I had to pick up my daughter from a b-day party, not just any party but a teddy bear building b-day party at the mall. We came in on the wrong end—I don’t know the mall too well. Trying to find the stupid food court we passed a fancy jewelry—diamonds are forever kind of store, a kiosk selling some kind top for women where, for some reason, the manikins had real pointy breasts, a sporty shoe store with an athlete-on-steroids kind of ethos, and a zillion other stores one after another. The party had started off with some sort of teddy birthing experience (the teddy bear technicians wear nursing smocks, they weigh and measure the bears, and give them a name) and then finished up in the food court with cake and ice cream.
They were not hard to find (once I found the food court) as there were twelve giggly girls wearing b-day hats and holding teddy bears. Watching the party I felt a bit over-stimulated, very thankful I’d only be spending a few minutes. At one point I said to the mother, “So, you are really getting into the girl thing, going all out?” (she has two boys who are now adults; she had her 7-year old daughter with her second husband) and she replied, “Oh, this is the cheapest party we’ve done so far.” I mumbled something unintelligible while thinking about saying, “Wow, I think this one party probably equals the total amount of money we have spent on all parties for each of our three children.”
I was with my four-year old and it looked like the eating cake ritual was just getting started, so we went for a few escalator and elevator rides while we waited. Always a delight to see his pure joy at something so simple.
I finally pulled my daughter away—one more party favor to pass out as the girls finished up. Making it through the mall back to where I parked, we passed some sexy underwear store (probably Victoria Secrets but I’m not certain). An overpowering perfume smell emanated out the door which just about gagged me; as if they need additional sensorial grasps on the public. By the time I reached the car, I felt physically ill.
On the way home I asked my daughter about the party—she was so excited about the whole bear experience she could barely get all the info out. I was already nervous that she’d ask for a teddy bear building party, but I tried to empathize with her enthusiasm. Her only complaint was that the b-day girl had to do everything first: “Ok now the b-day girl gets her bear first…her teddy bear gets three outfits because she’s the b-day girl…isn’t the b-day girl’s bear so nifty with its little voice box” (my daughter thought every bear should have come with a voice box).
At this point, I couldn’t take it anymore; I felt mentally and emotionally smothered by the grinning freshly birthed bears, lingering Victoria Secret perfume, pointy manikin breasts, and spoiled children shoving in ice cream with one hand while hanging on to their new born bear with the other: ALL which, somehow, represented pure and simple joy for each of the girls, including my very own daughter.
4 comments:
A timely post, CI, as we have just finished Son's fifth birthday party. We had some boys over and let them run around after eating pizza, pausing only to eat cake and ice cream, scream, and open presents.
Son's friend had one of those Build-A-Bear parties, but he only took two friends with him, which seemed reasonable to me.
Your description of the girl party took me back to my childhood, when the birthday girl was the Queen of the day (and got to do everything first!). I never had such a party, but I attended such functions. This may have been when I acquired my "ugly friend" complex.
Before long it will be the girls having those dancing with boys in the basement parties and then you'll long for the traumatic Teddy Bear parties. Sorry, but it's true.
At least I can understand the desires involved with dances in the basement.
What, no picture of the bear?
Only joking. I have contemplated your post and have concluded that you are allergic to the mall. You should have a talk with the historian--once he went into ZCMI to buy a pair of khaki trousers and within two minutes he looked so anxious that I asked him if he wanted to leave. He did. It was as if all that merchandise physically repelled him forth.
I am allergic to malls. Generally I make one trip a year in order to take advantage of a sale at Mervyns--my wife still has to push me there and comfort me along the way.
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