Pinatas Make the Party

Pinatas Make the Party

If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.

I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.

"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.

"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"

"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"

But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.

Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.

"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"

But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"

The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.

"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"

They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.

"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"

"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"

Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.

The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.

"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"

Thankfully, we had the piñata.

"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.

"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.

Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.

"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"

It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.

After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.

And strangely enough, he agreed with me.

"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."