chocolate and piñatas

My niece recently celebrated her ninth birthday. I'm really glad I was able to be at the party. Partly because I'm trying to imprint my face as an indelible image in her childhood memories, but also because of chocolate.

And cake.

And candies.

But mostly because of the piñata.

I am in love with kids' birthday parties. All the hyper little munchkins running around the yard with squirt guns, splashing in the pool while playing "sharks and minnows" and begging me to throw them in every 10 seconds.

There's something nostalgic in it all that makes me want to jump in with them. I get the urge to grab the biggest, wettest water balloon in the tub and launch it at the snarkiest little kid in the group.

I suggest resisting this urge, by the way, no matter how powerful it might be. No matter how much those beautiful, plump little water balloons call out to you, tempting you to pop them over the head of some unsuspecting parental units in their crisp clam-diggers and OP sandals.

Because soon it will be piñata time. Because when a darling little critter wrapped in the delicacy of frail, crumpled and colorful slivers of paper is revealed, you will want everyone to think you're on their side.

My niece's piñata was a purple unicorn: a magical creature for a magical moment.

I began stretching as soon as I saw it, getting my batting arm ready for action. My dad used a rope attached to the pool-brush pole to sling the thing over a tree branch.

I could feel the excitement. Soon the end of my stick will swing gracefully against the paper-covered cardboard backside of that purple angel of chocolate and candy, and I will be lying in the glory of its gifts as it spews forth sweetness onto the ground before my feet.

Ah, yes, Piñata. How I love thee.

Then something horrible happened. I watched all the children gather excitedly under the belly of the beast. None of them had a stick. How can you get candy from a piñata without a stick? No one seemed concerned by my query. No one seemed concerned that these children were about to embark on this venture entirely unprepared.

And then, right before my eyes, I saw the most sacrilegious defiance of all things piñata.

Standing under the thing as it swayed gracefully from the end of a pool-brush pole, each child wrapped a tiny palm around one of the many colorful strings hanging from the creature's belly. Someone counted to three, and in an instant, the children pulled with all their might bursting the belly open. Candy exploded everywhere.

All attention was now on the treats on the floor, and the poor sad creature hanging from the pool-brush pole was forgotten. He didn't even stand a chance. At least when you hit it with a stick, he has an opportunity to fight back. At least you get to bask in his glory for a few more minutes. At least then, kids get to show their strength and parents get to laugh.

This new method, this ribbon-pulling monstrosity, has mocked the beauty of the piñata and all that it represents to those who carry the legacy of piñata slaying in their youth.

It's a sad day for you, Piñata. I will remember you in all your paper-mache majesty.

I will tell my children about you.