I didn’t mean to invite 15 children to our son William’s fourth birthday party.

I hadn’t banked on each kid’s mother saying yes. I also hadn’t taken into account the siblings who’d be coming in tow. But when the RSVPs started pouring in, I accepted them as graciously as I could and hoped, come the big day, that one or two of the families would be felled by the stomach flu.

Unfortunately, the day before the party, all the kids were healthy and accounted for. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. My husband, Michael, and I had decided to have a simple party at our house—and I was frantic. What were we going to do with so many kids? Would someone get hurt? Would anyone have any fun?

The night before the party, I tossed in bed as Michael read a book beside me. Finally, I sat up and said, “I think I’ll take a Xanax before the party tomorrow.”

Michael lowered his book and stared at me.

“That’s sick,” he spat, as if I’d suggested we hire a pedophile to entertain the kids.

“But you always say people should take something if they have psychological problems.”

“As in clinical depression. Drugging yourself for your son’s birthday party…”

He left the sentence dangling, as if he couldn’t conjure words for the kind of mother I’d be if I did such a thing.

"I imagined placing the white oval on my toungue an hour before the party and letting my unease melt away. Was I sick?"

I lay there, deflated. Then, rebellion brewing, I thought, I can still take it. It’s not like he can stop me. I keep a bottle of about ten pills in the kitchen for when I fly. I imagined placing the white oval on my tongue an hour before the party and letting my unease melt away. Was I sick?

I decided to float the idea by some people. The next morning, as I was dropping William off at preschool, one of his teachers asked brightly, “Getting ready for the big party?”   

I leaned in close. “I invited 15 kids,” I confessed, “and they’re all coming.”

“You did what?” Her mouth fell open. This is a woman who works with 25 children in a single room each day; her reaction confirmed my worst fears.

She patted my arm as if I’d told her I’d discovered a lump in my breast.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll just take a Xanax,” I said, chuckling.

I studied her reaction, but she smiled in a way that said either, “Is she serious?” or “I take one everyday.” I couldn’t tell.

Leaving the school, I ran into Amy, a vision of exuberance even though she has three boys under the age of seven. When she says she can’t get out of the house most afternoons, she sounds like she’s gabbing about a weekend at the beach. Either she’s medicating herself or I’m doing something terribly wrong. Choosing the latter, I decided I couldn’t possibly bring up the idea with her.

"I longed for someone who would tell it like it is—that sometimes spending time with small children just makes you want to numb yourself."

I got in my car, feeling more nervous than ever. I realized with a sudden horror that I was trying to suss out the other junkies. I longed for someone who would tell it like it is—that sometimes spending time with small children just makes you want to numb yourself.

Back home, I steeled myself and started getting ready for the party. I hung up balloons and crepe paper and put out art supplies and a spinning, egg-shaped chair we’d just bought at IKEA. I got so caught up in preparing that when the first guest rang the doorbell at 4:00, I’d completely forgotten to take the Xanax.

Shit.

Within minutes, whole families were flooding through the door. Michael swung into bartending mode, doling out glasses of wine and beer. I stayed in the playroom, watching bug-eyed as children pulled toys off the shelves, tore through the art supplies, and spun each other furiously in the egg chair, the dull throb of the Laurie Berkner Band blaring over the chaos.

I looked around at the other mothers and wondered, “How do they do it?” There was Anne, who was going through a nasty divorce. Her son was clinging to her skirt so fiercely she kept losing her balance, yet she was laughing and chatting. Stephanie, pregnant with her third child, stood serenely by the Thomas table, popping Cheerios into her son’s mouth as if feeding a large bird while commanding her daughter to share the butterfly beads with the other girls. Amy looked lovely as ever, her hair perfectly brushed, her skinny jeans clinging to her skinny legs. Didn’t the noise make them the slightest bit edgy?

I moved around the party, trying to stay calm while joking about my longed-for misdeed: “All these kids! I could use a Xanax!”

I kept waiting for someone’s eyes to meet mine in that knowing way, like when you duck out the back door of the party for a cigarette and find another closet smoker already there, but no one heard me. Everyone was having too much fun.

As the room grew louder, the adults chugged their wine in a way that made me think they didn’t get out much on Friday afternoons either. The kids clawed up the shelves to pull down more toys. Then the spinning egg chair, in true IKEA form, broke, and William’s best friend was flung by centripetal force onto the floor, where he lay crumpled for several moments. I rushed to him, shouting, “Are you alright?” But he just looked at me like I was crazy, brushed himself off, and kept playing.

I hauled the egg-chair wreckage to the side of the room and told Michael to get the piñata. The sun had already set, so instead of dangling the papier-mâché John Deere tractor from a tree, Michael attached it to the hook of a long pole, and the kids lined up to whack it with a plastic bat. Each kid tried several times, but the candy was barely trickling out, so Michael ordered everyone to stand back and then slammed the pole to the floor over and over again, the tractor flapping like a wounded animal that wouldn’t die. Finally, the candy poured out through one of the wheels, and the kids grappled like rugby players, stuffing their goody bags with brightly colored candies.

After the frenzy, I yelled, “Pizza!” then sprinted to the kitchen as if trying to outrun the bulls. Five large cheese pizzas later, I dimmed the lights, hoisted an ice cream cake onto the dining room table, and watched William’s eyes widen in the glow of his candles as we all sang “Happy Birthday.” He wrinkled his face to make a wish, then threw every ounce of his 35-pound body forward to blow out the tiny flames.

"Amid the chaos and noise and mess of our lives, we’d survived."

For the briefest of moments, everyone was quiet. And it was then that I realized we’d done it—not just successfully hosted 15 kids and their parents in our home—but successfully raised this child for the past four years. Amid the chaos and noise and mess of our lives, we’d survived. More than survived, we’d thrived.

Our boy is four, I thought. Turn up the music.

Later, as the last guests got up to leave, I was having such a good time that I tried plying them with more wine to get them to stay. Michael was right: I didn’t need to drug myself to survive our son’s birthday party. I needed to live through every crazy moment with my emotional tentacles fully engaged to get to the other side.

As the last kid straggled out the door, I collapsed on the couch, surveyed the toys strewn across the play room, and celebrated our achievement with a nice, big glass of wine.