I used to judge women who went to a lot of trouble for their kids’ birthday parties.
You know the ones. Handmade invitations with calligraphy, often in 3D. A theme. Elaborate home-made birthday cake involving complex scaffolding with toothpicks and teeny tiny people of both genders made from musk sticks arranged artfully on edible grass jauntily created out of shredded coconut and green food colouring. Craft meets food. Craft meets decorations. Craft.
Note my sarcastic use of jaunty? I think you get where I’m coming from; a place where woeful inadequacy meets deep insecurity.
Those parties, whether I attended them or saw photos of them in magazines, have always brought out my McJudgiest. SO MUCH TIME ON THEIR HANDS! I thought derisively. WHAT A WASTE OF ENERGY! I chortled dismissively. NONE OF THIS MAKES ANY DIFFERENCE TO A TWO-YEAR-OLD! I reassured myself desperately.
I’ve heard a lot of this kind of sentiment expressed both online and IRL about the party Terry Biviano threw for her toddler daughter on the weekend. The photos are going around. Gloriously over-the-top. Themed to within an inch of its life.