Children's birthdays are hell for us child-free millennials

My lovely other half was hiding in the corner of the living room. He seemed ready to run. For some inexplicable reason, we, child-free millennials, found ourselves at a children's birthday party on a Sunday afternoon. On one side of the room were the parents determined to enjoy themselves. The kids were thrown into the pit, as that’s what a clump of children in the middle of the living room looks like, while the parent had headed to the bar. Then there are the involved parents who spend the whole afternoon on a peace mission to ensure the kids share toys. And so we did.

At first, I referred to myself as childless, until I realized that something must be wrong then. And there’s nothing wrong, everything is fine. After a cup of coffee, a bite of an overly hot bitterball, and two sips of wine (the rest spilled due to a scuffle in the pit), I concocted a little white lie to leave the birthday party quickly. While I never tell little white lies, I advocate for the cold truth. Only in the case of children does it seem like I don’t like the child in question, but that’s not it. I actually like those kids. I read stories, do puzzles on the floor, lift them up by their legs into the air 100 times upon request (even with a hernia), watch remarkable computer games with them, go swimming, allow what parents never allow, and I babysit. So far, my evidence that it’s not the kids, but the birthday party.

The funny thing is that I normally am never invited to a children's birthday party. As if the parents understand what a hassle it is and know that we child-free souls don’t have that filter. I always wish my friends with kids a happy new year on New Year's Day and congratulate them in advance on all their offspring. That way, I can’t forget them. Which actually always happens to me. There are many, as more than half of my best friends have at least one but often two little copies running around. By the way, I do feel permanently guilty if I don’t think of those birthdays. It is part of their life's work.

The only exception I make is for my two-year-old nephew's birthday. This may still come, as for now, he is the first, only, and oldest grandchild in our family. Which means he takes the stage like an artist to entertain us instead of disappearing into a pit. Or could this just be the beginning of getting used to it? Hmmm, to be continued, I suspect.