Thirty-nine Hours

Thirty-nine hours.

My Dad’s big move from the 5 bedroom house to the 2 bedroom condo is was today, and I’ve been out there all day every day this week packing and organizing what’s going, what’s staying and what’s going to be donated. There is much craziness, especially since Son’s birthday party is on Saturday.

At this point there is nothing done for this party, except for the invitations. I have not finalized the menu, done the goodie bags, decided on a cake, nor gone to Costco, Publix or Walmart.

And I’m not crazed. Which is very surprising, considering that this is the only large party I throw each year, how anal I usually get (just ask my sister-in-law) and how normally 90 percent of what needs to be done would be done by now.

So, tomorrow I will take Son to his swim lesson and afterwards drop him off with my sisters (who came into town to help with the move). Then I will do two weeks worth of errands in one afternoon, start the set-up, bake most of the cakes (I think I’m doing cars, which means several separate cakes). Saturday I’ll have plenty of help from my sisters, which is good since I’ll need at least four hours to decorate the cake(s) and the party starts at two.

I know I don’t have to put new Son-centric labels on the Play-doh or spend six hours on a cake, but I enjoy it, and so does Son.  Last year he and his friend A sat mesmerized by the train cake I made, practically drooling with anticipation.  Son has an unhealthy love of cake, but really, who can blame him?

So, do it I will. And if there are only burgers and dogs and two types of hors d’oeuvre instead of ten, so be it.

And in forty-eight hours I will get to relax and enjoy the memory of my son’s glee as he blows out the candles, sees his friends and plays hard enough to make him fall asleep before his head hits the pillow.

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