The Best Party

Of course, I knew the thing Ariana* wanted most for her birthday party; she'd been asking me for artificial nails for months. Having never bought fake nails for a little girl, I thought it wise to take her with me. I also thought it might be fun to let her choose the decorations for her party, so we killed two birds with one stone with a trip to the nearby Dollar Tree on Saturday, the day before her party. 

On the way there, I warned, "We're here for party decorations. You'll see lots of things you'd like me to buy for you, but the only gift I will buy you here is nails. That's because opening birthday presents is much more fun when you can be surprised."

"Okay, just nails," she agreed.

She shocked me by keeping her word, but we still spent a crazy amount of time deliberating on the different styles of nails. What Ariana dearly wanted was nail glue, and the nails were simply the justification for buying the glue. "Do these ones need glue?" she asked over and over at each child-size set that I presented to her.

I removed my distance glasses and extended the boxes as far from my eyes as my arms would allow, squinting at the tiny print. "No, these say no glue required." 

It turned out that only the adult-size nails required glue, which made perfect sense. "But I want glue!" Ariana wailed when I told her she could get twice as many kid nails if we didn't have to buy glue.

"Okay," I agreed. "But these probably won't fit."

Grudgingly, she consented to a compromise: one set of adorable kids' stick-on nails and one set of long, adult nails, plus a two-pack of nail glue. 

She then agonized over whether to buy a birthday crown and sash or a set of party hats and noisemakers; although I could have bought all of it, I decided I didn't want to turn her into a spoiled American kid, so I made her choose. She chose the latter so she could share them with her guests. 

The Big Day

After church on Sunday, I barricaded the door against the girls so that I could decorate. However, running to the door in response to their continual knocking was cutting into my very limited time, so I finally heaved a big sigh and let them in. "People don't usually decorate for their own birthdays," I explained, "but I could really use your help."

While Safya* helped me cover the table with the white cloth that Ariana had selected, Ariana begged me to help her put on her nails for the party. 

"I don't have time," I told her repeatedly. "Your party starts in just a minute, and I'm no good at nails anyway." 

"But I need help!" she insisted. 

Just then, my new friend Amy arrived with a bunch of balloons. I thanked her profusely for agreeing to help with the party on such short notice. She graciously sat down with the desperate Ariana and helped her stick on the nails.

Birthday Nail Salon

Flawless!

It was now after the scheduled 2:00 starting time, but there was no sign of any guests, so Amy, my sister Amy, and I had plenty of time to blow up all the balloons. I laid out the ice cream cake, the mango juice, and the matching napkins and plates that Ariana had chosen. 

Around 2:20, Ariana's mother, Sediqa,* poked her head in the door. She took one look at my full-length party dress juxtaposed against Ariana's jeans and T-shirt, and then she launched into some rapid-fire scolding in their first language. 

"She says I have to go change," Ariana explained. 

"Okay. But hurry," I said. "Your party was supposed to start 20 minutes ago." 

My Party Dress, a Gift from My Friend Angie

It was around this time that Morgan, another new friend, arrived. My mom had just finished helping my sister into her party dress, and the two of them joined the rest of us in the now festive living room. As we awkwardly awaited the guest of honor and her friends, I noticed that the ice cream cake was starting to melt, so I carefully carried it back to the freezer. 

Around 2:45, Ariana came to the door wearing a gorgeous white lace dress, accompanied by four random children who had probably just happened along at that moment. I had to turn two of them away. "I need to meet your mom before you can come in my house," I explained. They ran away in search of their mothers, and the others came inside.

By 3:00, Sediqa and Safya had joined us, each wearing a beautiful dress and makeup. Safya's dress matched Ariana's, and they looked so charming together. 

One of the moms who came to grant permission to her daughter came inside, along with the lone boy's mother and two younger siblings. We now had a houseful of pretty rowdy children. 

I pulled the cake back out and spread a beautiful leather cloth over the rug for the children to eat on; this traditional mat from Pakistan had been a gift from my friend Angie, who has a refugee ministry. 

It was fun to watch the self-conscious joy play over Ariana's face while we sang her happy birthday. I had to light the candles twice, though, because the little boy blew out the candles before she had a chance to. 

