Sparkly Green Earrings

by Melanie Shankle

  She said, “They had even planted new flowers in the front beds to match the decor. There were LINEN tablecloths. There were silver chafing dishes and margarita machines.”

  I was stunned into temporary silence until I managed to utter, “Really?”

  “YES,” she replied. “I wanted to live there forever.”

  You would think that a sane person planning a birthday party might think linen tablecloths and silver chafing dishes are a little much to honor a birthday boy who might take a nap during the entire party and drool on himself. Of course I know some people who may have spent their twenty-first birthdays in a similar fashion, but that’s not the point.

  Anyway, I made a point about the whole thing just seeming like a ridiculous waste of time and money since I like to climb on the occasional soapbox concerning topics I think won’t ever apply to me. And so I made sure that Caroline’s first several birthday parties were modest affairs. Yes, we had bakery cakes, but that had more to do with my limited baking abilities than a need to impress. For the most part, though, these were small gatherings at home with a handful of family and some little toddler friends. There may have been some bubbles or sidewalk chalk as a parting gift.

  But then came Caroline’s sixth birthday.

  Otherwise known as my own personal cautionary tale about excess and overdoing things.

  That year Caroline announced that she wanted to have four friends spend the night. And I welled up with memories of slumber parties and giggling girlfriends and sleeping with our sleeping bags all bunched together as we whispered well into the night.

  My baby’s first slumber party. It was like a full-circle moment.

  I agreed to the slumber party, and then she suggested it might be fun to also have a big pool party that same day so she could celebrate with all her friends before the smaller gathering in the evening. Maybe it was the guilt over passing down the lame birthday month to my daughter, or maybe it was the heat, or maybe she just caught me in a really good mood. Whatever the reason, something false in me whispered, “How hard could that be? It’s just a pool party!” And I agreed to it.

  Do not ever let yourself be suckered into such a thing.

  Because I essentially agreed to plan and perform two birthday parties in one day. The pool party became an exercise in stress as I searched for cute invitations to mail out to her friends, a cake that would serve thirty kids, coordinating plates and streamers to decorate the cabana at the pool, and a giant unicorn piñata.

  Oh, that’s right. Not just any piñata. A giant unicorn.

  Fortunately, Gulley’s husband, Jon, works on the south side of San Antonio, where they sell piñatas on the side of the road on a daily basis. I commissioned him to buy me the largest unicorn piñata he could find. And if he couldn’t find a unicorn, then a horse would do. I could always make a horn with my legendary piñata-making skills.

  Or my ability to get creative with an empty paper towel roll and some tissue paper.

  Whatever.

  I knew Jon had taken me seriously when he called to let me know he’d found a white unicorn and was just trying to figure out how to fit it in his car. He drives an SUV.

  Through sheer will and possibly bending one of the papier-mâché unicorn legs, he was able to deliver the unicorn to my house. Perry and I promptly christened it Unicorn Gigante while Caroline fell head over heels in love with it and spent the two days prior to the party sitting on it like it was a brand-new pet pony. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to demolish him with a stick when the big day came.

  But I underestimated her. When I questioned whether she was ready to fill the unicorn with candy, she looked at me and said, “He is GOING DOWN.” And so I dissected him from the top to fill him full of candy, figuring we could always take out a second mortgage. We stuffed him full of Nerds and Dum Dum suckers and taped him back up.

  When I tried to move him to the back door, I realized he now weighed approximately seventy-eight pounds. I lifted a silent prayer to heaven that the rope would hold him, because nothing ruins a party mood faster than a gigantic unicorn hurtling to the earth and frightening small children.

  Perry came home to help me get everything ready for the party, and I informed him that Gigante was pretty solid. In fact, I was worried the party guests might not be able to break him open despite repeated beatings. So Perry took a butcher knife and stabbed Gigante a few times in the chest just to weaken him a little bit.

  It was just like that scene in Gladiator when Joaquin Phoenix stabs Russell Crowe with that knife before they go out into the Colosseum to ensure that he wins the fight.

  Except we were going to a party for our six-year-old at the pool.

  And it wasn’t really that dramatic.

  The Roman Empire wasn’t at stake or anything.

  By the time we arrived at the pool to set up the party, I was already exhausted. And way past wondering why I ever thought it was a good idea to host this large party and then a sleepover.

  The partygoers all arrived and ate bowls of Goldfish crackers, drank their weight in lemonade, and swam until it was time for cake. Sadly, I spent much of this time treading water in the deep end with only a pool noodle to support me because some of the party guests were questionable swimmers and yet their own mothers didn’t feel the need to wear a bathing suit to the pool. Not that I was bitter about it. I’m always super happy to have your kid jump on my head repeatedly. Good times.

  Finally it was time to eat the mermaid birthday cake and to beat the heck out of Gigante. And he held up amazingly well. In fact, when all was said and done, only his leg broke, allowing the candy to spill out with some help from Perry, who was shaking him vigorously to speed up the process.

  And then it was all over. But not really, because I still had to entertain five little girls for the rest of the night. Little girls who finished all the crafts I’d bought to entertain them inside of thirty minutes and quickly demanded that I give them all pedicures.

