I was about to round up a dozen kids for cake when my daughter asked, “Can we wait a few more minutes? He’s not here yet.”
She was talking about the owner of our favorite local shop — the one with handmade cards, chocolate chip cookies, and an ink stamp at the checkout counter she was allowed to use. My child had insisted on inviting him to her seventh birthday party.
We waited, and a few minutes later, when I had almost given up, he showed up. He sang with the other guests and enjoyed a piece of cake. It was just what my daughter wanted, and I’m glad I made it happen.
An unexpected guest
I’ll admit, laughed the first time she mentioned inviting a grown adult to her birthday party. We were walking back from refilling olive oil and picking up dried fruit from The Ditty Bag, Jason’s store, when she asked, “Do you have Jason’s phone number? I want to invite him to my birthday party.”
It was at least six months before her birthday party. I said yes, I knew how to get in touch with Jason, thinking she wasn’t really serious. That she would likely forget all about it when her birthday approached. She didn’t forget.
As the months passed and my kid narrowed down her wishes: a backyard party, potion making (which would only happen if it was nice enough to be outside, I insisted), with witch-themed cake and food, leaning into the fact that her birthday falls near Halloween, she never wavered in wanting to invite Jason.
She reminded me several times over the months that I said I could contact him. When it finally came time to sit down and make her birthday guest list, his name appeared right next to those of her friends, grandparents, aunt, and uncle.
As her mom, I wanted her to be happy
I was aware this invite was a somewhat unusual request, and I knew I was going to feel a little awkward inviting him. I was worried that he might also feel strange being invited to a kid’s party.
I could have said no at this point, told my child it was inappropriate. Was it? My daughter, though, had finished writing out her birthday invite by saying, “and mom, you can invite some of your friends too, they don’t need to bring me a present.” It occurred to me that her desire to invite Jason was a consequence of my own parenting and focus.
Over the last few years, I’ve been trying — sometimes awkwardly, but always intentionally — to center community in my daughter’s life.
We live in a time when connection can feel scarce. Many of our friendships are maintained through group texts. Sometimes I wonder and worry if we are forgetting what it means to live in a society. I don’t want my daughter’s sense of community to come only from screens or scheduled playdates. I want her to see community as something built in small, daily interactions, such as saying hello to the mail carrier, remembering the name of the woman who is always sitting out on her porch on our walk to the school bus stop, dropping off an extra bag of coffee for the neighbors, and chatting with the man who runs the corner shop.
There’s a scaffolding in these interactions I’m also trying to build for her. As more research emerges about the consequences of replacing children’s free time and free play with near-constant adult supervision, the importance of community is becoming even clearer to me. I am trying to create a mini world for my kid where she will one day be able to walk to the corner store by herself, knowing that there are other adults along the way who she knows can ask for help if she needs it. And I want her to be able to do the same for others. Communities are their own form of wealth, but they don’t just happen.
I realized that my daughter’s invitation was her own small act of community-building. She didn’t care that the shop owner was an adult or that they’d never shared a playground. What mattered was that this person was silly like her, remembered her name, and always asked about her latest project.
She got what she wanted
In the end, I sent out the Evite. Knowing that the party started an hour before his shop closed, I suggested to Jason that he didn’t have to stay long, but that my child would be thrilled if he stopped by after he closed for a slice of cake.
I looked at my daughter, cheeks flushed from running around the backyard with friends, and told her Sure, we could wait a little longer. Jason arrived just as I was about to give up and was herding everyone to the table. He stayed long enough to help pass out cake and talk with the kids. He seemed genuinely happy to be there.
Later that night, my daughter said, “I’m so glad Jason came.”
“I’m glad you wanted to invite him,” I replied.
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