Eowyn's Elegant Rager

How do you know when you've ruined your kids?

I'll tell you. 

The moment you regal them with tales of your favorite childhood birthdays and they respond:

 *Pause*

 "I am sorry, Mom. You must have been so sad to just have cake, ice-cream and a few games."

Did your parents even love you?

Umm. Where to begin.

Points for empathy, kid. I guess.

(Actually, I had a great childhood. But that's not that point.)

Really, I have only myself to blame. Oh and maybe Pinterest.

Here's the deal:  Eowyn described her ideal 9th birthday as an elegant dinner party of enchiladas on fine bone china with a few intricate crafts, a mani/pedi station and a photo booth.

To which, I responded, "Sure. I can do that."

You see, when every kid's birthday party is like a cirque du soleil styled bat mitzvah, then, yes, I suppose cake and ice-cream seems like you're not even trying.

Well, we did it:

Fancy party dresses were the recommended attire according to the Lilly Pulitzer invites that requested attendance.  A hand-crafted fabric banner and fresh market flowers created a festive but elegant ambiance.

I made about one million chicken enchiladas with house-made re-fried beans.

And then ended up with about the same number at the end of the night.
(Swing and miss on the Mexican cantina front.)

Apparently, elementary-age girls are not huge fans. Just my senorita.

With the aid of my lovely, indulgent friends (to whom I owe a kidney), Mara and Jamie, we manicured and pedicured the entire posse of party goers.

And then glitterized flip flops.

And beaded ribbon necklaces.   

And poured faux champagne like we earned a bachelors in it.

. . . A bachelors which I  now regret getting in anything other than child entertainment and laundry.  My two great passions.

Confession: I even painted all one hundred wooden beads. One. Hundred. Small. Beads. By. Hand.

It was like self-flagellation.

Yes, my kids are most certainly ruined. By my own paint-brush wielding fist.

So, one day, as they relay my many failings to a nodding, sympathetic shrink, I pray they take into account what a bitterly disappointing childhood of minimalist birthday parties I heroically survived.

I mean, the made for TV movie practically writes itself.