Good Morning.
Grandparents tend to identify with people sixty years younger than they are. This is because grandparents are tired of acting like grown ups. When they baby sit and are told that their grandchildren should have serving of fruit at dinner, they fix up a banana split. This would be after they served up a well-balanced meal of mac and cheese and potato chips. They let the little darlings make a fort with the bedspreads and they let them sleep in the fort rather than their beds. They watch movies like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and they play Chutes and Ladders and Candy Land.
They also do theme parties. When my grandbabies were six, seven, eight, and nine, my husband and I decided to host some events that, now that I think about it, officially certified us as being whacko. The four wonders of the world each selected a theme and we set about creating it. A word of warning here: theme parties aren't cheap. You need food, props, and prizes.
The oldest girl wanted a luau in the back yard, and it was held in August. The wonders and their parents arrived in beach attire, and we grilled shrimp and ribs and had rice and fruit and tropical beverages, virgin and otherwise. We had Hawaiian music and tiki torches and a hula contest with prizes purchased at the Dollar Store. Please try to visualize a sixty-eight year old
man in a loud floral shirt and khaki shorts with a plastic lei around his neck. Please do not visualize his wife, your faithful scribe, who was amply draped in a muumuu-like caftan.
The second party with a cowboy theme requested by the grandson was held indoors in October. We hauled hay bales into the house and tacked Wanted posters on the walls. We wore cowboy hats and fringed vests and boots. We ate beef stew and biscuits on tin plates and had Gene Autry and the Sons of the Pioneers blaring from the stereo. The contest that evening required participants to imitate howling coyotes and snorting bulls. This was when I knew I'd left my brains at the party store. Coyotes, by the way, is pronounced with two syllables instead of three
where I live, as in KY-ote, not Ky-O-tee. I have no explanation for this.
The third occasion was a fiesta chosen by the youngest grandgirl. My beloved and I made huge crepe paper flowers at the dining room table for days and hung them all over the house. We brought an umbrella table into the kitchen and strung party lights here and there. We had every conceivable kind of Mexican food and played mariachi music. Partygoers wore sombreros and serapes. We played Pin the Mustache on Juan and one of the grands told me we were being politically incorrect. We whacked away at a pinata.
The final event was a formal affair shortly before Christmas. The middle granddaughter wanted a dinner dance with fancy everything. The girls all got their hair and nails done and the hostess, age eight, wore a brocade suit with a fur collar with the rest of the group also elegantly attired. We set the table with the china, silver, and crystal and dined by candlelight on the requested menu of Caesar salad, steak, and chocolate mousse. We danced beneath a disco ball we rented for twenty-five bucks to Big Band music, and the kids were actually okay with it.
The wonders are now seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, and fourteen. They operate motor vehicles, take Physics, Shakespeare, and French, and buy prom dresses that are somewhat concerning, i.e. I recently viewed a picture of one that has been ordered and said I will be coming over with my staple gun to adjust the neckline. They play soccer, hockey, and the trumpet, and one of them is an aspiring actress. The oldest two will be able to vote in the 2020 election. They are almost all grown up but they still talk about those parties. I recommend them. I think.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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