Hosting my husband’s 40th birthday party in our backyard seemed like a great idea until I was standing in the middle of it with a stack of napkins in one hand and my phone in the other, surrounded by loud music, loud guests, and what seemed like a whole kindergarten class. And in the middle of all of it was Brad. Forty looked unfairly good on him.
Even after years of marriage, I sometimes still caught myself just looking at him, thinking how lucky I was. I was so naive. But I couldn’t pause for long.
Someone asked whether the veggie tray dip contained dairy. One of the kids began crying over a toy truck. A small blur shot past my legs and I looked down just in time to see my four-year-old son sprinting under the nearest table with a cake pop in his hand.
“Will, honey, we don’t throw cake pops.”
“I wasn’t!” he yelled back, which usually meant he either had or was just about to. I looked at Brad again. He was smiling at something Ellie had said.
She and I had known each other since second grade. She was family in every way except blood. Then someone said my name again.
“Hey, where should I put the drinks?”
I turned. “On the side table. No, the other one.
Thank you.”
I moved through the party feeling proud of myself for throwing all this together and keeping it mostly under control, while also vowing that I’d never host something this big again. At one point, Ellie slipped in beside me. “You’re doing too much,” she said softly.
I let out a laugh. “I always do. You know that.”
“I could’ve helped more before people got here.”
“You already did a lot.”
For half a second, I let myself feel grateful she was there.
Then Will shrieked from somewhere under the tables. A little later, I spotted him crawling out from beneath a tablecloth with two other kids. He looked like he’d been raised outside by cheerful raccoons.
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