If I were to guess how old he was based on how many years I've aged since he was born or how many pounds I've lost I'd guess he's anywhere between ten years to two weeks old. But, in fact, he's one year old. So my parents and brother flew out from St. Louis and we threw a party at my sister-in-law's.
I think I may never host a one-year-old birthday party again, to preface. If Desmond were to ever have a sibling, s/he's already doomed. Or saved -- because it didn't seem like Desmond was having the best time of his life (that would be the day Dave flailed around the living room pretending to be a gorilla).
But I'd been planning this for months: a simple-to-make but hearty lunch menu of bbq brisket and baked beans (actually, the brisket wasn't that easy and was SUPER expensive. but also very delicious); a guest list that was generous but realistic; a cute photo-postcard invitation, specifying NO PRESENTS (Dave has a fear of plastic overload), but secretly knowing they would come; and, most importantly, the completion of a dissertation chapter to allow for a greater ease of socializing.
And it all turned out fine -- not everyone showed, which was a relief, but enough to make it seem like a party. Desmond, apparently, isn't fond of the limelight. But he was offered several supervised "be-alone" trips outside to calm his fragile nerves. And my mother likes to put things under my nose to look at when I already have quite enough under there to keep my attention. And my dad likes to do things slowly when things, for some reason I've concocted, must be done faster.
Honestly, I was a perspiring, nervously-smiling, frosting-smeared mess by the end of the three hours.But . . . I'm glad I did it . . . ? No, I am. It was fun and I got to see folks I haven't in a while, and come out as the mess I really am.
