I had grand plans for my daughter’s first birthday party, which required months of preparation. I made my own invitations that featured her photo in her “Birthday Princess” feather-trimmed hat. I created a collage to hang at the party that took our guests through her first year of life via month-by-month photos. I bought pink roses for the table and outfitted the house in a pink princess theme. I even ordered two cakes – one large for our guests that featured pink ballet shoes and a smaller version for my daughter to tear into that complemented the design of the larger cake.
Yes, I’d created a first birthday utopia right there in our home. Her actual birth date should have prepared me for the unexpected. She was scheduled to be born via Cesarean on December 14th, and being the semi-workaholic that I am, I made the decision to ignore the pelvic pressure and pain I was experiencing on December 8th and went in to work.
By around 10:00 a.m. I was struggling to walk from the restroom to my desk, so I thought I might call my obstetrician’s office. I procrastinated, and my water broke at my desk at 10:45 a.m.
My beautiful daughter was born at 3:10 that afternoon – a full six days before she was scheduled and fifteen days before she was due. So from her debut in the world, she was full of surprises and determined to thwart any attempts I made at planning. After all, she dared to be born when I needed a pedicure and a house cleaning!
Despite her early warnings, I proceeded with my elaborate first birthday plans. The big day finally came, and the party was to begin at 2:00 p.m. I had everything in order: pink balloons were flying from the mailbox, a video of that surprising day on December 8th was playing, and the décor was impeccable. A few family guests began to arrive around 1:30 or so, and my daughter had gone down for her nap at 1:00 p.m. I had plans to wake her around 2:00, so there was plenty of time.
By 2:00, we had a house full of guests – friends, relatives, and their children – probably 25 in all. I should mention that my dear daughter is quite introverted like her mother, and she is also fond of routine. Had I planned for these factors, I might have woken her prior to 2:00. However, I enter her room and dress her in her party dress; we then exit her room to make her grand entrance to her first party.
As she raises her little head from my shoulder, she takes one look around the room and begins to wail. Not sniffle or fuss, but bawl her little eyes out. Of course, our gracious guests think it is cute and don’t bat an eyelash. Half an hour later, she is still on my shoulder, looking terrified and bursting into tears when anyone speaks to her. I look at my husband and say, “We’d better move this along,” while pointing to our lounging daughter’s back. I sit in the designated gift opening chair in the living room, and my husband sits on the floor at our feet. I try to place my daughter in my lap, but when I let go of her, her little body remains attached, arms and legs wrapped around my torso.
“Ok, I guess I will open presents now,” I say as I begin unwrapping boxes and opening bags. I vocalize the obligatorily “ooooh” and “ahhhh” over the books, toys, and clothes, all the while attempting to engage my daughter in her gifts. “Remember how we practiced this, honey,” I ask her as her grip on me tightens. I hold her new Razorback cheerleading suit to her back, as someone takes a photo.
Once the gifts are over, I rapidly declare that we should move on to the games. I have purchased a pull-string piñata for the little ones. When I am unable to engage my daughter with the piñata, I turn it over to the other little ones at the party. The pull strings are apparently much more durable than expected, so I then turn it over to my six-year old son and his eight-year old cousin. They sufficiently beat the candy, rubber ducks, and other paraphernalia out of the princess piñata and the children fill their bags.
“Ok, that’s done. Let’s move on to cake,” says my husband. His look distinctly says that he is ready for this to be over, and I could not agree more. I take our daughter to her high chair, swipe a piece of icing in the process, and place it to her mouth. In addition to the introverted nature that she gets from her mother, she also inherited a mean sweet tooth. So, liking what she tasted and getting a little more used to the crowd in her house, she is agreeable to being placed in her high chair.
I fashion her with her Birthday Princess hat and bib, and we are ready for cake. As my husband lights the pink candle and we bring the cake toward her, a lone tear streams down our daughter’s face. We quickly help her blow out the candle and we serve the adults cake as I place the small cake on her tray and give her a fork.
Like most children, she looks confused at first, then once we put some frosting on her little fingers and she takes a few bites, she quickly gets the hang of it. After a few minutes, she is grabbing fists full of cake and taking bites and offering her father and I bites as well. It is a few more minutes before I notice the area around her mouth looks quite red. “It must be the pink frosting from her cake,” I think. Just then, my mom asks, “Doesn’t her mouth look red to you?” I pull her from the highchair and take her to her bathroom.
Once in the bathroom with my daughter and my mom, we shut the door and run her a bath. I place her in the bath, and once the frosting and cake are washed off, we see the skin around her mouth is fire-red and raised. As a veteran mother of a son with food and other allergies, I know she is having an allergic reaction.
I dress her in jeans and a t-shirt and take her back to her party, making a beeline for the allergy medication high up in the medicine cabinet. I hear a chorus of “What happened to her face,” as I pass various partygoers. “Apparently we are allergic to red dye,” I answer. “Poor thing,” I hear for the umpteenth time that afternoon.
A half hour later, redness and swelling gone from her face and most all guests gone from her house, my daughter is playing in her room with her new toys, happy as a little clam. I look at my husband and say, “What do you say we simplify for her second birthday?” “I think that is an excellent idea,” he responds, exhausted.