My Writer's Cramp Pieces

Skipper's Birthday

Write a poem or story using a five year old's birthday, a curious cat, a large cake and a hired Birthday performer(but not a clown)

Skipper's Birthday

         The trick roper rode his horse into the backyard. On the way his horse munched on my favorite rose. Why should I be surprised? Everything else was sliding into sour.

         Oh, not for Skipper. My son was having the time of his life! The freezer had gone out, leaving the ice cream mushy. Skipper and his friends simply pretended they were cats and lapped it up out of bowls.

         The formerly large and rectangular cake, with its dinosaur village on the top, was a scrambled mess. It had tipped over onto the floor when the kitty pounced on my feet. So, Skipper ended up with upside down cake and buried treasures! Good thing the cake was still in its box. Skipper and his friends simply ate the chocolate icing/devil’s food cake mess while digging like hungry, five-year-old palentologists. They all thought scrambled cake was great fun. Little Kevin even said it was the most delicious cake he’d ever had.

         I shrugged and moved on with the rest of the party. Outside, the horse pooped on the lawn. “Ooh,” the children cried, giggling. Guess who cleaned up and dumped the mess into the trash.

         The trick roper, Skipper’s idea of a neat party performer, was swinging his rope around various children. They thought he was wonderful. I was glad I wasn’t one of the guests. I’m not really fond of pretending to be a cow.

         I set out the party favors. At least they were okay. I had jacks, horns, noise makers, tiny balls, miniature games, and bottle of bubbles. I tied the balloons to the picnic table. Then I stood back and admired the scene. At last, something was going right!

         The kids were having a great time, too. Tex had them all tied-up. His horse was working on my daisies. Sigh.

         A streak of gray and black, a pounce, and pop! Twelve beautiful balloons were either shredded rubber or half-way to outer space. I started to go after the cat, but the kids were all screaming. I turned to look.

         Apparently the balloon popping scared the horse. the cowboy was lying on the lawn, a pile of disheveled hat and boots. The horse was making a mad dash for the fence. “Whoa!” I cried out. That did the trick. The horse slammed on the breaks and stripped my grass of a couple of layers.

         “Are you okay, Sydney?” I cried out. (Yes, I know that’s not a good name for a cowboy, but that was what his business card said.)

         Sydney was not okay. The kids were all tied up, so I didn’t worry about them. The horse was munching what was left of my lawn. I went to Sydney and bent over to see what I could do.

         A cowboy should not look like a pile of mashed potatoes. I told him I was calling an ambulance. He groaned. I poked. He moaned. “Sydney, are you okay?” I asked.

         “I think my leg is broken. I’m positive my arm is broken, and I didn’t get any cake,” Sydney said.

         I untied the children, tied up the horse, and brought the cowboy a piece of cake. The children crowded around him, watching him eat.

         “You should try the melted ice cream,” said one of the children.

         Sydney turned sad eyes on me. Ice cream?” he said.

         I went and got Sydney’s ice cream soup. The children watched him drink it from the bowl.

         “Cool,” said my son. “Is that how a cowboy eats ice cream?”

         Sydney nodded and asked for more. I noticed he used the “broken arm” to hand me the bowl.

         When I came back with a second dish of ice cream slop, the children and he were all sitting on the grass trying out the party favors. The horns were tooting, the noisemakers were noising, and the children were all climbing up and down Sydney’s “broken leg.”

         I calmed everyone down and brought Skipper’s presents outside. I couldn’t believe it when my son let Sydney wear his new cowboy hat, hold his brand new dinosaur and play with his big, new red fire engine. Nobody else got to.

         When the parents came for their children, Sydney hobbled out to tell everyone goodbye. He shook several of the parent’s hands with his left hand groaning about the pain of his poor, broken arm, but I noticed that he used his injured hand to slip them business cards.

         That night when I put Skipper to bed, Sydney and his horse were still in my backyard. I gave the horse a box of oatmeal and fed Sydney a burrito and brussel sprouts.

         When I tucked Skipper into bed that night, he wanted to know if the cowboy and his horse were birthday presents and could he keep them for ever. I started to shake my head, but Sydney was right behind me. He told Skipper “yes.” I just shrugged. What’s a mother to do when a party goes sour?

         I helped Sydney hobble back down the stairs. He’s out there right now in the backyard, singing cowboy songs. He says the doghouse will be just fine for sleeping. I tossed him a blanket and a pillow and turned off the outside light.

         Do you know anyone who wants to hire a professional roper? He has a broken arm and leg, and his horse eats flowers, but otherwise he seems very nice.


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