WE JUST threw our oldest boy a birthday party at the local bowling-pizza-video-drome. He and his twenty-three friends are six, and perhaps you heard the sounds of the balls as they were flung up (surprisingly high and far, I thought) and came down on the polished wood floors. I don’t know who makes these alleys, but I’m pretty sure we should get them working on cockpit doors.
Now, the subject of kids’ parties has been a staple American cliche since the end of World War II, and, indeed, might have been one of the causes of it. (“Excuse me, but I paid for cocktail franks, and they weren’t put out, and the balloons are flabby? Okay, that’s it, we’re annexing the Sudetenland.”) Even a run-of-the-mill bowling party, which is what I thought we were throwing, is the sign of an affluent culture, and I don’t think that’s bad. I’m not worried about raising spoiled kids, because the part of parenting that counts is imparting work ethic and values, not whether they have two baseball bats instead of one. Okay, five bats. Twelve. Whatever. The point is, if parents can afford to throw a little wing-ding for their heirs presumptive, it’s churlish not to.
