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I admit it. I peaked too soon. I came out of the gates too quickly. I’ve run out of gas; the novelty’s worn off; Elvis has left the building.

It is an interesting turn of events that the older my children get, the less grand their birthday parties become. I find it terribly ironic for all the effort, time, energy and extravagance I invested to make my kids’ early birthdays memorable, they wouldn’t remember any of it if I hadn’t taken pictures for proof.

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My baby girl will be eight this weekend. (And yes, she’s accepted that even when she’s turning 38, I will still call her my baby girl.)

After some extended negotiations we came up with a birthday celebration that will meet both our needs and expectations. Whitney will have a sleep-over party with a few of her closest friends and a little roller skating thrown in at a nearby rink. Mommy and Daddy get credit for making turning eight seem to be the greatest accomplishment ever (as quickly and painlessly as possible).

It didn’t always used to be so simple.

Back in the day, I threw pre-school parties so over the top, three year-old Whitney once said, “It’s not your birthday until there’s a big, giant slide in the back yard.”

Now, I try to convince my children how much fun only four friends can be for a sleep-over party: “It is so cool to just chill over a bowl of popcorn and a movie before calling it a night – that’s what I did when I turned nine! And if you were the first one asleep and the last one up – then you were totally cool.”

Of course my son, Logan, wasn’t convinced of this until I threw in the bargaining chip of taking them to RPM Racing first. For Whitney it was night skating at King’s Skate. I got her to settle for afternoon skating if I made her favorite labor intensive meal of fried calamari. Deal. And everyone’s out by 10 a.m. if Daddy fries bacon to go with the pancakes. Done.

So, gone are the days of reserving inflatable monstrosities months in advance; ordering 50 of everything in the theme pages of the Birthday Express catalog; organizing family assembly lines to work through the night putting together goodie-bags; pizza boxes stacked so high, if they fell on a kid you’d need a search and rescue dog to find them; Costco cakes so big they could be used as an air-craft carrier.

I have a feeling this current birthday celebration agreement will be short lived though. I’m thinking when the pre-teen years hit we’ll be going back to the bargaining table to renegotiate the definition of Way Cool Birthday Celebration.

I just hope co-ed pool parties are concessions kept off the table for at least five more years.

Who knew a censored moment thirty-one years ago would so quickly come full circle?

But my dad will be happy to hear he has finally been removed from my Old Fuddy-Duddy category I’d enlisted him in more than three decades ago.

I needed room for a new name on the list.

Mommy.

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The ABC Family Channel has been playing repeats of the 1978 movie, Grease, billing it as “the original High School Musical.”

And just like all those years ago with myself, my son and daughter (upon seeing commercials for it) became entranced by its contagious musical offerings and the fate of Sandy Olsen and Danny Zuko at Rydell High. They excitedly wanted to know if they could see it.

Remembering my own love affair with the Grease movie soundtrack (and much later, the movie – but I’ll get to that in a moment), I told them we would make it a Family Movie Night and all watch it together.

The kids whooped with joy and seemed duly impressed when I informed them, “Did you know Mommy can sing every single word of every single song from the movie?”

What I didn’t tell them was that my love affair with Grease had been a forbidden love affair.

I still can detect a lingering after-taste of devastation and bitterness when my dad deemed Grease too racy for a seven year-old.

Oh, the injustice! Everyone was talking about how totally groovy the movie was. I wanted to see it soooooo bad! But I was banned. It seemed like everyone had seen it except me - even my six year-old cousin, further marking my dad as an old fuddy-duddy and making it official.

My cousin also had the soundtrack and I was mesmerized by the album cover with Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta. I thought “Sandy” was the most beautiful girl I had seen and “Danny” the most dreamy boy. They looked so cool, beckoning me to join in the high school musical fun. I studied each and every picture on the album jacket, desperately trying to figure out what happened in the movie.

I also could not get enough of its infectious music, so much so that my aunt bought me my own cassette tape for my birthday. I was so relieved when my dad grudgingly let me keep it, but not enough to move him off the fuddy-duddy list.

