Weekend of birthdays

When I was younger my parents just dropped us kids off at our friends' birthday parties then picked us up when the party was over. Not today's generation.

My 4-year-old was invited to four birthday parties last weekend. By today's standards, us parents were expected to attend. I'm all for spending time with my son, but after a long week of work, the last thing I wanted to do last weekend was run around with 400 kids during an interminable birthday marathon.

Saturday morning was to be a party at the zoo and right after that a party at some party place that had slides, jungle gyms and those inflatable jumper rooms.

Sunday was to be a day of back-to-back parties, both at the same place with the slides, the jungle gyms and the inflatable jumper rooms.

I woke up Saturday morning and tried to brighten my spirits. I ate my Wheaties, drank my milk and got my "4-year-old party face" on.

Happening at the zoo

Upon our arrival at the zoo, the kids were tightening the Velcro straps on their shoes as if preparing for battle. Party favors in the form of cookies and candy had already been handed out and consumed and were already taking effect on the kids, who were bouncing, running, spitting and saying things like, "You're a dodo brain" and the unthinkable "I'm gonna go potty on your head."

When we set out to see the animals, the girls of the party all wanted to see cute ones like flamingos and koala bears. The boys all wanted to see animals that ate things like VW buses.

My son and his friends said, "Let's see the alligators." We got to the alligators, and then, without really seeing the alligators, they said, "Let's see the lions."

We hiked up and down some hills and finally came across the lions, only to look at the lions for a fraction of a second before having to move on to see the Komodo dragon. So up and down some more hills we went, and, because the dragon wasn't flying or shooting fire out of its mouth, we moved on yet again.

By the time my family got to the second party that day, my wife and I had been defeated. Our feet felt like giant calluses; we were sticky and pink from the zoo's cotton candy, and we desperately needed a nap. But the fighting had to continue.

Tracks on the back

At the jungle gym place, 300 kids trampled me and ran up and down my back. Party officials warned those of us with shortsleeved shirts to keep our arms crossed when going down the big inflatable slide or we'd risk getting slide burns. The kids all did fine. I, of course, got a giant slide burn that looked like a red racing stripe up my arm.

That night, my wife and I slept like we were in comas. But before we knew it, it was Sunday, and we were at the next party, and kids were running up and down my back again. On the big slide, I got another racing stripe, this one up the side of my other arm.

I thought it'd be fun to document my son's trip down the slide with my video camera. I got some great footage going down behind him, but the camera work got a little messy at the bottom when I had my little accident.

We went from that party directly to the next one. The kids there were fearless.

They bounced all the way down the slide, rolled down and went down in groups of 10. A series of crashes didn't seem to bother them. When my son did a somersault down the slide, 11 sets of kid eyes watched.

The kids behind those eyes decided to follow. The parents at the party were thrilled that my son had taught everyone such a daredevil trick.

The party eventually ended, and my wife and I ultimately survived- just barely.

That night I thought, at what point between my parents' generation and my generation were parents prohibited from just dropping off their kids at their friends' birthday parties? At what point were we expected to go to kids' parties?

It beats mowing the lawn

Looking back at the weekend, however, I really had a good time, even with my slide wounds, cotton-candied face, and toddler size-8 marks up and down my back.

Had my wife and I not gone to the parties, we would've had to mow the lawn, clean the house, balance the checkbook . . . all of which still has to be done.

That stuff doesn't sound like fun at all. Maybe we'll skip those chores again next weekend and crash a few kids' parties at the jungle gym place.

E-mail Michael Picarella at pic@nappic.com or go to www.myspace.com/familymen.