Last weekend, in addition to braving the Swedish Hellscape, we went to Party City to buy birthday crap for Henry. I know! We’re officially suburban. Except we also went there the year before. When you need to buy party paraphernalia for the small and easily impressed, the City of Parties is the swift, efficient, terrible option.
And we bought a pinata. I was opposed—is it not a bad idea to arm the children? And then once they’ve dealt many swift and violent blows, to reward them with a mountain of candy? It seems like a poor message—but Husband insisted, and as in all things, I surrendered. So now we have an empty Darth Vader head waiting in our closet, aching to be filled with sugary delights. Soon we will satisfy the Head, only to watch it get split in twain by crazed preschoolers.
Other than the Head, our plans for “Four! The Party” involve watching chocolate-coated children run shrieking about the room as the adults take cover and worry about the future of our already troubled nation. Also there will be Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Pray for us.