Emma was turning four, and I was freaking out. I had to organize a party. Sure, the first few birthdays were negotiated safely, but every year, I have to organize myself to send out invitations, get the food ready and get prepared to play the generous host to people I barely know that well. I wasn’t just freaking out, I was a deer caught in the headlights.

My saving grace was my mom. I was happy that she helped me not only select the party hats and the decorations, but she was also sweet enough to help me with the cooking. The invitees, most of whom were family and a few “extended” family, that I didn’t really know very well, totaled at about 30. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was still going to be quite a handful to manage.

Luckily, when the party was over, streamers on the floor, party hats scattered about and an odd piece of cake on the carpet, I breathed a sigh of relief. Emma was fast asleep, whether she’ll ever remember the party, I don’t know. All I could do was sit back on the couch and watch my mom still cleaning in the kitchen, and think to myself…”all over again in another year.”