a pirate party

Before the bounce houses, pony rides, and painted pottery, there were simpler birthday party days.  We were "deprived" but didn't know it.  Ignorance was 80's bliss. 

Peanuts. My dad would throw peanuts on the frosted December lawn for a competitive  scavenger hunt. This was the highlight of many a birthday party at my home.  

Prizes were awarded for peanut capitalists.

No participation trophies for losers.

Everyone went home with frost-bite. But happy.

After the lawn games (should it start to sleet), we might retreat indoors to stencil something stupid- pre-Pinterest rejects that my mom would later (guiltlessly) trash.

She was rarely sentimental about the crap we created. And I really respect that.

A humble box-mix cake lacking fondant with no sculpted scene from Frozen fed an army of friends. 

And if we were lucky, my parents splurged on soda.  

And That. Was. It.

Nowadays, children's birthdays are the cirque de soleil of parties. The pressure to perfectly execute a synchronized themed soiree for my offspring is -well- overwhelming.

Which is in keeping with the spirit of the actual birth day:  I labor, for hours, to produce something worthy of professional photography. Then, I pass out from exhaustion, in elastic waistband pants to reward my work with a not-small piece of cake.  

So, this October, I determined that Kincaid's 6th birthday would be a nod to those golden Reagan years. When Iran still considered us a threat.  And Russia still feared our president.

A simpler time-When kids still ate peanut butter and fluffernutter. On white bread. When we drank water- if mixed with Kool-aid. 

A time before clean-eating-when hot dogs boasted nitrates and Little Debbie stocks soared.  When our enemy was Fidel and peanuts and gluten posed no threat.

A world where you could host a birthday party at *deep breath* McDonalds. With no shame.

Those wanton dietary days are gone. Hallelujah! We are culinarily-reformed.

Apparently, the trade-off was our foreign policy solvency. Clean eating = Iran treaty.

Well, one thing I did not politicize was the pirate-party we hosted on our villa lanai.  Treasure hunts with rhyming clues, scavenging for gold coins and peg-leg races  charmed the motley crew of guests.

A hooked cake, Pirates Booty and hot dogs (free of nitrate- because I care what others think) satisfied the starving mateys.

The reward for my labor? The beaming grin fixed upon my swarthy six year old's face.  And like six years ago, I would do it all over again for the love of that dimpled smile.

And the promise of eating cake in my sweatpants.

the lawn-birthday-party master

Motley pirate crew 

Blackbeard

Three legged-race mates

And the race begins

Not everyone loved the game

Most dangerous pirate rogue

pirate treasure hunt clues

the booty

My pinterest fail cake

the smile that made it worth it. 

pirate vini for the fair ladies