My son turned six on June 18th and as usual the date, lying in wait behind Father's Day, snuck up on me. Micah's a nature lover and, after much discussion, he decided he would have a "water party" in our front yard. (His first idea was to hike the nature trails at a local conservation area while searching for deer, wild turkeys and snakes. He couldn't understand that some people consider that torture, not fun.) "What a great idea!", I thought. Practical, inexpensive, easy to plan and I won't even have to clean the house.
We invited his friends and their moms for a low-key afternoon get-together. Next we picked up some squirt guns, borrowed a sprinkler toy from a friend, blew up the inflatable kiddie pool, hosed off the lawn chairs, ordered a cookie cake and made a quick trip to the party store for matching fish plates and napkins.
The big day finally arrived, and everything was in order. The weather forecast called for a "slight chance for rain" in the evening, but the party was scheduled from 2:00-4:00. Perfect. A little before 2:00, the guests started arriving. Micah proudly greeted his friends, handing them colorful plastic leis and inviting them to "grab a (water) gun and start shooting". The moms lounged in lawn chairs, rocking babies and sipping cold water, while the kids splashed, squirted and screamed.
A good time was had by all until, at precisely 3:03 pm, a high-pitched whine echoed all around us. The sky was clear, but there was no mistaking the sound: tornado sirens. Time to implement Plan B. Everyone inside - NOW! In a matter of three minutes, 15 soaking wet, grass-covered boys and girls tramped through the house, as I frantically made my way toward the TV. Mass chaos ensued, as the kids stripped off their wet swimming suits, confused by the sudden end to the water fun; the weatherman screamed instructions at us and the moms called their husbands to assure them they were safe.
Meanwhile, Micah kept pulling on my shirt, begging me to "save his presents from the patio table before they blow away". I tried to calmly explain this was a crisis, the presents would be fine and I'd get them as soon as I was sure everyone was safe. That explanation didn't cut it for him so, in the midst of the mayhem, he slipped on his sandals and embarked on a rescue mission. I didn't even notice he was gone until he reappeared in the family room, laden with bags and boxes, looking terrified but triumphant.
The wind blew, the rain poured and the sky turned black as night. Through it all, Micah gleefully opened his gifts while he and his friends devoured the giant chocolate chip cookie, a half gallon of ice cream and two dozen juice boxes. They didn't seem to notice the dangerous weather or the completely disastrous (in my mind) change of plans. As soon as Micah's party ended, I had a party of my own--a pity party. "Why does something always have to go wrong when I plan a party? Why aren't my kids' parties as cool as other kids' parties? I didn't even clean my house, for Pete's sake." I sulked and pouted and wondered why God hadn't answered my prayer for calm weather.
The next day, Micah crept into my bed early, like he does every morning after his dad leaves for work. I rolled over and peered groggily through a half-opened eyelid to see him gazing at the ceiling and grinning ear to ear. When I asked him why he was so happy, he said, "I'm just thinking about my party. It was the best day of my life." But I wasn't convinced, still feeling like a party-planning failure, until we went to the church picnic on Sunday. Micah was getting settled on the picnic blanket, trying not to spill his fried chicken or lemonade, when his friend Garrett bounded up to him and joyfully exclaimed, "Hey Micah, I loved your party! We got to squirt all the girls.", and they promptly exchanged high fives. Amused and more than a little surprised, I looked over at Steve. He just smiled, winked and said, "See? I told you. It was perfect." And I had to admit, based on the evidence, that he was right.
