The birthday monsters are in town. (Apologies to Sandra Boynton.)

I got an email last week from Sophie’s aide:

[Sophie's teacher] and I wanted to let you know that we had a talk with Sophie today about her birthday. There have been several occasions recently where Sophie has told a student she was not invited to her party. We have used positive reinforcement in trying to resolve this issue but it has not worked. We feel that having a consequence may help this situation. We have told Sophie that if this happens again she will miss her lunch recess and we will be calling you. We think this will help. Let us know if you have any questions or concerns about this.

You need to know two things. First, Sophie’s birthday is not until May 21. Second, this is totally my fault.

I have created a monster. A birthday monster. Sophie is obsessed with her birthday, and I have no one to blame but myself. Birthdays are a huge deal in our house, and the discussion about Sophie’s pretty much starts the day after Christmas. (And the discussion of Christmas begins the day after her birthday — but that’s a different blog post.) Now, that said, I do not condone using a birthday party as an instrument of torture — of course I don’t. And Sophie and I had a Big Talk about that note when she got home from school the day it was sent.

“I’m not allowed to talk about my birthday at school,” she said a little sadly, hanging her head.

“Good,” I replied. “That was really mean. In fact, if you keep doing it, you may not have a birthday party at all!”

Sophie and I both know that will never happen. Neither of us can resist, and sometime soon, we’ll likely come up with theme and create a Pinterest board and start planning that party, as we’ve done in years past. Unlike Sophie (and to be fair, she doesn’t spend all her time uninviting party guests) I have always seen birthday parties as a chance to invite people into Sophie’s life — both those who are already good friends, and those who might like to be included. Play dates are (increasingly) awkward. But who doesn’t like a birthday party?

(Consider the name of this blog.)

This year I think we’ll hold off a few weeks on the Pinterest board and the color theme decision. But first, we have a very important birthday to celebrate today. It’s Sophie’s best friend Sarah’s birthday. She is 11. Sarah loves Neapolitan ice cream — you know, the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry striped kind — so when I saw a Neapolitan cake online, I had to screen grab it. There’s no time to make one from scratch, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Along with getting those layers to stack up and stay put. I’ll spend the morning fighting with three different boxes of cake mix, a lot of frosting and a pile of toothpicks, cursing and making a mess and having a blast.

I can’t wait. And I can’t complain about Sophie’s birthday obsession.

Saturday afternoon, I took the girls to a birthday party. It was lovely, very casual, and somewhat unstructured — a park, some hot dogs, a couple of crafts, good weather. The kids dispersed and mainly did their own thing. I tried to hold back from my typical hovering mode, and watched Sophie wander, trying to find her way.

No one else noticed, I’m guessing, but from my perspective it wasn’t good. Sophie was passive — head down, not talking, just sort of aimless and not really connecting with anyone – til finally she latched onto the dad of one of the party guests and had a grand time chatting with him until it was time to leave.

That was not out of the ordinary; I’ve grown accustomed to such birthday party behavior. But what happened next is new, and it’s thrown me for a loop. It’s made me think about the birthday party behavior in a new way.

Later that afternoon, I dropped Sophie at her BFF Sarah’s house for yet another playdate. These playdates have been extraordinarily successful! And I’m cautiously hopefully that they are not just pity parties; I think Sarah enjoys them as well.

But as we pulled away from Sarah’s house, I noticed a pattern has emerged. She doesn’t want the playdate to end. That manifests itself pretty normally — she and Sarah both argue, stall, beg. But once Sophie’s in the car, something happens that I haven’t seen.

She begins to sob. I don’t mean cry or whine or complain. I mean full-on, gut-wrenching My Heart is Broken and I May Never Recover sobbing.

This continues for the short drive home, and for some time after that. The reminder of future playdates helps, but not entirely. I hate seeing her so upset, but at the same time, my heart swells, knowing how much joy those times with Sarah bring to Sophie, particularly when they come with the freedom and novelty of playing at a friend’s house without mom.

It’s as though it’s so awesome, she can’t contain her emotions. She blows a fuse.

I wish we could hit a happy medium, where — like Annabelle  — Sophie hops out of the car at a birthday party, huddles with a group of friends, then leaves the party a little whiny but otherwise no worse for the wear.

That, like so many things, is clearly not to be. Not for now, anyway. And frankly, it leaves me weirded out. The short stature, the hole in the heart, the difficulty with handwriting — okay, I get it, those are results of that 21st chromosome.

But the more ephemeral stuff, like emotional thermostats? Weird. That’s the best way I can put it. Weird.

And there’s no handyman — or even a doctor — to call to fix it.