And just as my own daughter has nearly driven me out of house and home with her incessant playing of her own High School Musical tracks, I played that thing to death on my tape recorder.

I loved each song from the radio hits, “You’re The One That I Want” and “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” to the achy “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” and the fizzy fun of “We Go Together.” I quickly and easily memorized all the lyrics out of pure love, but also because it made me feel included in all the hype.

Then one day, when my mom was walking by my room as I shimmied, shaked and belted out the words to the song “Greased Lightning” my mom froze dead in her tracks.

She immediately had me turn off my tape recorder and said, “Sing that last part again.”

Proud of my memorization I confidently sang, “You know that ain’t braggin’, she’s real **** wagon – greased lightnin’.”

Much to my confusion, my mom gasped then hit rewind on the recorder. As she played it back, she heard the lyrics that I had been mispronouncing in my eight year-old ignorance, but she fully understood: You know that ain’t **** when we’ll be getting’ lots of tit in greased lightnin’…You are supreme, the chicks’ll cream for greased lightnin’.

Mom popped the tape and confiscated it saying, “You can’t listen to this anymore. I’m taking it.”

I burst into tears and wailed like she had just ripped my heart out of my chest, “Noooo! But why?”

“I don’t want you listening to what’s on this tape.”

“But Mom,” I pleaded my case, “I already know all the words.”

After hearing the warbled music coming from my $10 tape recorder incessantly since my birthday and mind numbing chants of …tell me more…tell me more…from “Summer Nights,” she knew I spoke the truth. She shrugged, tossing the tape back to me.

“Alright. But don’t let Daddy hear you sing that song.”

Now, here we are thirty years later, my kids and I snuggled in bed with a big bowl of popcorn watching Grease. It’s a moment I never could have imagined as an obsessed eight year old - that my kids and I would one day be bonding over a campy musical having given birth to another round of Grease groupies.

But I tell you what. I had that remote armed and ready to fast-forward over “Greased Lightning” and other parts, that as a parent,  I deemed too racy for my seven and eight year-olds. I ended up giving a respectful nod of thanks to my fellow fuddy-duddy, Disney (ABC Family Channel’s parent company), when I realized they had cut out the most offending parts, including a greatly shortened version of “Greased Lightning.”

Although, I did have to tell my son that “knocked up” meant broken up with your boyfriend and “hooker” meant someone who knits.  

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For those of you who are still wondering, yes, I finally did see the movie Grease as a pre-teen on Showtime at my aunt’s house. I never told my dad because that’s also where I got my sex education - surreptitiously watching Showtime After Hours porn.

That’s also why we don’t have Showtime at our house. Just call me Old Fuddy-Duddy.

Go ahead and mark March 16, 2009 at 8:24 a.m. on the calendar.

That is the day one 9 year-old boy became officially in charge of getting his own dang self ready and to school in the morning.

It’s a little earlier than planned, but today is the day one snip of the apron strings was made toward sending one (stubborn) little boy off into the world as a self-sufficient (and likely still obstinate) man.

Just like his father.

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My son Logan, like his father, doesn’t like to be late and isn’t a big fan of change.

As per our morning school day ritual, Logan likes it when a little past 7 a.m. I come into his room to wake him with sing-songy sweetness. I then help him select his clothes for the day, find out what he wants for breakfast, make his breakfast, remind him to quit bugging his sister and get moving, make his lunch (exactly the same thing every day of the year) and then drive him and Whitney to their walking-distance school so he can be there by 8:15 a.m. (15 minutes before school starts) giving him a full morning recess to play.

But recently, Logan’s been complaining that I’ve been waking him up too late (played one too many games of electronic Yahtzee while taking my morning tinkle).

He hasn’t been happy with what I’ve picked out for him to wear (long sleeves are too hot, those pants feel funny, wants to wear his green soccer jersey AGAIN).  

He gets upset with his lackadaisical sister when she is .07 seconds late in putting on her shoes keeping him from getting to school in time to play (although I think she does drag her feet just to get a rise out of him).

