The Birthday Boy with his balloons...each of the sunshine ones played "You Are My Sunshine." Extra special noise for the occasion.

Saturday was Halloween.  I had a packed schedule; nothing really having anything to do with Halloween.  My morning activity was a birthday party for Henry who is now two years old.  He was my date for a matinee screening of “Where the Wild Things Are” the other day on his actual birth date and I’ll tell you now that he had the best “Rawr!” in the theatre.

There were 46 people at Henry’s birthday party.  I swear, 40 of them were children…39 of which were under the age of 4.  That isn’t the truth, but it’s close.  Proving how bad my math is, I noticed that pretty much each adult had a kid.  I came empty-handed.  I didn’t get the memo.  I stowed my peshmina and purse, grappled for a cup of coffee as someone started parading around with a drum, and tried to figure out what the heck I was supposed to do with myself.  My father has told me about how he’d look to my brother and me as his sassy saviors when he would attend functions as we’d give him something to do…whether it was chasing, feeding, rescuing, or rocking.  I could relate.  Without my own little bundle of distraction, I was at the mercy of boredom not because the event was boring, but because everyone else was busy with their own.

Two of my favorite distractions, Oscar and Henry.

You see, when you bring your own distraction, you are wrapped up in it.  It needs food.  It needs to go potty.  It needs a “time out.”  It wants that other kid’s toy.  It’s making a break for the door.  It’s driving that poor single spinster crazy by banging a drum at her before she’s gotten a cup of coffee.  Every once in a while, you get to insert a relevant comment into an adult conversation while you’re watching your distraction spin in circles until it falls over.

I should’ve brought  a magazine.

With a magazine, I could dedicate snippets of my attention to it for an article or a spread on dresses but glance up between snippets and be social.

That is the singleton equivalent to bringing a child to an event.

That is what I forgot.

Without one, I had three options.  I could stand there and try to catch the parents for some conversation when they surfaced, I could busy myself with serving or cleaning, or I could play with the kids.  I chatted when I could, I helped when I could, and I know that the kids had a better time playing with each other.  I can’t begrudge them that.

So, I did what I always do when I feel awkward.  I felt sorry for myself.  Oh, what comfort can be found in self-pity.  I just settle on into it like it’s a big, warm bean bag.  Aching ovaries in tow, I was ramping up to go on my internal tirade over being single and without children of my own when I saw him.

Those cheeks. Oh, those cheeks.

My crutch.

My savior.

My distraction.

Look at that guy.  Aidan.  He was a spare. Honestly.  A friend brought him along to the party with her own kids as a favor to Aidan’s parents.  He was just as unhitched as me.  He was sent to give me something to do.  He and I were meant for each other, even if just for a short block of time on a Saturday in October.

He was the perfect child. I held him on my lap and found him food to eat.  I let him play with the kids and was even chastised at one point for losing track of my spare…who was just in a hogpile by the balloons.  (I couldn’t see him because his outfit was made entirely of camouflage.  Naturally.)  I followed him around and wiped his nose when the snot became hazardous.

I had a purpose.

When it came time for Aidan to go, I waved goodbye…and got to give him back.  See?  I’ll repeat:  The perfect child.

Then, I went looking for a magazine.

Happy Birthday, Dear Henry.

Rawr.