Party foul

Last year was a very transitional year for us.  On top of welcoming another human being into the family, both Rowan and I switched to new schools. About six months of snowballing Mom Guilt and the desire to both foster our new friendships and preserve our old ones led my mom to suggest that we each pick four friends to invite over for a Halloween-themed playdate.  And, alas, the Spooky Halloween Playdate was born.

My mom was very careful to qualify it as a playdate, rather than a party.  Because parties come with certain expectations, and we like to keep the pressure low up in these parts.

For instance, a party requires concerted effort in the planning department -- thinking about things like activities and schedules.  Playdates are a casual affair.

A party suggests the presence of party favors.  At a playdate, offering a friend the privilege of playing with someone else's toys and destroying some else's house is the favor.

A party requires decorating -- often in particular color schemes or themes. Playdates require only mild reorganization of our belongings in an effort to present a superficial sense of order and avoid the perception that we are living in utter chaos.

A party requires carefully compiling a guest list, so as not to offend, leading you to invite everybody you have fond feelings for.  No one ever said, "You threw a playdate and didn't invite me??"

Parties suggest crazy amounts of fun.  Playdates promise nothing.

In an effort to show us how invested she was in the affair, my mom designed a digital invitation, complete with photo.

2012

She put together small treat bags (because, alas, it was Halloween and it seemed necessary) and the event was a raging success (by which I mean nothing in our home was permanently destroyed).

In fact, my mom declared it downright easy.

Which is how the Annual Spooky Halloween Playdate was born.

2013

This year, in an effort to one up herself, my mom bought a large collection of Halloween-themed arts and crafts, all of which could be carried home by our friends in small, colorable Halloween totes.  Coloring these totes seemed the perfect activity for kicking off the playdate. She bought a few decorations, because it seemed somewhat unfestive not to give a little atmospheric nod to the holiday.

With the crafts and decorations ready to go and excitement mounting by the day, it was a slight bit unnerving when, two days prior to the playdate, Rowan's teacher called to tell my mom that Rowan threw up all over the classroom. The next 24 hours were spent biting our nails and waiting to see if Rowan would bounce back in time to party play, or whether we'd need to cancel.

When we were 24 hours in the clear, my mom sent out a reminder, with a special note to the moms in Rowan's class, saying something to the effect of, "Soooooo, you may have heard that Rowan left school in a vomitous blaze of glory yesterday. NOBODY FREAK OUT." She promised Rowan was well.

Which she totally was...right up until the first mom showed up for pick-up at our house just in time to witness Rowan throwing up behind the couch.

It's likely not worth all that much at this point to say that Rowan has been a-okay ever since and, about five minutes after the last guest left, asked for macaroni and cheese and went along with her day as if nothing epically humiliating had just occurred.

Also slightly disappointing was the fact that my mom's overzealousness in the craft-shopping department left us working at the tables a bit longer than we would have liked.  The cue to transition to the actual "playing" part of the "playdate" was when my friend candidly said, "I wish there was more time to play."

After all, we had important things to attend to.  Like cramming an absurd amount of people into our indoor tent.

So to recap, invitations were sent, decorations were hung, activities were planned, goody bags were distributed, too many people were crammed into a very small space and someone barfed at the end.

Sorry, Mom, this was a party.

Please don't be mad if we didn't invite you.

Learning the hard way

Despite her position in the sibling hierarchy as Third Child, Remy is not a flow goer.  To her credit, she is capable of quietly entertaining herself for prolonged periods of time (an admirable third-child trait), but with Rowan and I off at camp this summer and both of us back to all-day school this fall, she has taken up the hobby of pretending she is an only child from the hours of 9 to 3:30.  Enjoying perfectly silent nap times, unencumbered access to every toy and the convenience of rifling through our belongings without the bother of protest or interruption.

Round about the time Remy started to insist (via a vehemently signed "ALL DONE") that the adults in our house quit following her around all the time while she's trying to play, Mom decided it was time for Remy to experience a bit more of the world.  Specifically the part of it that doesn't completely revolve around her every whim.

Which is how two weeks ago Remy discovered she had been dropped off to fend for herself amongst a group of her peers. She rated the experience as somewhere between a root canal and an IRS audit.

We tried to ease her into it with a short visit before The Big First Day.  While she grabbed a ball and got right down to work, the first interruption to her personal agenda (when Miss Staci picked her up for a photo opp) went over about like we would have expected.

Clearly the privilege of being with Miss Staci is of no consolation

She's definitely taken a page from the old Rowan Preschool Playbook.

Rowan's First Week of School (2010)

Luckily she had no idea what all the excitement was about on the morning of her first day of school, so she offered her complete cooperation in posing for the obligatory First Day photos on the stairs.

Ignorance is bliss

What followed at school was roughly 60 percent angry protest, 35 percent pleasant distraction and 5 percent defeat.  Thankfully for all parties involved, Remy's never met a stacking toy she didn't like.

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

While she seems to lack any real appreciation for the fact that Miss Staci (who was, and still is, tight with Rowan back when Rowan frequented the toddler room) is serving as her spiritual guide for the very beginning of her educational journey, I'm pretty sure she'll come around.

The fact is that she's been preceded at this school by a WHOLE LOTTA personality from our family. Who can blame a third kid for trying to make an entrance??

Collecting a collection

My great grandfather Lou liked to collect things.  Coins and stamps, mainly.  And, because there seems to be nothing more thrilling to a collector than passing down the love of collecting, he taught my dad to  collect, too.

Thinking coins and stamps would be a difficult sell to the six-and-under set, my dad introduced us earlier this year to comic books.  Upon learning that being a collector warrants the acquisition of a lot of stuff, Rowan and I were immediately IN.

This is the quick explanation for why we currently pass on Strawberry Shortcake and Barbie in favor of Superman, Raven, Wonder Woman and the Green Arrow (among many, MANY others).  We have unspeakable quantities of Justice League action figures (some in duplicate), piggy banks, statues and trading cards and can identify every character (and their superhuman abilities) like it's our job.  We frequent the local comic book shops, buying comics in triplicate (one for Dad, one for Rowan, one for me), because apparently serious collectors do not share.

This also explains how we found ourselves at Comic Con a couple months ago -- the greatest convention of "comic-book enthusiasts" that ever was.  (My mom says "comic-book enthusiasts" is the nicest, most PC way to refer to the kinds of people who go to Comic Con.)  Which is how we came upon the opportunity to shake hands with a real live hunter of zombies.

OMG, it's Daryl Dixon, people!

Although we are not allowed to watch The Walking Dead for the indisputable fact that we would never sleep again (ever), it is well known in this house that Daryl Dixon (or Mr. Reedus, as we call him) is a zombie hunter.  Despite his obvious celebrity status (LOTS of people were waiting in line to say hi), Rowan gave him the Heisman when it came time to shake hands, citing cleanliness issues.

She did not take issue with the fact that Mr. Reedus has been sprayed by zombie guts on MANY occasions.  Nor did she care that he's clearly a man who forgets to wash behind the ears at times.

It was the black Sharpie all over his hands.  CLEARLY a sign of the unclean.

Pardon me, Mr. Reedus, but I'm just going to stand over here.