My daughters love parties. An invitation to a birthday party thrills them like you wouldn't believe. As it should -- the parties these kids get invited to would thrill you. They go to places like Pump It Up: a warehouse filled with giant inflatable slides, obstacle courses and the like. There they get to bounce and shriek for an hour or so before being herded into another room for pizza, cake, and goody bags. What's not to like, right? Or they find themselves whisked off to Club Libby Lu for a bit of pint-sized pampering and dress-up. There are pool parties, tea parties, gym parties, art parties, pottery-painting parties, princess parties, and probably about a dozen more themes that some mother, somewhere, is cooking up right now. All of these parties are a blast for the kids, no question about it. But can we put down our double iced skim lattes for just a minute and back slowly away from the balloons? Because I want to say something that is probably heresy and maybe even spells social suicide for my children. (If you are the parent of one of Olivia or Caramia's little friends, please don't hold this against them. It's not their fault that I'm their mother. They didn't ask to be born, remember?) Here goes: there are too many parties and way too many presents. This madness must be stopped. I've got nothing against parties -- what kind of person is anti-party? But wouldn't it be awesome if, while the kids are bouncing and screaming and getting their faces painted and making paper princess crowns, the non-hosting parents could sort of sneak off to the grocery store or someplace equally necessary and get on with the business of life? Weekends are no longer about tequila and tattoos for most of us. Weekends are about restocking the food supply and doing the laundry. And the yard work, and the cleaning, and all of that boring, tedious stuff that somebody's got to do. That somebody is you, remember? Two hours on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon doesn't sound like much, but for most of us, it really is. Parents are now required, by some unspoken rule, to hover on the sidelines at children's parties, as though Junior might not manage to get a fair swing at the piñata without our eagle-eyed hyper vigilance. Can we not all get together and agree that, by age six, kids ought to be dropped off at the party and picked up at its conclusion? Hanging out and watching could then be optional -- offer to help the hosts, maybe. I'll happily volunteer to be the first party host who lets the other parents off the hook. Drop your child off, and I swear I'll give him or her back to you, alive, two hours later. I won't serve peanuts or nut products of any kind. I'll pass out hand sanitizer, pour only 100% fruit juice beverages, and periodically yell, "Who needs to go to the bathroom?" You go have a life, or at least run to the drugstore and Wal-Mart. I promise I can handle it. I've got nothing against presents -- what kind of person is anti-present? It's just that no child needs to receive fifteen or twenty or twenty-five new toys for his or her birthday. Three, four, and five year-olds can't process a pile of loot that big. It's overwhelming. And what about you, the parent, having to open the front door to your probably already-bursting house, to cram in another fresh load of Mattel, Hasbro, and Fisher-Price? And may God help you if you have daughters who are in the cult of Polly Pocket. I can't tell you how many microscopic PP shoes our dog has ingested, passed, and probably ingested again. About once every two months, my husband, the poor, beaten man, crawls around the house on his hands and knees in a sad effort to reunite Polly with all of her pieces. Bet you'd do the same thing. Because you love your kids; you'd give them the whole world. But please be honest: do you really want them to have so much stuff? I know parents who, in a noble effort to not spoil their kids, promptly donate the bulk of the received presents to charity. That's a worthy, incredibly good idea. It feels right, but also a little wrong, too. Those gifts cost the giver money, money that might have stretched their family budget. Knowing that, you don't want to just give their present away, even for charity. Meanwhile, between birthdays and Christmas, our children are turning into a pack of jaded maxi-consumers. When we give them everything and then some, what's left to wish for? Griping just to gripe is pointless, so I've actually come up with a plan. What if parents could get together, figure out when all the birthdays are, and agree on a handful of dates. Maybe one date per month. Throw a giant party, complete with a special theme cake for each child whose birthday falls into that zone. Sing "Happy Birthday" to each of them. Kids love singing that song -- if once is good, wouldn't four or five times be fabulous? Some parties might feature three celebrants, some five. It wouldn't matter -- for young children, a party is a party is a party. As long as there is plenty of sugar and a few gifts, everyone goes away happy, right? Then maybe do a Pollyanna sort of gift exchange, with guests drawing names, so that every birthday star gets some gifts, but not the avalanche that comes when every child in a class of say, twenty, brings a package. Parents would then have fewer gifts to buy, thus saving cash for more important things, like electricity. Sample invitation: Madison, Preston, Bethany, Nicholas and Bailey are turning six! Come celebrate at Kooky Kenny's Klown Park! If you'd like, bring a present for __________________ The parent organizer(s) would then fill in a recipient's name, thus dividing the gift booty equally between all of the birthday kids. Okay, so you hate the idea. It sounds like Communism, right? Your little angel deserves to be the one shining star of the party and by golly, should get all the gifts he or she can carry. It's what's expected. You know what? You're right. It is what's expected. I just hope that one day soon, like about ten years from now when we're all being extorted by this rampaging herd of adolescent spendaholics, we don't look back and say, shame on us for creating that expectation. There you have it: time, money, and sanity saved. I know it's a pipe dream, but even all that fruitless searching for Polly's rubber hairpieces hasn't destroyed my spirit -- yet. I can still dare to hope for a world not choked with primary-colored plastic. I'd say more, but I've got to get Olivia dressed for a party -- our second this weekend. Since I haven't had a spare minute to shop for real food, it's a good thing they plan to let her eat cake.