I have officially become a rebel. A square peg in a round hole. A non-conformist.
Call me what you want, but I am ditching the party bag.
ditching. the. bag.
Was that a GASP? Did you drop your coffee on your keyboard? Did you think, how could she?
Listen, my daughter is having a birthday party tomorrow. I booked the roller rink, sent out the invites, need to get the cake, etc. etcetera. RSVPs in. All set. And then.. BAM. I start having anxiety about the stupid party bag.
The dreaded bane of my existence. A little bag filled with a bunch of crap that almost never makes it out of the back seat of my car. And if it does, the contents more than likely end up in the dog’s mouth or underneath my foot, which of course is then followed by my cursing up a storm after having stepped on a very cheap, and sharp, plastic kazoo.
For the record, I HATE party bags. Always have. I see no point to the party bag. You host a party, shell out all the cash for this, that and the other thing. Give them cake. Ice cream. And experience. The pleasure of your company. Yada. And then you are expected, even encouraged, to present your guests with something for coming to your party that you threw and paid for.
I don’t get it.
Of course, if the party bags were like the ones they give the Hollywood A-listers at the post Oscar celebrations, that’s a whole different story. Fantasy land this is not. Just small town Connecticut. No iPad minis or GoPros in these bags. Maybe some Pinterest-worthy party bag assemblage by some crafty moms. You know who you are. And we know I am not one of them.
Have you been there? The Love-Hate relationship with party bags and their breakable contents. The cute little temporary tattoos that no longer look cute when they are on your wall. The old-fashioned silly putty that was fun when you could copy comics from the paper but is no longer fun when you are waiting for the dog to poop out the neon green blob you begged your kids not to leave around for him to get. The little rubber ball attached to a band that you are supposed to hit with a paddle only it breaks the first time you try.
Am I right?
I am. It’s been a long haul with the bags.
I am taking this first step. A baby step if you will.
Come to the party. Roller Skate. Have fun with your friends. Eat cake. Go home.
And next year. No presents. I tried to convince my daughter that this year, in lieu of presents,we should have the kids bring donations for the local food bank. I told her all the other kids were doing it and that her birthday is so close to Christmas and all that.
“Next year Mom.” That’s all she said.
Fine. A little compromise then.
I told her that I was ditching the party bag. Her eyes welled up. Big brown blurry discs of pure sadness. I. Am. The. Meanest. Mom.
She didn’t even have to say it.
Eh. She’ll get over it.
And so, I am certain, will the 10 little 8 year-olds at the party tomorrow who leave. Empty handed.