I suspect I'm just not much of a Party Girl, no matter how I try to overcome or camouflage it. This lack of enthusiasm for wild celebrations feels like a kind of personality defect or, at least, my very extraverted son would probably think so if he could put his confusion into words. As it is, he looks at me amidst the chaos of some social gathering, his head tilted slightly to the left, his expression utterly perplexed, and he says things like, "Mommy, aren't you having fun?"
No. Fun would not be the right word.
I say this having (almost) recovered from an enormous (for me) birthday party in which 17 (mostly well-behaved) children ran around a gymnastics center as if they were zoo animals released into the Serengeti. Five days later, the memory of this event still lingers, much like the smears of bright orange and red cupcake frosting I keep finding on my son's clothing.
It's not that I'm antisocial. I really love talking to people. Individually. Or in very small groups. Frequently with coffee standing by. This is nice. This is fun. This is the kind of "party" I enjoy and appreciate.
But, somehow, I don't think my son will want to go to Starbucks with me and a couple of my good friends for his next birthday party. Pity...