Survival of the fittest

Darwin's theory on survival of the fittest didn't take children into account.
Specifically children and their birthday parties.
Admittedly, if it came down to who could forage and survive off the land longest, I would kick my kids proverbially butt. (Not that I ever would. I would certainly share my hard won roots and berries with my ungrateful heathens.)
But they put me under the table with one birthday party per child, per year.
I'm frazzled by the planning, overwhelmed by the cooking, and exhausted at its completion. While my kids are enjoying their loot, I'm picking up trash, washing dishes, and wondering when the kids will pass out, leaving me to a bottle of liquor and an unguarded birthday cake carcass.
Last night festivities had the added fun of a sick, vomiting preschooler.
Nothing like a little puke to go with my cake and ice cream.
Birthdays have always seemed just wrong to me. We celebrate the child doing nothing but aging not the mother who bore the child or the parents who've survived another year.
Birthday parties shouldn't be for the children. They don't appreciate it or understand it. They should be celebrations of the parents survival of another year, celebrations honoring yet another year closer to the completion of their parenting duties. There should be liquid libation, finger foods, and adult conversation. Not balloons, a child themed birthday cake, and toys. (At least not the kind they sell at Wal-mart)
Until the world joins me in thinking that birthday parties should celebrate the parents, I'll huddle in the corner eating the remnants of birthday cake, soaked with ice cream, wishing for a cocktail and a petit four.
Whatever in the hell those are!