The Texas sun was already beating down on our backyard last March 14th when I realized I’d bit off way more than I could chew for my nephew Leo’s sixth birthday. Austin in the spring is gorgeous, but the humidity was already starting to make my carefully curled hair go limp while I stared at…
I stood in my kitchen in suburban Atlanta on a Tuesday night in April 2022, holding a blowtorch like a confused suburban commando. My son, Leo, was turning five that weekend, and I had foolishly promised him a “realistic” solar system cake. I had the black frosting—which, by the way, stains your teeth for three…
Leo’s seventh birthday was breathing down my neck like a caffeinated Oscar the Grouch on June 14, 2024. Being a single dad in Atlanta means I spend half my life trying to look like I have my act together while secretly googling how to remove crayon from baseboards. I wanted this party to be different….
Leo’s sixth birthday was approaching fast last February, and my basement in Denver looked like a plumbing supply warehouse had exploded. Red and green pipes made of spray-painted cardboard lined the walls while my wife, Sarah, frantically cut out yellow stars. We had fourteen kids coming over on February 14th—yes, Valentine’s Day was sacrificed for…
Leo’s ninth birthday party on March 14, 2025, started with me accidentally gluing my left thumb to a yellow paper bag at 2:00 AM. I stood there in my kitchen in Atlanta, smelling like cheap adhesive and regret, wondering why I hadn’t just hired a professional to handle the minions party goodie bags set. My…
Last April, my living room in Atlanta looked like a primary-colored crime scene. Nineteen three-year-olds were vibrating with a level of sugar-induced energy that would terrify a seasoned infantry sergeant. My son, Leo, had decided his third birthday was going to be “The Big Brick Party,” which sounded cute in February but felt like a…
Seventeen eleven-year-olds represent a specific kind of chaos that science hasn’t fully categorized yet, especially when they are all hovering in my small Atlanta backyard on a humid Sunday afternoon. My daughter, Maya, decided that for her eleventh birthday on April 5, 2026, we were moving past the “pink princess” phase and into the “ethereal…
Chicago wind is no joke on a Saturday morning in mid-March, especially when you are trying to pin down a pink tablecloth with nothing but sheer willpower and a few heavy rocks. On March 14, 2026, I stood in my tiny backyard in Logan Square, bracing myself for Leo and Maya’s second birthday party. Eighteen…
I still have a distinct pink papier-mâché horn sitting on my dining room table. Three weeks ago, on May 15th, I hosted 20 sugar-fueled five-year-olds in my muddy Portland backyard for my youngest daughter Lily’s birthday. The absolute centerpiece of the chaos was a massive, rainbow-maned unicorn pinata. It survived exactly four minutes. Four minutes…
Twenty-two first graders are a force of nature. They move like a singular, sticky-handed swarm. Last March, I decided to host my son Leo’s seventh birthday at our house in Houston, and let me tell you, the humidity was not my friend. I had this vision of a prehistoric jungle in my living room. I…
