I was about to gather a dozen kids for a cake when my daughter asked, “Can we wait a few more minutes? He's not there yet.”
She was talking about the owner of our favorite local store — the one with handmade cards, chocolate chip cookies, and an ink stamp at the register that she was allowed to use. My child insisted on inviting him over seventh birthday.
We waited, and after a few minutes, when I was about to give up, he appeared. He sang along with the other guests and enjoyed a piece of cake. This was exactly what my daughter wanted and I'm glad I got it.
Unexpected guest
I admit, I laughed when I first mentioned inviting an adult to the party. her birthday. We were returning from putting on olive oil and buying dried fruit from The Ditty Bag, Jason's store, when she asked, “Do you have Jason's phone number? I want to invite him to my birthday party.”
Her birthday was at least six months away. I said yes, I know how to contact Jason, thinking she wasn't serious. That she will most likely forget about all this when her birthday approaches. She didn't forget.
As the months passed, my daughter narrowed her desires: backyard partymaking potions (which would only happen if it was nice enough to be outside, I insisted), with cake and witch-themed food, given the fact that her birthday was on Halloween, she never hesitated to invite Jason.
She reminded me several times over these months that I said I could contact him. When it was finally time to sit down and make the birthday guest list, his name appeared next to the names of her friends, grandparents, aunt and uncle.
The author said her daughter had big plans for her birthday party, which included making potions. Courtesy of Bridget Shirvell
As her mother, I wanted her to be happy.
I knew that this invitation was a bit of an unusual request, and I knew that I would feel a little awkward inviting him. I was worried that he might also feel weird being invited to a baby shower.
At this point I could have said no, told my child that it was inappropriate. Was it? My daughter, however, finished writing the birthday invitation by saying, “Mom, you can invite some of your friends too, they don't have to bring me a gift.” It occurred to me that her desire to invite Jason was a consequence of my own upbringing and attention.
Over the past few years I have tried—sometimes awkwardly, but always intentionally— central community in my daughter's life.
We live in a time when connection can feel lacking. Many of our friendships are maintained through group text messages. Sometimes I wonder and worry if we are forgetting what it means to live in community. I don't want my daughter's sense of community to come only from screens or scheduled playtime. I want her to see community as something built on small daily interactions, like greeting the mailman, remembering the name of the woman who always sits on the porch while we walk to the school bus stop, handing out an extra bag of coffee to the neighbors, and chatting with the man who runs the corner store.
There is a framework in these interactions that I am also trying to build for her. As more research emerges on the effects of replacing children's free time and free play with near-constant adult supervision, the importance of community becomes even clearer to me. I'm trying to create a mini-world for my child where one day he can… go to the corner the store herself, knowing that there are other adults along the way who she knows can ask for help if she needs it. And I wish she could do the same for others. Communities are their own form of wealth, but they don't just happen.
I realized that inviting my daughter was her own small act of community building. She didn't care that the store owner was an adult or that they never shared the playground. What mattered was that this man was as stupid as she was, remembered her name and always asked about her latest project.
She got what she wanted
In the end I sent by Evita. Knowing that the party started an hour before his store closed, I advised Jason not to stay long, but my child would be delighted if he stopped by after closing for a piece of cake.
I looked at my daughter, her cheeks flushed from running around the backyard with her friends, and told her, “Sure, we can wait a little longer.” Jason arrived just as I was about to give up and rushed everyone to the table. He stayed long enough to help serve the cake and talk to the children. He seemed genuinely happy to be here.
Later that evening my daughter said, “I’m so glad Jason came.”
“I’m glad you wanted to invite him,” I replied.
