The Magician: A Redemption Story

A birthday party to remember.

Sometimes I fantasize about having a basement so I can say “Le party est en bas. Aouaye dans cave!” (The party’s in the basement. Downstairs you go! in Québécois) to a bunch of kids while us parents eat chips around a gigantic kitchen island.

I do not have the space nor a kitchen island to carry out this fantasy, which is why my kid’s birthday parties have always been celebrated in the back alley or at a local park. This year, however, was an exception. Heat, humidity, and summer showers were to blame. The party had to be inside.

So what’s a mom to do? I needed a plan. I didn’t want to end up with slices of pizza under my bed, or fun-loving youngsters swinging from my curtains (this has happened before). No. This party had to be planned well. Keep the chaos to a minimum and the kids entertained would be my motto.

I turned to my childhood for inspiration. I thought of my mother and all the fun crafts and activities she’d organized for my birthdays. One year she had us kids lie on the floor while she molded our faces with plaster of Paris. When the plaster was dry, we painted our masks and adorned them with gemstones and fuzzy pipe cleaners. There was the year we decorated plain t-shirts with glitter and fabric paint. The year with the piñata and the water balloon fight. Good times.

As the offspring of a great party hostess, I should be able to entertain children like a pro. It’s in my genes. So I considered picking up the tie-dye kit I’d seen at Costco and letting the kids go wild. I considered buying candy at Bulk Barn and having the kids decorate giant homemade cookies. For a hot second I considered recreating my 1996 birthday, plaster of Paris included… But something held me back. I knew what it was. It was the desire to do the bare minimum: chop veggies, order pizza, and let somebody else take the wheel. And when I say “somebody else,” I mean someone other than my partner, an equally tired parent who needed a break just as much as I did. I was about to go down the DIY rabbit hole known as Pinterest when I was struck by genius.

“I’m going to hire a magician,” I said to my mother over the phone.
“Don’t do it.”
“Why not?” I was surprised by my mother’s reaction. Wouldn’t a magician be fun?
“We hired a magician for your birthday one year,” she said. “It was a disaster.”

I couldn’t remember the year of the magician. Perhaps I’d been too young to remember the hot mess performing in my living room. The performance, I was told, as well as the logistics leading up to the performance, had been one malaise after the other. My parents couldn’t wait for the show to be over. 

It was time for a redo. I kept hearing the words The Magician: A Redemption Story in my head. Also, my mother telling me not to do something made me want to do that thing even more. The potential of a disaster excited me. Disasters are the building blocks of a good story. I love a good story.

And so this is how and why one Sunday morning, my husband and I invited six kids over to our place for a magic show. We rose early to prepare for the big day. We re-arranged our furniture to make space for the big event. We hung a “BONNE FÊTE” banner and scattered balloons across the floor. Excitement filled the air as our little guests arrived, one by one. 

I chatted with fellow parents as they dropped off their kids. We were talking about our respective summers when one of the moms yelled “HE’S HERE!” while peering out the window. A surge of excitement rushed through my veins as the rest of us parents bolted to the window, where we saw a man with a top hat carrying a large yellow suitcase on the sidewalk below. 

“OKAY PEOPLE, IT’S SHOWTIME!” I waved the parents goodbye as I unlocked the building’s front door. I couldn’t hold still. I didn’t know what to do while I waited for the magician to reach our apartment so I raced to the kids in the bedroom and shouted “He’s here! He’s here!” Chaos ensued. The kids screamed, we all screamed, toys were dropped to the floor and we all rushed towards the door. Where was my husband during all this? Chopping celery and cucumber sticks in the kitchen with his usual calm and poise. 

We all waited for him anxiously… and then we heard it. The knock.

I opened the door and there he was. A cheerful guy with a black top hat, a cute little waistcoat and electric blue shoes covered in rhinestones.

I don’t know why but as soon as I saw the rhinestones, I knew we were in for a good show.

It was a fantastic show. Fifty minutes filled with laughter and wonder. It was disaster free, except for that one time the fire alarm went off when the magician lit a metal pot on fire. Crisis averted, though. A white fluffy bunny appeared soon after, replacing the fire with its presence. My heart filled with joy as I watched my kid put on a matching top hat and velvet cape to help the magician make a DOVE APPEAR IN AN EMPTY PURPLE BAG. I’ll never forget the shock and delight on his face. 

For a brief moment, I felt like a child again. How magical. I’m so happy I don’t have a basement.

---

In other news…

I’d like to give a shout out to Leah Legault’s newsletter, Unravelled. She is the owner and artist behind Caulis, a slowmade and ethical knitwear brand based in Montreal. Back in August, I replied to one of her entries about social media and a conversation ensued. Her latest entry features an excerpt from our conversation. You can read it here.