At this time next week a dozen children between the ages of two and nine will be delighted with all their prizes, enchanted with the decorations, caught awestruck by the surprises and playing peacefully in the yard while their parents enjoy lunch and sip mimosas.
Or not.
My "children" will shortly turn 21 and 20 respectively. To say I'm a little rusty on the ways of kids is like naming Janet Jackson the diva of decorum.
My nieces and nephews are 1,000 miles away. My role with them is easy. Send them gifts. Send them checks. Take them shopping when I go up there. When they come here, I take them to the beach and then shopping.
Last night Charlie and I babysat Graham, 6, and Saskia, 9, and applied much the same principle. We gave them gifts when they arrived, ordered pizza for dinner and took them to see "Home of the Range."
But it wasn't the Cinderella Disney of my childhood, or even the Little Mermaid of my girls' day.
When Rosanne voices the role of a sassy show cow who says something to the effect of "don't stare, they're real" over a shot of her udders... I felt old. (Although I did appreciate Bonnie Raitt singing the almost blues number).
Tommorrow, we go to Jacksonville for the party prizes and provisions that are not available locally. (advice to anyone relocating, if there is no Target in the area think twice. It's not that the store is the be-all, but it does tend to cluster with other retail establishments that you won't notice are missing until you need one).
I keep telling myself we've thrown parties with five times the guest list and these guys are about one 1/5 the size of our standard guest.
And their parents will be here.
And I've ordered a case of champagne.

Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs