Nothing says, “Time flies,” like a child’s birthday.  As parents, a birthday prompts us to ask ourselves: Where has the time gone? How do they grow so fast?  Where are my keys and wallet?

And then there is the stark realization that with birthdays come birthday parties. I’ve heard about the circles of friends and relatives who are eager to outdo each other’s celebrations, so that by the time their children are six years old, parents are scrambling to hire Bono to ride in on a unicorn with the cake. Here in my world, things are decidedly more low-key.  Still, when I opened the latest invitation, my face fell a little.

“What’s the matter, Mommy?” Sophie asked.

“Pool party,” I said.  Sophie sprinted upstairs to pick out her swimsuit, two weeks in advance.

We had attended a slew of swimming parties that summer and fall; the invitation I had just opened would make our fifth. I understood the appeal; kids love them, and using the local recreation center is an easy and inexpensive way to entertain everyone without all the clean up afterwards. It’s just that I’m categorically opposed to any children’s activity that requires me to shave first.

At the first pool party we ever attended, I was unprepared. I wore a two-piece swimsuit that was easily displaced when tugged by, say, a youngster, and so I spent the majority of the party re-tugging things into place in the interests of decency.  I’d forgotten that I’d applied mascara to my lashes the night before, and it ran down my face in the most ghastly way without my knowing.  Much like the woman who discovers she just spent the last six breezy blocks with her skirt tucked into her panty hose, I saw the group photo a few days later, and wondered why nobody had tipped me off about the black streaks marking my face.  When my husband, Alex, looked at the photo, he asked, “Why is Alice Cooper holding our daughter?”

Now that I’m a pool party veteran, I’ve learned the basics. My snug one-piece suit from COSTCO is wardrobe malfunction-proof, and it’s no big whoop if I happen to accidentally leave it behind in the locker room scramble that has claimed countless pairs of socks, goggles, and ponytail ties. Its tropical pattern says, “Make mine a virgin piña colada—I’m driving.” The cut says, “If I had any risqué tattoos, this would hide them all.”

Two weeks later, I arrived at the rec center with Sophie and our usual gift, a gift card bought minutes in advance, in tow. I glared at the building, still open, despite all my hopes for a power outage, a ph imbalance, the discovery of a Baby Ruth in the water.  We headed for the locker room, and as it turned out, the water was warmer than usual. I was able to persuade Sophie to sneak a few trips to the hot tub, and none of her antics in the shallow wading area required stitches or lifeguard intervention.  The slides and water features were enjoyed by all, and nobody cried.

After realizing I had made it through the swimsuit competition without a snag, I celebrated with the guilty pleasure I help myself to at every party: All the soda I can drink.  A few of us moms gabbed over pizza, raising our voices above the din of Dan Zanes, each one of us swearing that we were still the same size we wore in high school. “It’s just that everything’s in different places,” explained one woman. In Boulder, these conversations are made more awkward than usual by the fact that at least fifty percent of the people at any gathering has competed in a triathlon earlier that day. But it seemed I was in good company.

“Yes,” I said, noticing the awkward way my jeans felt then, “the compartment’s contents have definitely shifted during the flight.”
“Shift happens,” said another mom, winking.

Standing there, enjoying myself in tandem with my little girl and her friends, I wondered if maybe I was finally getting into the swing of things.  Perhaps this was the dawning of a new era of comfort in my parental skin. Who knew? Maybe someday I would go so far as to throw the same kind of fete for Sophie’s fifth birthday next year. And then, while wondering what it would take to get Michael Phelps to make an appearance at the rec center pool, another mom sidled up to me and whispered, “Your zipper’s open.”