She first had elaborate plans
to celebrate her thirteenth
involving two cities,
three parties
and a convoluted guest list.
We convinced her
to focus her efforts on one event,
so she pivoted to
"a Ladies' Brunch."
We, her parents, exchanged eyes
over her head,
as we thought about
a long table of
twelve and thirteen-year-olds
keeping themselves entertained and happy
without a bouncy house
or life-sized mouse
or screaming music and a climbing wall
or a death dojo of obstacles
to serve as distraction.
But she was adamant,
and so we relented.
And that morning, as her table filled
and guests politely commented on
her table scape and the weather
and clasped their hands
and sat ram rod in their seats
something felt amiss.
A family member had a Mentos moment,
got up to excuse herself, and came back
with an armload of coloring books and crayons.
The relief on the girls' faces
as they were each given a choice
between Bluey or Princess,
Moana or Dogs.
While they simultaneously blushed,
and said "I don't care, really,"
"no preference," and "well, okay, thank you,"
it was evident that one girl
was thrilled to grab the tiaras,
another gleaming with
the chance to color in Bingo.
And so, while they ordered pink mocktails
made with cherries and pineapples ,
and hibiscus and limonada
and behaved themselves
like proper socialites in miniature,
they colored inside the lines, earnestly, gratefully.
Once their attention was diffused into art,
the conversations began,
like a match to dry wood,
until the table was
a healthy roar of cheer and connection
and the various girls, regardless of their
newness, strangeness, became fast friends.
Later, once the group relocated
from the restaurant to the scoop shoppe,
and had their fill of hot fudge
and warm cookies
and melty orbs of birthday cake ice cream,
they did handstands in the park under the hot sun
in their Sunday dresses and cartwheel shorts,
balancing the act of growing up
and staying young
in a way that gives hope for the future.