After that, Amy and Morgan graciously served the cake and juice. One is a teacher and the other a former teacher, and they managed the unruly children beautifully.

I was surprised and very proud to discover that Ariana shares her mother's gift of hospitality. Before she accepted a bite of food, she served each child and mother cake and juice, and then she made the rounds to refill each juice cup. Only when the cake was nearly gone did Morgan finally convince her to take a piece for herself. 

Things Go South...

Shortly after the cake had been served, I noticed absently that a large portion of the tablecloth was gone. As I pondered the meaning of this, some warm juice splashed onto my bare feet. My eyes widened when I saw the source of the liquid: the youngest girl, whose mother had just slapped her on the back and who now bent from the waist, gazing at a puddle of orange on the beautiful leather mat. "Maybe she choked," I thought as I sprang for a dish towel to wipe my feet and then the mat. 

Meanwhile, the little girl's older brother was wreaking havoc by popping the balloons, which severely agitated Ariana. "Stop breaking the balloons!" I warned sternly. But the moment my back was turned, I heard another one break, and then another. 

Next, I heard Ariana's shrieks when the same boy tried to open her gifts. I sternly admonished him that if he couldn't listen, he'd have to go home. He settled down then, at least for the moment. 

In the middle of this bedlam, I loudly said a prayer over Ariana, thanking God for the joy she brings to everyone and asking him to bless her all through her next year of life. 

After all her impatience over the birthday party, I was surprised when Ariana decided to wait to open her presents until the other guests had left. Based on what I have observed at other parties here, I think this is part of their culture. Perhaps it would seem rude to open gifts that would not be shared with the guests. 

I was happy that she wanted us to be there when she opened the gifts. It was particularly gratifying to see her joy when she saw the Bop It toy that Amy had chosen.

After all the guests had left except for Sediqa and her girls, Morgan and Amy explained what had happened to the tablecloth. Right after eating the ice cream cake, the little girl had vomited on the table. "We think she might have lactose intolerance," Morgan said. Unfazed, she and Amy had ripped the tablecloth in half and bundled the mess into the overflowing trash bag. 

I shuddered as I realized it had been vomit that was spewed on my feet. I resolved to scrub them with soap and water at the first opportunity. 

...But All Is Well

As Sediqa vacuumed up the confetti that had escaped from the broken balloons, I ruefully contemplated all the frustrations of the wild party. It was just at this moment that Ariana proclaimed, with a radiant smile that made her brown eyes sparkle, "This was the best party." 

I was reminded of the disastrous trip to Central Market with Allyson back when she was a toddler and how all my stress had melted away when she said, "That was so much fun, Mommy!" 

Despite the aggravations, I have to say that Ariana's very first birthday party was a huge success. I hope she will remember the experience for a very long time to come.

*Names changed to protect privacy

The Birthday Girl... Every Week

Our young upstairs neighbor, Ariana,* is absolutely obsessed with artificial nails. She continually asks me to buy her some, for all manner of occasions, big and small. Every other week or so, she claims that her birthday is coming, and she asks if we will host a party for her and, of course, buy her some nails.

A couple of weeks ago, we helped one of our friends in the apartment complex give a party for her daughter, a friend of Ariana's. 

"When will you have my party?" Ariana asked. 

"We'll give you a party when it's your actual birthday," I promised.

"It is!" Ariana insisted. "On Friday it will be my birthday." 

"You say that every week," I said. "I'm going to ask your dad when your birthday is."

Because her father usually works in the evening, I didn't have the opportunity to ask him for quite a while. A week or so ago, while I sat cross-legged on their floor one evening helping Ariana with ridiculously hard math homework--something about number bonds and five-groups, things we never learned when I was in school--Ariana started in again with the birthday requests. 

"I'm gonna ask my mom to tell you," she said. She launched into a stream of rapid-fire speech in their native language. The only thing I could understand was the word "mama" and the inflection that signaled a question. 

"Yes!" Sediqa* replied with a smile.

"See?" Ariana demanded triumphantly. "I told you my birthday was coming." 

"Ariana, I have no idea what you just said to your mom. I'll have to wait until I can talk to your dad." 

