First Birthday Parties are Ridiculous: I Had One Anyway
It’s unlikely one-year-olds remember first birthday parties and unclear if they even understand what’s going on. Besides, there’s a high chance they’ll cry throughout the entire joyous event due to overstimulation or a missed nap. It’s easy to argue that it’s a ridiculous outlay of energy and cost during a fraught time of life. Nonetheless, I was determined to host a party; it could be argued that I needed to.
As our son snuck up on this milestone, I started to plan an elaborate DIY bash, fueled by Pinterest fantasies and frugality. It would take place at our house and feature an overly-precious zebra theme. I’d bake a bunch of cupcakes in order to compose one of those home-made “pull-apart” cakes sculpted with the help of my artistic husband. We’d invite 15 of our son’s closest friends from library storytime, where, in the previous months, I’d bonded with their mothers while they’d crawled over one another like puppies and grabbed slobber-covered building blocks out of each other’s chubby little hands.
I’d like to say that I opted into all of this extra work entirely out of joy, but the reality is that it was also serving as a form of distraction. New motherhood (in addition to my job as a figure skating coach in addition to breastfeeding) was its own challenge and source of exhaustion, but I had something else going on: my mother had been diagnosed with dementia. She’d been losing her cognitions and independence gradually over the previous two years. We took care of her at our house for a while, but by the time our son’s birthday was approaching, she needed full-time caregivers. Along with my brother, I was managing every aspect of her 24-hour care in her own home and constantly processing the new realities of her precipitous decline, including the complete transformation of her easy-going personality. She was constantly distraught and I was heartbroken. While I was getting used to being a mom, I’d been losing my own, with the added responsibility of making sure she was safe.
This is not a mental state that would normally tee anyone up for a celebration, but there was also a wonderful flip side: our son, who my husband and I had on the later end at 40 and 42 years old, was now walking, starting to talk, and brought a whole new layer of sweetness and light into our lives. Despite my sadness, and maybe even because of it, I had every intention of honoring his first year of life, and our first year of parenting.
And I went big.
It’s not like we offered real zebra rides on our lawn or rented a zebra-shaped bouncy house, or anything. On our window sill I propped up baby books that featured zebras as a no-cost decoration. I made a trivia sheet about them (as if these kids could read! And their parents had the bandwidth to!) There were black and white balloons, plates, and napkins. I sat our son’s plush zebra jauntily on an overturned flower pot as a centerpiece. In a bold and embarrassing stroke of self-absorption, I even asked everyone to wear stripes.
We bought bagels for the kids to gnaw on, served homemade quiche for the parents, and I set out an array of snacks we hoped no toddlers would choke on. Given the state of our planet and our landfills, it’s uncomfortable to admit that we also splurged on goody bags and filled them with a zebra board book (but look how we were promoting reading!) and one of those plastic eggs the kids could shake like a maraca (to encourage a love of music!). On the outside of each individual bag I carefully affixed one adorable zebra sticker, as if this was the whole point of my existence.
I ran myself ragged, crunching the numbers and getting our house guest-ready. While I have a helpful and supportive husband, this party was my baby (in addition to our actual baby). The chaos of this time and my lack of control over what was happening with my mother probably made me even more determined to control this event. Not everyone enjoys hosting parties, but, for me this creative event felt like a reward in the context of all the difficulty. It was an act of love, for my child and for myself, even if it took work to make it happen.
The house filled up with guests and the volume increased. The pile of coats on our bed grew while a layer of sesame seeds and Pirates Booty speckled our floor like confetti. At the height of the chaos, our son retreated to his room with my mother in law. I heard him crying in there briefly, possibly confused by all the hub-bub, and felt a pang of guilt for allowing our peaceful domain to be invaded.
We lured him out to his high chair to try his first bite of cake. We lit a candle, but he didn’t yet know how to blow it out, so we did it for him. Instead of smashing the cake or painting his face with the frosting, he took a single civilized bite. I silently appreciated that he wasn’t following the usual, messy script; this was who he was. He wanted to get down immediately, unaware that he was the center of attention, so we let him fold into the gathered crowd.
While we had an audience, though, I tried to put into words my gratitude for everyone’s presence at this event and their presence in our lives over the last 12 months. But I was too overcome by emotion. “Thank you,” I said, simply, then swallowed hard, trying to pre-empt sobs. My husband expressed his own gratitude and encouraged people to keep eating; we’d clearly put out way too much food.
I took a few deep breaths. I’d realized quite quickly, along with many others in that room, that parenting was even more complicated than I’d expected. It wasn’t easy to make magic for our kids, stay present for them, and bring a playful attitude amid all of life’s other pressures. And I understood that we’d only just begun.
I looked over at our son, who was now over by the toy instruments. He had one of the drum sticks in his mouth as if it was a lollipop. Around him, our living room was roiling with life and parallel play: tiny children were laughing, crying, and stretching their arms toward everything in reach. I could see that despite all the zebra decorations on display, our lives had actually gone from black and white to full color in the last 365 days.
My mother ended up passing away unexpectedly later that night. I got the call while devouring a leftover cupcake, balloons were still wafting around our living room. It’s now been almost 12 years since that beautiful and tragic day, a day that will always contain striped emotions. No, our son doesn’t remember meeting his grandmother a handful of times in those first few months of his life. And he doesn’t remember this epic party. But I certainly do.
About the Author
Jocelyn Jane Cox’s work has appeared in The New York Times, Slate, The Offing, The Linden Review, Cleaver, Litro Magazine, Penn Review, and Colorado Review. Her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her book, Motion Dazzle: A Memoir of Motherhood, Loss, and Skating on Thin Ice (Vine Leaves Press, 9/30/2025) explores motherhood, sports participation, and caregiving. She received her MFA in Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College and now lives with her son and husband in the Hudson Valley of New York. More information at www.jocelynjanecox.com and on her Instagram @jocelynjanecoxwriter.
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