Parents aren't always wrong.

During my kindergarten year, my mother threw a large birthday party for me. She really went all out. The party favor bags were fabulous, each one with a "Dazzle Doll" by Mattel - little fashion dolls, that were all the rage and I was obsessed with.

There were lots of games. Lots of cake. Lots of decorations. Lots of girls.

I, of course, had been to many other kids' birthday parties, watched them get fawned over, fussed over, and generally be the center of attention for the whole day. The rule of the day was that the Birthday Girl always went first. First in every game. First to get a piece of cake. First, first, first.

My mother, on the other hand, hadn't been to nearly as many children's parties in the early 1980s. Her concept of these things was a bit old fashioned. So, imagine my shock when my mother is putting numbers into a bag to determine the order of who would go first, and she set one of the numbers aside jsut for me - and the number wasn't one. Or even two. It was 25. Dead. Last. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she been to Virgina's party? Or Catherine's? Kristin's? Diane's? ANYONE'S?? This was my party! MINE! AND I WAS SUPPOSED TO GO FIRST.

I tried to reason with her - and by reason, I meant a full volume temper tantrum. She took me by the arm, and said in her quiet but angry voice that these were my guests. And so they should go before me. At this point, I would have been a decent stand-in for the donkey, given what a complete ass I was making of myself. But I still insisted.

Nicole, she said, if you want to have a temper tantrum, fine. But you'll have it alone, in your room.

FINE! I stomped up the stairs. I'd show them. Let them be without the glorious presence of the birthday girl. Let them try to enjoy themselves without my sparkling personality. I waited upstairs in my room smugly, for the apology that was sure to come. The second big shocker of the hour: No one was coming up to my room. They actually meant for me to be up there, and have my little fit. I could hear them laughing. And I was upstairs. Pouting. This hardly seemed right. I may have cried a little more, or thrown myself on the floor a couple more times for good measure. Soon enough, I was back downstairs and rejoining the party, reportedly saying to my mother, regarding my temper tantrum, "I'm done now."

I don't remember what presents I got. Or what I wore. I do remember that last or not, I was not even close to pinning the tail anywhere near the donkey's ass. But, in retrospect, I'm proud of my mom. I'm glad that it was more important to her that I learned to be a gracious host, than it was to please a five-year-old tyrant on her birthday. That lesson stayed with me. When it's time for me to make a similarly tough choice - risk my son throwing a fit in front of all his friends, and maybe appearing like the mean mom in the hope of teaching him something valuable - that I will do half as well.