A Two-Year-Old Walks into an Office Holiday Party…

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like taking your two-year-old daughter and six-month old son to your holiday office party—without your spouse. My wife claims she was “working.” I’ve never successfully avoided her holiday parties. All I can say is: When it comes to planning, the woman’s got mad skills.

The kids were pretty well behaved at the office party (neither one photocopied their buttocks). But it did get interesting when coworkers held baby Johnny. The party had a cabana theme this year, and all the guests wore leis. Johnny decided they were the perfect chew toy, and slobbered all over a coworker, who looked down at one point to find a puddle of drool on her chest the size of Lake Winnebago.

Belle decided a blue Crayola marker makes perfect lipstick applique and also doubles as a delicious sucker. Brash as she appeared, Belle was shy whenever coworkers introduced themselves. “My, what a pretty dress you have on, Belle,” they’d say. “And such dainty lipstick.”

My employer hired a Balloon Lady to entertain the kids at the holiday party.

Shrewd move. She knew exactly what to say—and how to say it—to entrance the kids. Things like, “Would you like chocolate to melt in your mouth while I affix a 10-story balloon hat to your silly head?” If she wanted a second career as a pied piper, camp recruiter, tobacco marketer or kidnapper, she’d have all the requisite skills. All the parents loved Balloon Lady.

Luckily, Belle and I made it through the whole office party without putting a foot in our mouths to get me fired. Although Belle did put Johnny’s foot in her mouth several times.

The office party was just the beginning of an eventful weekend. We arrived at church during the opening hymn, which triggers the ushers into action. They always feel compelled to seat you in the Front Row—where nobody wants to sit because everyone is staring at the back of your head. (If only you could get front-row U2 tickets this way.)

I looked to the end of the Front Row and there was a sign that said “Reserved,” as if they knew we were coming. Call it corporal punishment for the religiously tardy. In the Front Row (rhymes with Death Row), you have to be on your best behavior because the people presiding over the ceremony are three yards away. Belle quickly recognized that being in the Front Row swung all the leverage and momentum her way. You see, when she pitches a fit at home, Mommy and Daddy put her in Timeout and ignore her yelps, spasms and gesticulations.

But at church—in the Front Row, Belle’s singing “I Got da Power!”

Whenever she didn’t get what she wanted (like when she tried pirouetting on the pew with her milk cup), she’d scream and go limp like a protester who’s getting gassed and carried out of the street by riot police.

Except my wife and I had no shields or gas. We didn’t even have incense!

At least they don’t have photocopy machines or blue markers in the Front Row. And you can’t really get fired from church. I guess the moral is all churches should have Balloon Ladies.

Copyright 2006 Christopher Hollenback, all rights reserved.