And he doesn’t want to ride his bike to school because his recess-sabotaging sister can’t keep up with his impatient pace and he might miss two minutes of recess.

Usually when Logan gets all huffy about being “late” for school I try to patiently point out he had never been late for school on my watch. He might miss a few minutes of before-school recess, but that wasn’t the end of the world now was it?

Or I would try to provide a life lesson in time management. “Maybe next time you shouldn’t watch TV while eating breakfast, or try getting your homework together the night before, or how about quit bugging your sister while you’re brushing your teeth?”

Sometimes I would fight his negativism with my optimism trying to make his sullen mood look silly. “Is this how you want to start this glorious, sunny day with the birds singing, your mother looking like a fox in her workout gear, and Thin Mint cookies waiting in your lunch for you?” 

Now all this could be signs that he’s ready to venture out and be afforded a little more responsibility and independence, but when no one’s lifted a finger to help the ol’ Mom-moo in this morning routine, one might think that someone is just being a bit ungrateful.

So today, when Logan opened his mouth to gripe again about me and Whitney making him “late” – Mommy blew a gasket. I decided instead of gently pulling the rug of self-sufficiency gently from underneath him onto the floor of independence that sucker was now going to get yanked right out from under him onto the hardwood of the real world.

“You know what buddy? Tomorrow you’re on your own!” I yelled into the rear view mirror as I dodged other responsible children walking to school whose parents hadn’t waited too long to set them on the road to independence. “We’ll set your alarm tonight and you can get yourself up. Then you can get yourself ready, make your own breakfast and lunch and you can hop on your bike and get yourself to school. I’m done! Then we’ll see how you do getting yourself to school on time with time to play!”

As I pulled away after drop-off, my yelling still ringing in their ears, but with a kiss on their cheek and a standard wish for a good day, I thought, That’ll show him what it takes to get ready and be on time in the morning.

Then, as I looked down at myself in my tattered old monkey pj’s unprepared for the gym because I hadn’t gotten up early enough to get myself ready, the winds of change whispered a new sobering thought in my ears.

Or he might just show you.

Let’s play a game shall we?

Take a look in my car and you could probably guess what the Wheeler family has been up to in any given week.

Here’s your clues:

• In the front seat there’s an iPod, gym towel and, I’m hoping, my missing gym pass. In the back seat a basketball rolls around over a litter of napkins and a flattened McNuggets container.
• Stuffed into the pockets on the back of the front seats are Full House DVD’s, cheap Happy Meal toys, empty snack packs, action figures and the random playing card.
• Clanking around in the “way back” are a bat and baseballs, a Heelys shoe, one ski glove, a bag of returns from Christmas, a 20 pound bag of dog food I got in the car but suddenly become too weenie to lift out of the car, and about a half dozen sweatshirts keeping my car warm.

Oh, and if you want a drink, I have ten (yes, 10) cup holders in my car each with some sort of half drunken beverage in them left over from a questionable period of time.

Drink at your own risk, but that right there just might be a game of Russian Roulette.    

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Recently my car began to stink. Bad. Something was rotten in Denmark.

At first it was annoying. “Eww. What’s that smell?” But as soon as we got out of the car we forgot about it.

Soon it got overwhelming. “Good Lord! Did something die in this car?” But it seemed we were always in a rush and didn’t have time to do a good search.

Then it got so bad we came armed and ready. “Quick roll down the windows! Here, I brought Daddy’s cologne, make sure you spray the way back too.”

With each offense of our nostrils we’d try to guess what the source of the smell could be.

“It’s damp upholstery from all the wet ski clothes when we went to Tahoe,” guessed Hubby.

“No, it’s food. Look under your seats kids. Do you see any moldy nuggets?” was my guess.

“I think it’s Whitney,” Logan, always the shot taker, teased.

“I think it’s Logan and he pooped his pants,” Whitney fired back.

“Can’t you find time to get this car to the car wash?” Hubby foolishly fired a shot over the bow.   

I instantly volleyed back. “Can’t you find the dirty clothes hamper? That would definitely free up some time.”

