Birthday parties. Are. The. Worst.
Sure, they’re fine if you’re a kid. My daughter loves them, and gets invited regularly.
For me, they’re awkward. I get nervous because I won’t know the other parents, and even if I do know them, I never know what I’m going to say to them. Keep in mind, almost all of these parents are almost 10 years older than me. They got established in their careers, and then had kids, while I did the opposite. It’s like if you pictured Marcia Cross’ character, Bree Van de Kamp, in the show “Desperate Housewives”. Now picture the opposite. That’s me. Or at least, that’s how I feel. Like Mila Kunis’ character in “Bad Moms”. I don’t have everything figured out, by I promise I’m trying my best.
So, while we all have kids, the similarities end there, and I’m supposed to talk about what, exactly, for 2 hours?
It has even gotten to the point where I’ve depended on my daughter for some type of interaction (ironic, right?). Not in a way that I keep her away from enjoying herself and spending time with her friends, but in a way that I immediately feel a little less insecure when she comes around.
How pathetic is that?
Also, eating. Have you ever noticed how many adults don’t eat at birthday parties? It’s sad, but no matter how hungry I am (and I’m always hungry), I will not eat unless another adult is eating. I always get embarrassed to be the only person, other than the children, to accept a piece of cake. If I’m the only one eating, I feel like everybody is watching me, and I HATE being watched. I failed my driver license test twice because it was too much to have someone in the passenger seat next to me, writing down everything I did. I’d rather go hungry than feel like everyone is staring at my while I eat. Which is stupid, I know. But try telling that to my anxiety-ridden brain.