Back in late February or early March of 2012 (I can’t quite recall–and yes, I’ve been thinking that long about this), I was getting ready for the Bean’s first birthday. I really wanted to throw her a kickass first birthday–not because she would remember it, but because I wanted her to have tons of balloons (which she loves), tons of colors (which she’s mesmerized by), and a great cake (which would be the first she ever tasted–I managed to keep even the grandparents from feeding her cake and other assorted sweets before her first birthday. Invoking fictional pediatrician’s admonishments works like a charm every time. Every time).
Also, I kind of wanted to go old school with the theme. I really, really wanted to do a Rainbow Brite-themed birthday party. I have no idea why. Perhaps because I never got one when I was a kid (not that I was deprived or anything–I just never thought to ask for one. Just kidding; my parents obviously hated me). Perhaps because I’ve had a rainbow fetish for as long as I can remember (not like that, people. Jeebus. Dirty birds, the lot of you). Perhaps because it would let me go crazy with balloons and colors. I have no idea.
Now that I’m a mother, I’m starting to brace myself for the inevitable onslaught of questions that will come once my kids start making actual coherent sentences and putting two and two together about the world around them. I’m ready with age-appropriate answers to questions like “Why is the sky blue?” and “Why do doggies poop?” There are, however, a number of things I hope my kids never ask me about.