A few days later, she took up the refrain again. "My birthday is this Friday."

"That's what you said last week," I reminded her. "I thought you said it was last Friday."

"No, it's this Friday," she said. "I forgot to say next when I said Friday."

"Hmm," I said. "I'll need to ask your dad."

"My dad is getting me a cake," she said excitedly. 

"Oh, he is? Are you having the party at your house? I hope you will invite me."

"Yes, we will invite you," she promised.

Despite having observed her impressive talent at spinning yarns on many occasions, I began to wonder if perhaps she really was having a birthday. I resolved to talk to her dad very soon. 

This evening, I finally got my chance. I had gone upstairs to help Ariana with more math homework, and to read to her little sister, Safya.* On my way out the door, I asked Basir* when his daughter's birthday is. 

He laughed. "I don't know." 

I didn't find this terribly surprising; I had heard from a friend in the community that in their culture, they don't often celebrate birthdays. Further, some of the children here were born in refugee camps, and their parents don't know exactly when their birthdays are. For most of them, a birthday is just a normal day. 

"Ariana tells us it's her birthday every week," I said, joining in his laughter.

"I check the green card," he said.

I nodded. "Tomorrow," I suggested. "We will give her a party when her birthday comes."

Meanwhile, Ariana had gone into the kitchen. "My dad bought me a cake," she called out. "Come and see." 

I rounded the corner to find her on the floor with a good-sized cake in a bakery box. She and Safya were scooping up dollops of frosting on their fingers and then slurping it off. 

I turned toward Basir. "You bought her a cake?" I asked. "So it really was her birthday?" 

He threw his hands in the air. "I don't know!" he repeated, bursting into laughter again.

I could easily imagine what had happened. Her relentless pleading must have worn him down. 

"When it's her birthday, we'll give her a party," I repeated. "You can check the green card tomorrow." 

"No," Ariana wheedled. "Can't we check it now?" 

"My wife check the green card now," Basir said.

Sediqa disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

While we waited, Ariana announced, "I'm gonna give you some cake. Three pieces, for you and Amy and your mom." 

"That's very kind," I said, eyeing Safya's blue, frosting-stained finger dubiously. 

"What should I put it on?" Ariana said to herself. After perusing the kitchen and the dishwasher, she grabbed a plate with a cut apple on it. "I know what to do," she said, dropping the remnants of the apple into the sink. She ran some water over the plate and wiped it with the end of her T-shirt. I suppressed my shudder. 

Ariana picked up a large knife from the counter and studied the rather messy cake thoughtfully. I gestured to a corner that looked undisturbed. "Maybe you could cut some cake from that corner," I suggested. 

While she laboriously cut out three triangular wedges, her mother emerged from the bedroom, holding a laminated card with a photo of Ariana as a baby. When I read the birthdate, my eyebrows rose in surprise. She really had had a birthday earlier this month, though it had been on different day than Friday.

"Your birthday already passed!" I exclaimed. 

"It did?" she asked, shocked.

I read the date aloud. "Yep, we owe you a birthday party."

"And nails?"

"Yes. A party and nails and a cake. We can do it... tomorrow night."

"Yay!" she said. 

"What year she was born?" Basir asked.

I took off my distance glasses and moved the card so that I could make out the tiny print. "In 2018," I said. I counted out the years on my fingers. "So she's seven years old."

"No, I'm not. I'm eight," Ariana argued. 

I counted out the years again, confirming something I'd been suspecting for a long time. When we'd moved in, she'd said she was seven, but she'd actually been only six. "You are definitely seven years old. You just turned seven." 

Ariana handed me the plate of cake, and Sediqa handed me some peach yogurt that they wouldn't eat because it was haram (forbidden for Muslims). Little Safya cheerfully carried the yogurt down for me while her mother waited at the top of the stairs. 

I told the whole story to my mom and Amy when I got back inside, shuddering over the part where Ariana used her shirt as a towel. "So I don't know if we'll want to eat it," I concluded.

"Oh, I guess we can eat it," Mom said. And I suppose we will. You can hardly refuse birthday cake--even if we will all be eating some more tomorrow night. 

*Names changed to protect privacy