Mired in U.S. 15-501 molasses, five preteens and one freshly crowned teenager singscream along with Eminem's "Smack that, on the floor. Smack that, out the door." Alice belts lyrics like a pro. The others sound wounded. "Turn green, turn green," I pray as we minivan our way to Durham Lanes and what is, I have just now proclaimed, the last birthday party I will officiate.

Three children, a birthday party each a year for 13, that's 39 birthday parties. I'm retiring after I show these girls how to bowl.

Birthdays have been observed since before Christianity to keep evil spirits at bay. Friends and family gathered around the celebrant to spread joy and laughter and act as human shields against evil. A sound proof shield is what this chauffeur needs.

When my first-born turned three, I spawned a gone-a-fishin' party. Thrashing through my neighbor's bamboo thicket with a saw, I harvested 10 poles. Take more, he pleaded, so I did and invited him to the party. We fished for prizes, threw ping-pong balls into fish bowls, and fished with gummy worms in the creek. I didn't figure on Emma needing to be fished out of the creek or fishing pole sword fights. No matter. I was young and energetic; the world was my party to plan.

Our birthday parties never reached the point of stretch limos or live cougars like I recently read about, but I willingly expended a lot of energy in preparation. A recap of party themes: gone-a-fishin, cowboys and Native Americans, detective, camping, Rainbow the Clown, army (times three -- very popular with the boys), the now-defunct Take Ten at University Mall (times two - very popular with Scott, who at 19 still wears his transparent washed-173-times Take Ten T-shirt), pirate, Halloween, paintballing, and, don't remind me, giant sleepovers.

Having been broke-by-boys, I remain naive 'bout girls. I expect female behavior will be decorous, so I am shocked when the following happens at the alley: crowding the person bowling, walking up the lane when a ball gets stuck as if they had every right, deaf to the loudspeaker blaring "Keep off the lanes," bowling two balls at once, bowling into the next lane, prone bowling, and the especially popular bowling before the pins are cleared, all the while singing this insidious rapper song, "Smack that, give me more, smack that."

I stand there, mouth agape, and wonder who are these wild things? I get too busy making french-fry runs to show them correct bowling technique (the girls prefer "the drop") although I did try prone bowling because it looked good for upper body strengthening. Boys have nothing over girls when it comes to rowdy unselfconscious behavior or appetites. "Ms. Johnson, more fries please."

We were a no-weapons family until the fishing pole swords and hence the army parties were direct hits with my sons. Chapel Hill Tire lent 10 spares for the obstacle course. There was a mud pit to zip-line over. Their dad's army uniform still fit and the kids hung on his every military police command. "Around the block" he'd bark when he needed a beer. The tree fort housed MASH unit. I was Nurse Houlihan dispensing fake blood, bandages and girly advice ("Tell your mom bleach might work."). I'm telling you, these miniature soldiers were the walking wounded and proud of it.

Memories glide like bowling balls. Dad dressed up as a cutlass-carrying pirate, with earring and booming voice, holding little Lucie's hand as she walked the plank. Jake from across the street wrapped up in toilet paper and hopping to the finish line in the mummy race. My mother so disguised that her own grandsons didn't recognize the witch who came to call, mesmerizing wide-eyed boys with her pointy fingernails and spooky story. I remember Sara Rose's face as she stuck her hand in the cold slime of the mystery box. It's not the cake and presents but 4-year-old Sally standing in the front yard, arms akimbo, little blonde head tilted as she greeted towering Mr. Rainbow with "I wanted to know what kind of car you'd be driving." (A VW beetle, of course.)

The sleepovers. We made it through the boys camping in the backyard tent although the zipper didn't. (We tried to zip them in for the night, silly us.) My daughter's ninth birthday turned the tide. Hours it took preparing the scavenger hunt, notifying neighbors, hiding prizes in tree trunks. How did they finish in eight minutes? Pizza was fine, but the mood darkened during the Goosebumps movie Sally had begged. (OK, not my best

judgment.) Anna became inconsolable. Her out-to-dinner parents were unreachable. Sally became upset that Anna was upset so she began to cry. So I cried. Wendy, who spoke little English, patted Sally's hand and said "It OK, Sally. I feel crying, too." Anna's parents finally picked her up, but it was a long night and the next day we had an extra present: lice.

So now we are on the way home from the bowling alley. The girls have taken their shoes off and are sticking their feet in each other's faces yelling, "Smack that, in your face, smack that." One by one I drop them off.

At some point my enthusiasm for birthday parties vanished like a gutter ball. I glance at Sally who has clambered into the front seat, eyes closed, half smile, no regrets.