Julie has been my best friend since seventh grade. She has always been a step ahead of me, sharing her insights on life’s inaugural moments. She was the first to try cigarettes (Newport menthol!) and, by virtue of a role in a camp play, to kiss a boy. She also paved the way into New York mommyhood with the birth of her daughter, Katie.

Things got a little weird when I received the printed invitation— just slightly less formal than a wedding invite—to Katie’s first birthday party. My granola-eating Deadhead friend had booked the New York Hall of Science for the gathering. Katie was a very bright toddler, but if you’d laid out a blanket at the local playground, she would’ve been just as happy.

Naturally, I was able to see this overindulgent act with a childless clarity. Since Julie and I are New York honest with each other, I informed her she was acting in a way that was inconsistent with our worldview. Her reaction started with a thoughtful pause, wherein I thought she got it. But then she uttered the words, “You’re not a parent yet. You couldn’t understand.” Yeah, sure.

Four years later, when my Chicklet arrived, I showed Julie. For the first several birthdays, I kept it low-key and in the house. I’d heard that the proper number of pint-sized guests was equivalent to the child’s age, so I followed suit. I even baked the birthday cake myself. From a mix, no less. On sale.