Kids' Parties, Piñatas and Panic

Family Friday

More than once while exiting a kids' birthday party, I've heard Party Mom exclaim "Oh, no!  We forgot the piñata!"  The fight-or-flight part of my brain then fires one urgent message:  Run!!!

"Thanks, we had a great time!" I almost scream as I propel my children out the door, praying all the while that they did not hear the p-word.

Defying all therapist rules of positive-framing, I will admit right here that I hate piñatas.  I realize that I am probably the only person on earth who has such fear and loathing for this highly popular party staple.  (And please do not take this personally – if you're reading this, you're probably a parent, and if so, you've probably hosted a kids' party, and if you've done this any time since the mid-1990s, there's at least a 75% chance that said party featured a piñata.  In other words, it's me, not you).

Escape is not always possible, especially when the piñata ritual occurs before the cake is served.  Consider the following scene from a party my five-year-old attended last weekend, which provides a good prototype for virtually every piñata-laden event we've attended:

The kids line up in order of size, with small delicate munchkins up front and older siblings and budding athletes in back.  Party Dad and Party Dad's friend rig up the Disney-themed piñata.  A large, very solid baseball bat is handed to Tiny Tina, the first child in line.  Tina swings delicately, missing the piñata completely at first, but she finally succeeds in gently tapping it.

Awww, croon all the parents.

As the kids get bigger, however, the fervor increases, reaching its peak when one particular boy steps up (let's call him Big Larry).  All right, everyone, back up, Party Dad orders, and the other parents echo: Back up, back up, leave room.  Big Larry proceeds to whale away at the hapless piñata but, strangely, nothing happens.  Finally, Big Larry and the bat must be physically separated (OK, Larry, let the little ones have another turn now).

The cycle then repeats.  The tension in the room has increased since the last go-round, and the parents start whispering and muttering.  My daughter, worn down by delayed gratification, begins to wiggle, so I grip her arm tightly.  Meanwhile, Party Dad examines the piñata and frowns.  Skipping over the next couple of kids, he hands the bat directly to Big Larry.  Big Larry beats the piñata with all his might, and this time no one tells him to let the little ones have a turn.

What's this?  A small crack has opened on the side, and a Jolly Rancher and a tube of Smarties tumble out.

With one quick motion, my daughter jerks out of my grasp and dives toward the candy.  Big Larry, however, has no intention of letting up.  Parents scream, Party Dad lunges for the bat, and I hurl myself under the piñata, intent on saving Samantha's tiny head from Big Larry's bat.  As I whisk her out of harm's way, she flops like a thirty-pound catfish on a line, screaming "I want my Jolly Rancherrrrr!"

Meanwhile, despite Big Larry's best efforts, the piñata remains relatively intact, small crack notwithstanding.  Larry has, however, succeeded in separating it from the string that suspended it, so the piñata now lies prostrate on the ground, grinning up at us wickedly.  Sweat pouring down their faces, Party Dad and Party Dad's friend admit defeat.  Together with several of the mothers, they tear the piñata apart with their bare hands, then toss the candy around the room.

Utter chaos erupts.  My daughter somersaults into position, kneels, and holds her long skirt out, hiding as much candy as possible.  As she leans forward to grab more, however, her skirt moves.  As other children grab the newly visible candy, she howls with indignation.  Big Larry, reprimanded after taking candy from someone's two-year-old brother, is banished to the outdoor play set.

Thankfully, once we move on to musical chairs, my daughter’s competitive me-me-me fire seems to have dimmed.  In fact, she tries to flub her way out of the game.  Samantha, there's a chair, sit down! someone orders.  Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly sits.

Mommy, she whines, I just want to go outside now.  Stick with the game, honey, I say, mainly because to do otherwise seems rude somehow.  Next round, she again deliberately flubs, this time successfully, and she joyfully dashes outside to chase Big Larry.  Positive frame: at least her acquisitiveness seems to have reached its threshold.

Is it just me?  Has anyone else worried about brain damage from misdirected piñata swings?  Does anyone think children need more opportunities to grab candy?  And while we’re on the subject of grabbing, what exactly does musical chairs teach kids anyway, besides me-first-me-first-me-first?

Towards the end of my children’s parties, some kid will inevitably ask where the piñata is.  I don't think we'll have time for that, sweetie, I've typically stated, then distracted the piñata-lover with a goody bag.  Still rewards acquisitiveness, I know, but at least no one is wielding a blunt instrument.

Photo by peasap via Flickr

Comments

[Shelly]

I completely agree! I HATE pinatas too! I have never had one at my son's parties (and I never will) goody bags are fine!

Following in your post - have to assume you were alluding to the fact that pinatas should be saved for the men's 20th, 30th, 40th, etc birthdays... since they are really the (only) ones that enjoy it!

[Stacy]

This is hilarious, Jenny. We just had my son's 4th pinata-less birthday party today. And my daughter's never had a pinata either. Even better, neither of my kids has ever asked for one. I think they sense my loathing.