Later, after everyone was done throwing each other under the bus, I was dropping the kids off at school when that awful smell became familiar. “It’s spoiled milk!” I yelled to an empty car in my Eureka! moment.

When I got home, I grabbed a trash bag to begin my hard target search. First, I cleared all the junk from the way back. Finding nothing I moved to the second row seats. Random Goldfish, crayons, a stinky sock, but no sour milk. Next, I moved to the middle row and scavenged under the seats. More garbage, toys and (a-ha!) the DVD player remote. I even sniffed the floor mats under Whitney’s seat, since I remembered she had milk with her last in-transit Happy Meal. Finally, I targeted the over-stuffed pockets on the backs of the front seats, elbow deep in garbage, gadgets and gunk.

I have never been so disgusted to find exactly what I was looking for.

The smell hit me a second before my fingers encountered a coagulated, putrid mush of sour milk and possibly Goldfish or Chex Mix. The culprit: a McDonald’s milk jug shoved deep down on its side, a slow leak (over weeks??) mixing with the stray snack foods. And to make it really interesting, it was caked on everything else shoved in the pocket with the only clean-up solution being to reach my hand in there and scrape it out. I did use a Clorox wipe as a shield, but nothing can take away the trauma I suffered.

After that dry heave experience – new rule. To heck with healthy the next time we grab a meal on the go. Sodas all around. The worst it can do is stain my carpets, make everything sticky and contribute to childhood obesity.

That’s still way better than sour milk under my fingernails.

Here’s my philosophy with Girl Scout cookies: If it’s not there, you can’t eat it. (Plus, then you don’t have to run an extra twenty minutes to get them to let go of your thighs.)

But the ghosts of Girl Scout cookies past haunt me every spring, making me fill the house with tangible, tasty reminders of those that have gone before them.

Delightful Do-si-dos. Sweet little Samoas. Trusty Tagalongs. Lovely Lemonades. And of course, my dear friend bought by the case – Thin Mints.

I like to think it’s my philanthropic tendencies that get the best of me, unable to say “no” to an adorable little girl in uniform just doing her civic duty.

But let’s face it, I’d probably buy them from a mangy, toothless crack addict selling them from the trunk of his car if it meant I would otherwise never see my precious Thin Mints again.

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There’s a long running list of things I’ll do for my kids.

Things like volunteering in their classrooms and driving on field trips; Shuttling them to and from practices and camps that fill every season. Sitting through movie gems like Beverly Hills Chihuahua; Responding with a smile and clap of approval to endless calls of “Watch this Mom!” Rising from a deep sleep to accompany a frightened son to the bathroom at 2:30 in the morning; Taking a cold shower so my kids will have hot ones.

But the call of Girl Scouts is something I just cannot do.

I know, I know, it’s a rewarding and positive experience for both daughter and mother. I don’t knock the people who get enjoyment out of it. Great. Good for you. I get it.

It’s just not my thing. And I’m relieved like a mother who hears that her buck-tooth kid isn’t going to need braces after all that my daughter isn’t into it either. I have small guilt (eating the last brownie type guilt – easy to live with), that back in kindergarten when Whitney wanted to try it, I nudged her in another direction and deftly dodged all the moms trying to peer pressure us into it.

Why the GS aversion? Maybe it’s because I don’t do girlie. I didn’t play with Barbies, I never wanted to play My Little Pony or Rainbow Bright, I wasn’t a cheerleader, and I had no interest in growing up to marry anyone in Duran Duran.

I was always too busy trying to keep up with my brother and embarrassing boys who thought their gender made them better than me. So, I guess my problem is after a lifetime of effort trying to blur the line between genders, the thought of serving my daughter up to a “girls club” rubs me the wrong way.

Not that it’s not a great experience for thousands of American girls. I don’t begrudge any of them the enjoyment, camaraderie and leadership skills they develop. Yay, team.

I just don’t want to join it. I’m pretty happy over here on the sidelines eating their cookies. Isn’t it enough that my taste buds are their biggest cheerleaders with my expanding waistline the president of their booster club?