I'm chatting with a neighbor when I notice Ballgown Ariel with her fists to her eyes, doing that crumple-face thing kids do where they stand very still and start to leak giant tears and weep. I go over and see that she's wearing non-waterproof mascara, which has worked its way into her corneas and melted down her tiny cheeks. "There's something in my eeeeye," she wails. If only we were in a lab! Finally, a use for that eyewash station I had to check once a month back when I was a technician. But we're not, and so I pry her little hand out of her eye socket and lead her inside towards the bathroom. "Try and keep your eyes closed," I tell her, but she's relentless in her determination to rub it in deeper. "I want my mommeeeee," she whimpers; I have no idea who spawned her and all I can do is gently and ineffectually dab at her eyes with wet toilet paper until the hostess locates her mother, at which point I'm summarily replaced. This is a problem I almost always have with young people: I have a pretty good idea of what to do, but am too fearful of parental confrontation to be efficient.

The piñata breaks with a crack and children rush in like piranhas to a carcass. Harry Potter, who has been hanging out a little too close to the bat-wielder for comfort, is easily the first into the pile, and crouches over the spoils to sweep his arms through the grass to collect it; Belle and Batgirl and a vampire with a slit up to her nine year old hip try to dive under him. Scooby Doo stands back with a look of shock on his face, rightfully wary of the fray. "I didn't get anyyyyyy," shrieks a ladybug, holding only four pieces in her hands. Harry's sister, Hermione, starts berating him even as parents intervene. Suddenly the daughter of the host, a geisha in pink flip flops, appears with a bowl of candy she's carried out from the buffet spread inside the house. "Okay, who didn't get any?" she says matter-of-factly, benevolently lowering the container as she's swarmed. I want to clone this child a hundred times and then give her and all of her clones ponies.

Later on after the party, they arrive at our porch en masse. There is an ear-splitting chorus, costumes are praised, candy is dropped into each bag with one hand while the other maneuvers the bowl so that greedy fingers don't grab more, and then - perhaps one in five mumbles a thank you - they dash back to the mildly buzzed crowd of parents waiting in the street. The last one scampers off and I'm about to go in when I see that the ladybug has come back. "I want more," she says, casually shaking her bowl like a beggar. Before I can think, my mother's death ray eyes of impropriety focus on her, my lower jaw juts forward involuntarily, and from my mouth comes a gutteral "NO. We do NOT say that." She leaves wordlessly, which is a pretty accurate description of my own state.