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Pink, the color, not the rock star, invaded my house on Saturday. It was Gracie’s 9th birthday and we did a “spa” party where the kids received pedicures and manicures. Five of Gracie’s friends were invited to share in getting their tootsies massaged, pampered and painted, followed by a fun manicure complete with zebra striped polish, polka dot polish, or anything else a nine-year-old can dream up.
For 90 minutes I was the coolest mom on the planet. My sun room was transformed from a boring, tan room into a music-filled (yes, Justin Beiber was cranked up high) salon with pink shag rugs, pink faux-fur furniture throws, pink lamps, feather boas (pink again), and lots of pink nail polish.
Gracie and her friends chatted and laughed while four party professionals (dressed in pink) went to work on wiggly toes and fingers as I walked around serving mini sandwiches, chips, and tropical punch. Take-home goody bags were filled with nail polish, sweet-smelling soap, lip gloss, rings, bracelets and pink Barbie tattoos.
“Your mom is soooo cool,” declared one girl.
“Oh man, I wish my mom would do this for me,” added another.
“This is the best birthday party ever!” said a girl as she showed off her pink and purple striped nails to everyone.
“Mom, I love you. You’re the best!” said my daughter.
Yes, for 90 minutes I was the bomb. I was the mom everyone wanted to have.
Then, after the perky pink party professionals had packed up and moved on to their next party there was a change in the air. The pinkness of the party was slowly being replaced by a dark cloud. I was left with 6 girls who started noticing chips in their nail polish. A couple of girls even had polish that was wearing off already. This was not good when you want to be the cool mom.
“The zebra stripe is wearing off,” said one girl as she stared in disbelief at her hand.
“That’s better than the big smudge on my nail,” added another.
“We sat there all this time and our polish is coming off already,” said a frowning girl, clearly disappointed at the results of having wasted time with nothing but half-polished nails to show for it.
So my 90 minutes of ego-inflating joy was followed by 30 minutes of soothing and comforting 6 girls who were in various stages of nail polish crisis. So I did what any mother would do in that situation: I served cake, brought out my own bottle of OPI pink polish and began damage control.
Gracie thinks I’m still a cool mom. Maybe not the bomb, but cool, nevertheless. I can live with that.
