Family Parties

Another Sunday afternoon at the playground, a brief respite in my sons' increasingly active social schedule. Last weekend, the twins attended a birthday party on Saturday, their third since the beginning of February. Daniel, meanwhile, had gone to Flemington to see a play with his grandmother. Yesterday, all three boys had a playdate at the home of their friends, Alex and Frederick. Last night Tab took Daniel to see the Harlem Globetrotters. Next week, swimming lessons start (Saturday late afternoon and Sunday late morning after Mass). Plus, Daniel has a swim party next Sunday afternoon. Stephen and Matthew have had to turn down an invitation to another birthday party next week since it is scheduled for the same time as their Sunday morning swimming lesson. And soccer season hasn't even started yet! Heaven help us.

It's sobering to realize that my five- and seven-year-old kids have a much better social life than I do.

One party I would have loved to have attended, were it possible, was last night's family party for two of my nieces in Maine. My sister Monica's daughter, Mollie, turned sixteen yesterday, and my sister Lori's eldest daughter, Alexandra, will turn seventeen in a few days. Mom and my sisters and their families gathered at the home of my youngest sister, Susannah, along with Dad and Bunny, to celebrate. I called Susannah's house at 7 o'clock last night, knowing I would catch them all there. I chatted for a few minutes with each in turn; in the background, I could hear snatches of laughing conversation and occasional gales of hilarity. It made me so homesick for them all, and for the comfort I used to find in family gatherings.

Up until Nana got sick, we used to have wonderful family parties at her house, with aunts, uncles, and cousins overflowing the house and spilling out onto her front porch. The vibrant heart of the party was always Nana's kitchen table, where various aunts would hold court around the bowl of potato chips and onion soup dip, talking and laughing loudly. "Cackling," my sisters and I used to call it, since they sounded like a flock of startled hens. I can still hear it.

Last night, Tab reminded me that if Nana were still alive and healthy, we would have been celebrating St. Patrick's day at her house. She loved to decorate her house for the holidays, so the walls would have been adorned with dozens of leprechauns and shamrocks of all sizes. Some aunt would have attempted Irish soda bread, but it would be sitting, untasted, on the kitchen counter, while the cousins grab handfuls of pretzels and chips and dip before running out into the living room again. The Bailey's Irish Cream and the Jameson's whiskey would find a more appreciative audience, however. The Chieftains and James Galway would be playing on the stereo, hardly audible over the conversation and laughter.

And in the middle of it all would be Nana, gracious hostess, the quiet center . . . but the one who held it all together.

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