Andrea is having a birthday party for her eight children. It’s less like a party and more like a detention center for people displaced due to a natural disaster. There are Port-a-Potties stationed outside the house and everything is dirty and disorganized. It’s like a war zone.
The party goes late into the night and I decide it’s time to leave. I look for my bag but I’m having trouble finding it. They have luggage carts where everyone’s bags are stored, and I have to dig around in a jumble of other people’s stuff to find mine.
I find the hostess to say goodbye and ask which of the many children has a birthday today. She says that all the kids share the same birthday, and I realize she is the octomom. I realize how sad it would be to grow up one of eight and not even have a birthday of your own.
