Micah turned 35 yesterday. And although it was a momentous occasion, he told me I was not allowed to stress about it. So I didn’t. Instead, I took a solid month planning and executing his party, bit by bit. It went something like this:
First, putting together the invite list.
Second, ordering invitations.
Third, handwriting and mailing those invitations.
Fourth, waiting impatiently for people to respond.
Fifth, pestering people to respond.
Sixth, negotiating a better start time.
Seventh, finding someone to take our children from us for the evening.
Eighth, planning the menu.
Ninth, spending half a week preparing the food after the kids were in bed.
Tenth, get the boys to the babysitter and the girl in her crib before the guests arrive.
Eleventh . . . PARTY!
All in all, I thought it turned out quite well. It was, I believe, just what Micah wanted. And the stress was spread so thin over so many days and weeks that I could hardly feel it at all. Not that I would have minded stressing a bit. After all, I like Micah. He’s worth trying to get things right.