  Which I was happy to do until they realized they liked each other’s color selections better than their own and asked me to redo them. At this point I’d been partying for close to twelve hours. I couldn’t do that in college and certainly not when I’m staring down my late thirties. It was time to call it a night.

  I helped the girls settle into their sleeping bags and put in a movie in the hope that it would calm them down and let them drift off to sleep so I could stagger off to my own bed and collapse.

  But I quickly realized why all my friends’ mothers were so grumpy when we were growing up. It was the slumber parties. We drove them to it. Most days Mrs. Jones probably didn’t walk around with a scowl on her face while growling, “GO TO SLEEP. RIGHT. NOW.” She was most likely a perfectly wonderful woman with a sweet disposition. It was all our giggling and our refusal to use inside voices that turned her mean.

  Because somewhere around 1:00 a.m. I began to channel Miss Hannigan from Annie. I was no longer kind and friendly. I came out in my robe, my hair disheveled, making threats like, “IF YOU DON’T GO TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’M TAKING YOU ALL HOME.” I was seconds away from telling the girls I was going to make them mop my kitchen floor until it shone like the top of the Chrysler building when they, mercifully, passed out from sheer exhaustion.

  And then I did the same. Vowing to myself that I would never, ever be this stupid again.

  At least until the next year.

  Chapter 21

  One Isn’t Always the Loneliest Number

  I’ll tell you something not many people know about me.

  I’m pretty sure I invented Facebook.

  Oh, sure, you may be thinking you don’t remember seeing my name in the movie Social Network or hearing me mentioned in media reports about Mark Zuckerberg. And you’re right. I’ve never gotten so much as a mention. Yet I know for a fact that I came up with the basic premise for social media as a whole back in 1999, when I was preparing to attend my ten-year high school reunion.

 
; As I tried on various outfits looking for just the right thing to make me look both impossibly thin and like I wasn’t trying too hard, I commented to Gulley that I didn’t really care anything about making small talk with a bunch of people I largely hadn’t seen in ten years, but I wished there was a way to just see a recent picture of them with a few paragraphs about who they married, what they do for a living, if they have kids, and if they ended up serving any time.

  (If you were in my graduating class and are reading this book, I’m not referring to you. I loved catching up with you and making small talk at our ten-year reunion. I’m just talking about other people. People who don’t feel the need to buy a book written by one of their high school classmates.)

  But I don’t let my bitterness over not receiving any billions or even tens of dollars from my invention keep me from getting on Facebook and looking around on a regular (maybe hourly) basis, because I am nosy and I love to see what people have done with their lives. Especially the people I grew up with, since we all change and grow, and life has a way of turning out so much different from what we imagined when we were sixteen and thought we might be the next Jane Pauley, until we walked into our first communications class in college and had a cynical, bitter professor tell us that we had a better chance of becoming president of the United States than ending up on network news.

  Nice. Dream killer.

  Way to shape the minds and hearts of the youth of America.

  Anyway, the only problem with social media is that now we know so much about people we haven’t seen in a sweet forever. And then if we actually see them in person (like at a reunion), there isn’t much ground left for small talk. We already know where they live, who they married, and if they like to post pictures of themselves in swimsuits to show off the results of their low-carb diet. And so what do you talk about? Real stuff? The fact that you drive a Dodge Stratus and the most exciting thing that happened to you in recent months was a good report from the dentist? Doubtful.

  If you’re me, then you just smile and feel awkward for a few minutes before claiming that you need to go refresh your drink or get another plate of sausage balls. But, then again, my social skills are legendary.

  So I guess it’s partly because of social media that I assume most of my old friends already know Caroline is an only child and why I’m taken aback when an acquaintance gives me a questioning look of pity/disapproval when I tell them I have one child.

  A few months ago I was at a tailgate party and Gulley introduced me to one of her husband’s college friends. We made small talk (my favorite!), and he eventually asked me what I did for a living. I never admit I’m a writer because it feels weird and kind of pretentious and makes me sound smarter than I really am.

  (Not to mention people automatically assume you spend all day in your pajamas.)

  (Rightfully so.)

  I mumbled something about being “just a mom.”

  That’s when Gulley piped in. “She’s a writer. She’s writing her first book.”

  Naturally I glared at her for exposing my secret while he asked, “What’s your book about?”

  I responded, “Motherhood.”

  And that’s when he hit me with, “Well, you need to have more than one kid to write a book about motherhood.”

  I really hope the bruise from where I kicked him healed okay.

  Because maybe I’m defensive about the whole thing.

  (Yes. A little.)

  (Or a lot, depending on the day.)

  But who decided you have to have more than one child to make you a real mother? I don’t know many women who didn’t have their whole world turn upside down like a snow globe that sprinkles love, compassion, and ferocity beyond their wildest dreams the moment their first baby was placed in their arms. So maybe I’m biased, but I believe that’s when a mama is made. And I’m sure if there are two or three or six more who come after that, then the feeling is the same each time. Even if you’re too tired to fully appreciate it.

