The Party Circuit

This wasn’t how I envisioned our long overdue reunion–butt up with dozens of screaming four-year-olds jumping on my back–but life, especially my life these days, can be a cruel prankster.

My son, Hank, scampers off deep into the play structure with his motley crew of buddies, leaving me and his younger sister, Maeve, to fend for ourselves in another grimy, snot-infested ball pit – my new weekend norm. There’s nothing in the Big Book of Motherhood about preparing yourself mentally and physically for the God-awful number of children’s birthday parties you will feel obligated to attend in their first few years of life.

“Mama, I want a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese and toasted!” she demands, whipping her fake blonde Elsa braid back and forward authoritatively. She refuses to leave home without at least two princess related items on her person at all times. Today it was the already mentioned hair piece and a bright yellow Belle nighty that had been her recent favorite.

“Let’s go see if Calvin’s mom has pizza ,” I say and reach for her small hand.

“But I don’t want pizza, I WANT A BAGEL,” she wails and starts to pout, crossing her little arms across her chest.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say frantically, knowing a battle of wits was about to take place. “You can have a juice box if you stop whining right now.”

That breaks the spell and she happily puts her arms out and starts making shooting sounds, a game she’s invented where Elsa shoots icicles and Spidey webs at the same time.

I start to hoist myself up out of the balls and foam I’ve sunk into when it happens.

I see him.

HIM.

Thankfully, he hadn’t cloaked me yet, or if he had he didn’t act like it.

He was also knee-deep in blue foam and life choices, trying to coax a little girl in an Anna costume through one of the play structure’s narrow openings.

His hair was tousled and shorter than when we knew each other. He was still rocking a beard, but it now had a healthy dose of salt in its pepper. How could he look so different, yet exactly the same all these years later?

My hair is still a natural dark brown for the record.

But seriously, what the heck is he doing at Wacky Willie’s Play Emporium in Portland, Oregon, at 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning? Shouldn’t he be nursing a hangover or trying to coax a young lady out of his bed? The last I heard he was moving to Nashville to work for a video production company. Granted, that was seven years ago and blocked him on every possible outlet, but still.

I look down at Maeve, who was now whisper-singing the ‘Days of the Week’ song in the style of the Addams Family. Obviously a lot can change in seven years.

Wait, is it possible he also grew up? Became a responsible adult? And, shockingly, procreated?

Maybe he’s just a cool uncle who’s in town for the weekend. I think he had a sister or two.

But it’s definitely him.

And I’m definitely me, wearing my uniform black jumpsuit from Old Navy, no makeup and a bright orange Carhartt beanie, the uniform of millennial parents in the Pacific Northwest.

Ugh, he’s wearing similar headgear and a Great Notion T-shirt which means he probably has roots here…not to mention he’s with a small child in a random play zone in a random pocket of the city.

Yep, that means he could possibly, gulp, live here. And, double gulp, we are probably on the same kid circuit.

Shoot, my phone is back in the party rental room. I can’t do a quick Google search if my life depended on it. That’s what I get for going analog for twenty minutes.

I slyly look over again but he’s gone, no doubt crawling somewhere above my head, dodging children as he works his way through the man-made booby traps and mazes that make up modern indoor play structures.

Indiana Jones has nothing on parents with young children.

Maeve and I weave our way through the throngs of families and head into the generic superhero-themed room where I see my mom friend, Jess, skinning a red grape like she’s doing open heart surgery.

“I just saw a ghost,” I stage whisper as I stab a tiny straw into the even tinier hole of the aforementioned juice box. I hand it to Maeve who greedily starts sucking it down.

Jess looks down at her daughter, Murphy, then says with a laugh, “I estimate you have two to four minutes to tell me exactly what that means.”

“My EX ex is here,” I say in an exaggerated whisper. “Well, okay, he’s not really my ex, he’s like an ex best friend who everyone thought was my boyfriend but wasn’t until we made it weird and it’s really complicated and I thought he was in freaking Nashville but I swear I just saw him by the obstacle course and I’m freaking out.”

“Wait, you guys didn’t date?” She takes a bite out of the cheese pizza she’s holding then takes the rest and rips it into manageable chucks for Murphy.

“No, not really…we worked together.”

“Did you bang?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated…”

She looks up from Murphy’s plate to give me one of her classic eyerolls, a signature move usually reserved for uptight parents that aren’t us.

“Is it?”

Just then Hank and Arlo, this week’s birthday boy, run in with five kids on their tails and the conversation, like most of my conversations these days, is a distant memory. As much as I want to tell Jess, I realize saying it out loud makes it all seem trite and a little pathetic.

“Mom, is it time for cake and pizza?” Hank asks, tugging on my pants.

I fill up a plate with two slices of cheese and a handful of baby carrots (one can dream, right?) and he goes over to sit with his friends. A pang goes through my heart. I love that he’s so independent and social, but I kind of miss the days when it would take him half the party to warm up.

“Mom, more pizza!” demands Maeve. “No sausage.”

Thankful for the distraction, I grab her another slice and a piece of Hawaiian for myself. Arlo’s mom turns down the lights and everyone starts to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Perfect, it will only take my kids two minutes to inhale a mini chocolate cupcake and we can call it a success. Happy kids and no awkward interactions with people from your past. Win-win.

“Five minute warning,” I yell to Hank as he stuffs the entire dessert in his mouth in one swoop.

“Noooo,” he whines and I give him the look that means business.

“Dad’s going to be home soon,” I respond as I start to round up all of our shoes, water bottles and bags. “No whining. Say thanks to Arlo.”

“Thanks and happy birthday,” Hank says begrudgingly under his breath and we start walking toward the exit.

90 minutes in and out. It’s a new record.

We’ve cleared the doors and are in the parking lot. We are in the home stretch. I just need to buckle the kids in and we can drive back to our side of town and I can pretend it never happened. Life will go on.

Hank bounds into his seat and lets me buckle him in but Maeve refuses to sit.

“Come on girlie, we got to get home.”

“I don’t want to sit. I want to drive!”

“Please sit down Maeve, we have to get home to get ready for daddy.”

“I don’t want to!”

“You can watch Frozen the rest of the afternoon if you sit down,” I say defeated.

Hank perks up in his chair. “I hate Elsa!” he yells. “I want to watch Batman!”

“No one is going to watch anything if your sister doesn’t sit down.”

And then she does. I buckle her in and back up to close the door when I hear his voice.

Are you kidding me? We were so close.

“Lucy, is that you?” he says, keys in hand waiting for me to move out of the way so he can get into his car. “Nah, no way, is it really you?”

I pause and hope I don’t look like a deer in headlights before slowly turning around.

Play it cool.

“Jeff? What the hell are you doing here? I can’t believe it. And who’s this little heir to Arendelle?”

“This is my daughter, Sophie. We just finished up at a birthday party.”

“I guess that makes more sense than a funeral. Us too.”

He looks at me blankly with those piercing green eyes. Ugh, I’m going to need to tell Paul about this encounter right when he gets home from his business trip.

No, I’m going to tell my therapist first then, maybe, I’ll tell Paul that the dude I was obsessed with right before we met is now sharing the same zip code.

“I didn’t know you lived here now. I thought you’d never leave L.A.”

“I do. And, apparently, so do you.”

“I do,” he repeats. I can tell he’s starting to process what I’ve already been processing for the last 45 minutes. He half chuckles and plays with his keys. “I really do.”