This weekend is my son’s last birthday party here. When he was in kindergarten, he met a boy who turned out to have the exact same birthday. The other boy’s mother and I discovered this when they were in first-grade. Eight boys came to my son’s birthday party and then went to his buddy’s party. (I felt sorry for her since they were all crazed by the time they left my house, all high on frosting and hi-jinks.)
Ever since then, we’ve held joint parties, sharing the expense and the madness of a group of hyped-up boys.
This year, they turned 13 and we’ve planned a party at a laser tag place. I am in charge of making cupcakes, vanilla and chocolate. But first, I will have to buy a replacement tip for my frosting-thing because awhile ago, the garbage disposal chewed up my favorite cupcake-frosting tip. Alas.
I can’t even remember turning 13. You’d think it would be a memorable birthday, but for me? I can’t remember much of anything. I mean, it was 1978, so I can rest assured that my hair was hideous and my clothing was probably polyester and I was not watching the popular movie of the day (“Saturday Night Fever”) or seeing the Sex Pistols in concert.
I was, however, watching “Mork and Mindy” and “Happy Days” and seeing “Grease” in the movie theater. Of that I am sure.
But I have no recollection of my birthday. At all.
Can you remember your 13th birthday?