's mine.

Love, love, love you, Ainsey Boo!