Attending a party or social event can be hard. When I arrive at 5:00 pm for a party and the hosts get around to calling in the pizza order at 6:00, I soothe my hunger pains by judging my hosts. Oh my goodness, I can’t believe they would say the party starts at 5:00 and not even call in the pizza order until 6:00. Why would they do that? Everyone is starving. Is it that hard to plan ahead? It’s also incredibly satisfying to judge the people who arrive later than me, are dressed too nice, or are too loud or too quiet.

It’s refreshing to judge the party hosts and guests because it gives me a break from judging myself. Chances are I’m late. I’m also really bad at greeting cards, so I’m the one saying “Oh! That’s my gift,” while the guest of honor is trying to find a card or see who the gift bag is from. I don’t know whether to sit on the floor when there aren’t enough chairs, and I probably didn’t wear the right thing for floor-sitting. I hate to ask, “Where is the restroom?” And I take big bites, talk with my mouth full, and worry about not getting enough of my favorite foods.

I don’t know whether it’s more rude to interject myself into a group of people who are already conversing, or to sit alone and silent. If I were one of those people who offers to help, that would be awesome, but I really prefer to be catered to at a party, so I can’t cut my social anxiety by getting busy in the kitchen. If there is much unplanned time at a party I get really uncomfortable. At public events I cope with this by reading a book, but in a home, getting a book out and reading during a party would be like flying a “loser” flag over my head.

I am a time optimist, which means I generally think things will take only about two thirds (half?) of the actual time they will take. I persist in this no matter how many times my experience disproves my optimism. I dislike being early—I mean, who has time to sit around waiting? Since we live in a small town where just about everything is 5-10 minutes away, I tend to leave the house when an event is beginning. I cannot pretend I hit traffic on the way, so everyone knows when I arrive 5-10 minutes late that I didn’t leave my house until the event started. I try to pretend this is not true and that something “came up” which caused my tardiness.

I know I look like I’m in my 30’s, but really I’m just a thirteen-year-old inside, and as much as I want to be at this party, I don’t like what it reveals. Parties show me things I don’t want to know about myself, including my fear that others are seeing things they don’t like about me.

If attending a party is hard, hosting one is grueling. For starters, if it’s at my house, I fly around yelling at my kids and making terse requests of my husband in an effort to transform our cluttered and dirty home into a space which will at least be clean enough that my guests are not totally distracted by evidence of the bomb that goes off every mealtime. I move the crochet project that has been on the couch for six months and the art supplies that have been on the sideboard for three weeks, and vacuum the corners. I look out the dirty windows and really want to clean them but I know I do not have the time and also my husband might realize exactly how crazy I am.

Because I am a time optimist, if I am hosting a party, I generally think I can make the punch, cut the veggies, clean up the yard, and change into my party clothes in the last ten minutes before the party begins. This inevitably does not go well. I have been known to change into party clothes after half the guests have arrived, and tend to spend a lot of time in the kitchen doing all the things I didn’t get done before. I don’t like being harried, but “hanging out” with guests is awkward, so there are some benefits to being frantically busy during most of the party.

If you’re remembering that I judge people who don’t plan ahead, then you might be thinking right now that I’m a bit hypocritical, and you’d be right. Basically, I’m going for my own comfort, which at your party means everything should be well planned and on time, but at my party it means I will be busy doing things at the last minute because that keeps me from having to engage in awkward conversation with you. The downside to this is that I usually can’t eat. I get a plate of food, but then I have to do something else, and I put it down and then when I get back to it I’m too stressed out to enjoy it and I end up wishing I had just skipped eating.

Since my daughters were born, I have hosted nearly 20 birthday parties for them, all of which have been characterized by frantic activity up to the beginning of the party, and through a good portion of it, until last Sunday. My younger daughter’s 8^th birthday was Sunday, and we had a party at a park, with a bouncy house and pizza and water fun. I greeted guests as they arrived, pointing out the coolers of drinks and the scrapbook page to sign, just as I had seen hosts at other parties do. I visited with guests. I served food and cake without once feeling like I was behind. I mostly didn’t worry that people were too hot, or bored, or didn’t have a place to sit. And I’m pretty sure every kid went home with a party favor. After a number of parties where all the favors were left, or the last three kids to leave got one, that was really a crowning achievement.

I can’t tell you why this party was different, but it was nice not to feel like everyone’s happiness depended on me, like I was forgetful and crazy and couldn’t look at anyone long enough to converse for more than a sentence. It was nice not to rush and manage my daughter through her party; to see family and friends gathered and to enjoy their company. It was nice to rely on the kindness of a friend who drove to my house to bring the ice cream cakes to the park, and to return them to my freezer again after we cut the cake. It was divine to come home and take a nap, which was not a luxury afforded to me for most of the years since my girls were born.

I think there is grace for parties. Grace for overdressing and underdressing. Grace for not knowing what to say or what not to say. Grace for arriving late and leaving early, and also for too much food or not enough food. Grace for too few chairs and too much noise. Grace for forgetting the lighter for the candles or the card for the gift. Grace for being awkward, and for forgetting party favors. Grace for not looking each giver in the eye and saying “thank you” as gifts are opened, and for never getting around to mailing thank-you cards. There is grace for rushing my kids through their own parties, trying to control my guests, and supervising housecleaning with pursed lips and furrowed brow. There is grace for all this, because gathering is beautiful, because people are worth celebrating, and because it is humbling to know that forty people would give up three hours of their Sunday to say, “We see your daughter is turning eight and we agree to be a witness to her life and to yours. We choose to celebrate.”

So I will keep on showing up to parties, late, with my awkwardness, and I will keep hosting parties, frantic, with my social anxiety. I will show up to see you, and you will show up to see me, and the world will be a better place, because although there’s a lot we can’t agree on, we do agree to sing the same notes to “Happy Birthday,” loudly and in unison, to the eight-year-old in the pink swimsuit whose smiling face is delighted and shy and beautiful and fully aware that she is worth celebrating.

Photo credit: Celina Dawson

Title photo by Thirdman