“Would you boys like me to take a photo of you with your cow?” I asked when it was time to leave.
Since they didn’t seem to understand why, I added, “We can have it printed and hang it in your room.”
They’d stopped laughing. I half-heartedly took a photo anyway, trying to frame them with the animal. The photo hung for several months on the wall of their room. They never paid it the slightest attention.
Their birthday was coming up, the first one they would be celebrating with us. I wanted an intimate party, but Gregory had other ideas.
“There are so many people who still haven’t met them—everyone from the office, the neighbours… We could have a big party and invite everyone. Then you wouldn’t have to go around introducing them individually.”
I didn’t like the idea at all. I thought back to the chaos of the Dwell Magazine shoot and was not eager to repeat it. On the other hand, those people had all given us gifts after the adoption. I would eventually have to do the polite thing and introduce our children. Perhaps Gregory was right; I would save myself some trouble by inviting every-
one at once. I took a few days to think about it, wavering between the idea of the big gathering and the small one with just us.
I finally came around to Gregory’s point of view. Up to a point, it had been acceptable to isolate the boys—to give them time to adapt—but after too long, people would start to ask questions. So I set to designing invitations, and quickly found myself with a list of over thirty people. We were close with four of our colleagues at the firm. With their families, we were already at sixteen people. Two neighbourhood couples, one of whom had two children, had given me gifts; another six guests. With Magalie, her husband, and their son, I had twenty-five. With the four of us, that made twenty-nine, thirteen of whom were children under ten. I had a moment of dread thinking about the planning, until I started to think of it as a corporate event. All I had to do was feed and entertain a few adults and children for a few hours, which wasn’t that hard.
I could see no way of cooking effectively for that number of people, so I strapped the boys into their stroller and set off for Nadège on Queen Street. The bakery’s catering service was expensive, but very elegant.
As soon as I arrived, they led me to a banquette near the patio and offered me a Kusmi tea. A young staff member in the store’s pink apron presented me with an iPad listing all the different options. Another staff member took the boys by the hand and brought them to see the kitchen, where the macaroons were prepared behind a big bay window. I chose a hundred hors d’oeuvres topped with smoked salmon, foie gras, camembert, and sausage, and even indulged in one of their pièces montées as a birthday cake. I charged the bill to the firm and left, quite pleased with my organizing skills, carrying a pink box filled with sample treats.
I took advantage of being on Queen Street to go into the Paper Place, which was just across the street. The shop carried a wide variety of delicate papers and prints, as well as stationery. I perused the narrow aisles until the boys got impatient and threatened to grab the expensive wrapping paper within their reach. I hurried to the cash with garlands and paper lanterns. I had no intention of decorating the house with hideous helium balloons that would only end up popping in the midst of the excitement.
I still had to come up with an activity to liven up the party. Outdoor games were out of the question, as it was October and much too cold. Indoor games would have to do. I remembered the birthday games my parents planned for us: Pin the Tail on the Donkey, mini-bowling, hula-hoop contests… but the twins were too young for that kind of activity, and those games were out of fashion anyway.
On our way home, we stopped by Trinity Bellwoods Park and I watched the boys play amongst the other children, indifferent to them. I thought then of an activity involving animals. I knew of companies that brought in different creatures—chinchillas and guinea pigs and the like—for children’s birthday parties. It seemed perfect to me, and would be good for children of all ages. By the time Gregory got home from work, the party was planned. I was bursting with pride at my efficiency.
The morning of the birthday, everything was ready: the decorations were up, I had picked up my order at Nadège, and the entertainment had been prepaid.
Guests were scheduled to arrive at three, after the twins’ nap. The morning went well. I finished cleaning the house and had time to get ready and get the boys dressed. Gregory tried to get them excited, telling them about the party, all the guests coming to see them, and all the gifts they would get. The boys didn’t understand, but the more Gregory hyped up the party, the more tormented I felt about people meeting my sons.
I frantically scoured the house to make sure everything was impeccable. I knew that all eyes would be on my actions as a mother, judging my competence and capacity to manage both the children and the guests. We had often thrown parties at the house for our colleagues or friends in the past and I had a reputation as an excellent hostess. Glasses were always full, food was exquisite, and the music and ambience were of the highest order. Would I live up to those expectations? My confidence was crumbling
