the kids at the party

We were the first guests to arrive at Saturday's party, and so first the time in...a while, I found myself in a room where children outnumbered adults 6 to 5. They ranged in age from 4 months to 8 years. It was absolute madness.

The boys in particular had me reeling. Every one had something to say, to point out, to perform for whoever might be watching. They were in and out, out and in, with or without a scooter, a ball, or an anecdote about something for which a safe, catchall reply would be “Really? Wow! Amazing!”.

Mia, the infant, is four months old and ready to take on the world. She drank formula voraciously, smiled and laughed and squealed with delight throughout the mariachi hour, munched on a steak strip, and later had some birthday cake. She has a firm grip, and hangs on for dear life to whatever she can grab, but doesn't like it when you tickle her feet.

I tend to think of myself as childish, but one evening in a room full of kids made me realize that I have nothing on their changeable moods. One minute one could be crying a river for candy, then bouncing up and down about something shiny and new the next. There was fussing over name-calling, celebration over cake-cutting time, and whining and bickering simply for lack of sleep, and fanatical chanting of “Spongebob Squarepants!”, all in the course of two hours.

The older girls were our attentive hostesses and servers for the evening, offering beverage choices, fetching plates and utensils, inquiring about our preferences and needs. Cynthia is dark-skinned and long-haired, gregarious and athletic, the apple of her grandmother's eye. But the image I took away with me that night was of a 7-year-old girl with a shy smile and almond eyes that take in everything. Maria is phlegmatic and reticent, and has long since accepted that her older sister is more deserving of love. If only she knew.

She is the daughter I hope to have one day.