Men are From Mars

I went to a birthday party last week. It was quite entertaining. It was for the daughter of a single father my husband works with. Now let me first start off by saying I know he ADORES his children. He is a great dad, and has done a remarkable job shielding his daughters from a very ugly divorce (while I am adamantly against divorce, this is one of those instances where I was extremely supportive of his decision. I'll leave it at that). But he is a dad. A male. As in, the opposite of the female; the mother.

I was the only female adult in attendance. So I sat back and watched the party unfold. It. Was. Awesome.

I found out about the party 2 days before it was scheduled; not because he forgot to send out invitations, but because he planned it 2 days before. He told half of the invited guests to bring a pizza to feed their family, but neglected to tell the other half. So half of the invitees showed up with dinner, while the other half were left to look like they never got the memo. There were no decorations. No table cloths. No forks to eat the cake, which was fine because there was no knife to cut the cake anyway. No lighter to light the candles that were blown out before anyone broke into the familiar chorus. No games.  No goodie bags.

Just a cake, some friends and a few presents.

The birthday girl loved it. The party guests loved it. I loved it.

I enjoy watching men play mother. They just roll with the punches. No worries about silly trivial details. If the kids are fed and happy, they have succeeded. They pay no attention to the dirty little faces, the fly-a-way hair. They will dress their children in a blue plaid shirt and neon green striped shorts (in the dead of winter) because why not? The kids are fed and happy. They have succeeded.

I would like to take a page from their mothering handbook. But I can't. Because I AM a mother. I'm wired differently. I AM a woman. I don't function the same way.

It's all in the details and the planning and the execution. "I's" are dotted and "T's" are crossed. Because it keeps me sane. Now don't get me wrong,  I'm not obsessive compulsive (occasionally obsessive and occasionally compulsive, but usually not at the same time). I'm scatterbrained and messy and unorganized most days. But when it comes to a birthday party, I'll take THIS (or THIS) party any day over the one I attended this week (she's so fantastic it's kinda ridiculous, no?). While both could be considered successful parties and I'm sure both children felt equally loved, only my husband, the man, would have attended both and not noticed a difference. If he is fed and happy, then someone has succeeded.

Sometimes I wonder if they have even heard of Venus?