WFTV’s Martha Sugalski on the pros and cons of children’s birthday parties

An Emmy-winning member of WFTV’s Eyewitness News Team, Martha Sugalski has been a journalist for more than 20 years, and she’s spent her entire career in Florida. She’s also a married mother of six children, including a set of triplets. You can catch her on weekdays at 5, 6, and 11 p.m. on WFTV, and at 10 p.m. on TV 27.

It happens every summer. I can’t ignore it. There is anticipation, worry, planning, picking a theme and color, ordering, fretting, shopping, staying up late on Amazon, re-ordering, and finally, it comes—whether I am ready or not. June 22. It happens every year, from #BabyPalooza, #ToddlerPalooza, #TripletPalooza and now #SnickerdoodlePalooza. By the time July comes around, I am palooza’d out until the following June.

Yes, our triplets turned 4 this summer.

You know what it’s like to throw a kids’ birthday party; at times, it’s hell. I can remember when my older three were younger. Three separate parties for children born in different months. Spread out over the course of the year, it was all manageable.

Can someone explain this? It is an easy concept— although one I’ve been guilty of ignoring as well. I mean, you see people post 9,000 updates on Facebook, tweet out memes and Instagram 352 pictures of what they are having for lunch. Why can they not RSVP? (Even if I’ve been guilty of it myself!)

OK, rant over. Back to having three parties in one. Triple threat, triple trouble—triple everything.

This year, our three snickerdoodles, who are just on the edge of really knowing what they want for their party, were oblivious to the undertaking of what was happening. Siblings flying into town, their aunt and uncle driving up from South Florida, dear friends who are family, coworkers and everyone who loves these babies, all gathering to celebrate them. (Yes, I know they are 4, and yes, I call them babies. I call my 23-year-old my baby, too, and will until my last breath.)

With a summer birthday every single time, I’m always fretting over the weather. Hot, steamy and mandatory AC is always on the forecast; however, it is the rain that is 50-percent hit or miss. Luckily, I have the best weatherman on speed dial on my iPhone. Every day at work, I would say to him: “Is it going to rain Saturday? What are the chances? The party is in the late afternoon, will we be OK?”

This year, the forecast for every day of the week leading up to the big day was smothered with storm graphics and clouds—except that Saturday. The only day of the week to have less chance of rain and less of those annoying, ominous-looking puffy things. Maybe we would get lucky.

As each day came and went, the forecast stayed the same. In my eyes, a 30-percent chance of rain meant a 70-percent chance of sun and fun, and luckily, the weather gods cooperated, and the monsoon didn’t come till later, when the triplets were in bed and the adults hit the waterslide. (That is a whole different column with details of my hubby stitching up my friend who got elbowed on said waterslide by my producer. Good times.)

The barbecue, the slide, the photo booth and, yes, the donut truck made for a perfect party—with the exception of one tiny problem.

You see, I am a stickler for thank-you notes. My mother instilled fear in me if I did not hand-write a thank-you note for every single gift that came my way starting from when I was a child until today. Like, if I don’t, the manners police are going to come find me. We went to bed Saturday night, and most presents were sitting there untouched in pretty paper with beautifully taped cards. Pristine. Like Christmas Eve. The deal was, in the morning, we would open them all together, so I could see who gave what to ensure I could write every single thank-you note ASAP on stationery I had ordered for the party.

Well, Sunday morning rolls around, and I woke up to paper tearing, giggling and laughing. I thought I was dreaming. Then I realized the noise was coming from the living room, and the towheaded darlings, instead of jumping in bed with us as they do every single morning at the crack of dawn, had not only opened (and spread out all over the house) the gifts, but the precious cards telling me who gave what.

I panicked, but since the chaos was well underway, I opted to grab 20 more minutes of sleep. I was then woken up by my three excited little people, some of whom had tape stuck to their heads and wrapping paper in their PJs. What could I do? How would I know who gave what? I sat back and smiled, and then it hit me: What would next year’s theme be? What color would I pick? What birthday cake would they want, and most importantly—how would I get people to RSVP?

Then I realized I had 364 days to figure that out.

This article originally appeared in Orlando Family Magazine’s August 2017 issue.