It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

a.k.a. The Birthday of Infamy

For Henry's 8th birthday, we had decided a while ago to get him a new bike.  His old one was comically small, and every time he rode it, I heard the Wicked Witch of the West music in my head.  When I was thinking about a birthday party for him, I came up with what I though was (and everyone reinforced was) a fantastic idea.  But before I tell you my idea, you need to know this about me.  When it comes to birthday parties, it must meet the following criteria:

1.  Cheap (or, shall we say, cost-effective)
2.  Short (time-wise, not necessarily people wise, though many participants are)
3.  Easy  (no elaborate activities)  

 It can't be so high stress that I can't drink a beer during it.  It usually happens at my house, a playground, or the dump (just that one time).  I make a box cake and often include a craft so that I don't have to also do a goody bag.  No mega bounce house.  No pony rides.  No caricaturist.

So, I decide it would be awesome to have a bike parade.  It fit the criteria.  He got a new bike.  I googled  bike party for craft ideas.  Here are some pictures:

So, we decorated the helmets with zip ties (thanks, Tracy!), made nameplates for the front of the bikes, and blew up balloons for the ends of the handlebars.  All good ideas, but it required an unforeseen amount of work on the parents part.  

Aforementioned box cake.  

I also included siblings in the party because I just didn't really think it through.  It was mostly family friends, so I just thought it would be more fun having everyone.  When you have kids as close in age as mine are, their friends kind of overlap anyway.  But, see, by inviting the siblings, I ended up with...

17 children

ages 8 and under

and this picture does not do it justice because, well, they were not all in the street yet

Seventeen children rounded the corner of our house lead by my husband, who was riding a kids scooter.

At 5:00.

On a Friday.

An old man and his wife driving up the street stopped.

Ceci, who had learned to ride a two wheeler that morning, rode right into them.

I thought to myself, "These people will never want to come to another party at my house ever again."

Patrick likened it to the Tour De France, kids version.  Teetering little sisters leaning over into each other, initiating a domino effect of catastrophe and leaving popped balloons and crepe paper in their wake.   Eight and nine year old boys racing ahead while my husband booms, "Slow down!" simultaneously rescuing random 3-year-old boys from sudden curb induced chin-road-rash.  (He really is Superman, isn't he?)  In the end, though, it was only my own children who got hurt.  Malcolm had a wild training wheel and ate it at some point.  All I know is I walked out of the house (I wisely stayed behind to ice the cake.) to find my sweaty husband coaxing a walking Malcolm home and a bewildered looking Chris James carrying a little blue bicycle up the street.