  Maybe my days aren’t filled with coordinating schedules and sports and homework for more than one little person, but my heart is full with my one child. And to be honest, I struggled with our decision to have one child for a long time. This may be partly due to the fact my mother-in-law predicted we’d only have one, and I desperately wanted to prove her wrong. Wow. That sounds even pettier typed out than it does in my head, but it’s the truth, so I’m leaving it there for all the world to see.

  I’m assuming Perry and I could have had another child if we’d tried again, and I want to be transparent about that since so many women struggle with infertility even after being able to have a child. This was an intentional decision we made based on a lot of prayer and second-guessing and my getting over a preconceived notion that a “real family” needs to have at least two kids. Preferably a boy and a girl. A set of kids. Like salt and pepper shakers.

  There was a time after Caroline started kindergarten when I really thought I might want to try to have another baby. Perry and I talked about it, and he made it clear he was happy with our family the way it was, but we agreed we’d pray about it and see what happened. I was convinced God would change Perry’s heart on the matter, and I began to envision how I’d decorate a new nursery.

  But as it turned out, my heart was the one that began to change. And I didn’t go down easily. I cried over the surrender of the family I’d always envisioned in my head and had to come to a place where I realized God had other plans for us. Truthfully, part of me felt like a failure and wondered why I wasn’t one of those women who could raise six kids and homeschool all of them and serve milk and cookies every afternoon in some clever way like all the moms on Pinterest do.

  I had to come to terms with the fact that, while I have other strengths, being a mom to a bunch of kids may not be my gift considering I don’t really handle chaos or messes well and have been known to hide in the closet to let my inner introvert take deep, cleansing breaths. I had to face who I really am and what I’m equipped to do versus the person I sometimes like to fantasize I am. It’s like the internal struggle I have between wanting to give away all my money to feed hungry children and wanting to buy a Louis Vuitton bag. I’d like to believe I’m not shallow enough to care about things like fine handbags, but the truth is I kind of do. And like Gulley says, at least when you’re wading in the shallow end of life, you don’t have to worry about getting your expensive purse wet.

  But I came to a point of contentment and peace about Caroline being our only child and realized we were already a tightly knit little band of three. We were complete.

  And that’s not to say that there still aren’t days that I long to hold another baby in my arms. In fact, there are some days I still wonder if God might have something or someone else for us, even as I hear my biological clock ticking loudly.

  (Loudly.)

  (At times it seems to scream, “You’re forty, sister.”)

  (The train is about to leave the station.)

  But I think that’s part of being a mother. Once you’ve held a child who belongs to you in your arms and kissed little chubby legs and laughed at those bracelets of fat and had a little person hold your face in her hands and say, “I love you, Mama,” do you ever really get over the feeling that you’d like to do it one more time? I mean, sure, I can get myself some kind of fluffy little dog to dress up and carry around in a purse instead, but it’s not really the same.

  So I guess what I’m saying is I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to put a definite punctuation on the sentence that is our family, but right now it feels like a period. No pun intended.

  I rest in knowing that God couldn’t have chosen a child who better fits our family. How many girls think the perfect Christmas is getting her very own pistol and holster and a pair of glittery gold TOMS? She’s the perfect blend of the two of us. To quote the great Donny and Marie Osmond, she’s “a little bit country” and “a little bit rock and roll.”

  And so maybe the next time I up
date my status on Facebook, I’ll write, “Yes, we only have one child. But we think we got the best one.” Then people will probably unfriend me because I’m obnoxious, and they won’t even care that I’m the one who invented the whole thing in the first place.

  Chapter 22

  Brothers from Another Mother

  One of the (stupid) questions people ask about having an only child is if I’m worried she’ll be spoiled. Because no one has ever known a family with three kids who are all totally rotten. And my answer is no. Sure, we may be able to give Caroline a little bit more than we could if she had siblings, but we aren’t allowing her to grow up with a sense of entitlement.

  I will not stand for a Veruca Salt in my house. I am not afraid to say no—loudly and often. And I tend to say it loudest these days when we walk by Justice, because that is an array of some tacky merchandise perfectly designed to entice little girls with all the sparkles and the hot-pink animal prints.

  God has given my family one of the greatest gifts any person can have, whether we come from a family of three or twenty—friends who have become family. Gulley’s boys give Caroline all the benefits and angst that siblings provide for each other, because no child should have to grow up not knowing what it is to fight for her space in the backseat of the car.

  Jackson and Will are the closest things to brothers she could have without my actually giving birth to two boys. And best of all, Perry and I don’t have to worry about how we’ll keep two large boys fed during their teen years or how we’ll pay for their college. Total score.

  Sometimes the best families are the ones God builds using unexpected pieces of our hearts. Or like I read one time, “Friends are God’s way of apologizing for your relatives.”

  When we met more than twenty years ago, I couldn’t have imagined that someday Gulley and I would live a mile away from each other, that we’d take road trips with our kids, and that they would love each other as much as we love each other. But they do. To this day, when we ask them who they want to play with, they always request each other before anyone else.