I'm not sure if it's the Hispanic predisposition to celebrate even the most unlikely of events, or just his way of letting us know that we're not as good company as we once were, but recently my son opened our dinners up to around 30 or so of his closest friends: a group of toys he simply calls "a party." It's made eating out something of a spectacle.
On the plus side, the servers find the figurine-filled fiesta entertaining, and the ensuing icebreakers usually land us extra good service or a free dessert. And for my ravenous rascals, free food is always welcomed.
They take after their mother.
To be fair, I'm no different. I was just the one with the charged phone.
Oddly enough, these parties aren't only reserved for the dinner table; they're all over the place and thrown with no specific purpose. Yes, most of them are hosted in honor of Cristina getting home from work - which, depending on the amount of chaos created under dad's rule, can't be celebrated enough - but I've seen him gather the troops together for no good reason at all.
I guess, that's where I'm mistaken, though. Maybe that's where I lack imagination. What I see motionless and taking up space, he imagines as full of life and purpose. I simply see "a party" and he sees a warm welcome to a special someone that deserves more than just a hug and kiss; or an audience large enough to witness all the fun we have during dinnertime; or a collection of memories of all the times mom and dad rewarded him with an addition to the party.
I think my favorite parties are the ones he puts together just before bedtime. They're the ones he works hardest on, pleading with me every five minutes for another five minutes to add the finishing touches. I eventually draw the line and then he's off to bed. That's when I stay behind to admire his masterpiece.
These are my favorite parties - the ones where everyone else is asleep. These are the parties that are just for me.
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