Sunday

Yesterday Bump and his mom went on the Post Hunt. They did okay (but would totally have won had I been on their team, obvs), finishing four of the five questions and nearly completing the final clue. Bump's mother proclaimed it "wicked fun" and they can't wait to do it again next year.

Meanwhile, I went to a birthday party for one of Lumpyhead's classmates. Because a dear friend took pity on me and agreed to watch Lula and Nathan Jr, I didn't have to attend this party with all of my children. That's the one bright spot of this incident.

Hey, this just in: birthday parties for children kind of suck.

Let me clarify: birthday parties that are great fun for children kind of suck for the adults.

The event began with me floundering around Falls Church, looking for a tiny unfamiliar strip mall and the damn GPS unit while my cellphone rang.

I drove past the strip mall twice. I left the GPS at home. I pulled into a laundromat parking lot to answer the phone. (It was Bump, who needed me to send a text as part of the game. The reason Bump did not have the text-capable cellphone with him is a whole 'nother eyeroll-worthy long story.)

The birthday boy's parents had the good sense to host this shindig at one of those "activity places" where the 20 kids in attendance run around like crazy, eat cake and ice cream, run around some more, then go away. The party ends at the specified time and you don't have to kick anyone out. Nor do you have to clean up.

Genius.

Expensive genius, perhaps. But genius nonetheless.

(For Lumpyhead's birthday party later this month, I will not be exhibiting this particular brand of genius. Children are coming to our house, where I hope to entertain them with sugar and loud noises in the comforting confines of our rental backyard. If it rains, I'm totally fucked.)

(I'll have booze for the adults, though.)

Bump is the primary parent at the preschool. He knows all the children, their parents, and their quirks (the kids' and the parents'). The children know him. So, for example, when he offers to help a child with a juicebox, the child does not stare at him silently, with eyes full of fear.

Nothing says "happy birthday" like reminding small children that strangers are scary.

During the cake-and-ice-cream portion of the event, some kid at Lumpyhead's table farted. I noticed the smell and my first instinct was to check everyone's diaper. I'm happy to say that I kept that instinct in check, because the whole room would have looked at me like Terrorized Juice Box Kid had I started pulling at the waistbands of completely potty-trained preschoolers.

Lumpyhead caught a whiff a few seconds later, announcing "It smells like poop in here." It was a good thing he said something, and timed it right, or I would have definitely blamed the fart on him. (Catch the syllabus for the upcoming course offering: Using Smelt It, Dealt It to Your Advantage at Birthday Parties, taught by Professor Lumpyhead.)

There was a Star Wars themed cake with matching plates and tablecloths and napkins, so when some kid requested a fork instead of a spoon, I brought it to him and said "May the forks be with you."

I said it really loud.

None of those little brats gave the Visiting Kidnapping Pedophile so much as a pity chuckle.

At least the mom next to me laughed.