“Bill, are you listening or have you already eaten all the marshmallows again?” “Molly, honestly, just because I have three bags doesn’t mean I ate all of them. Yet. But yes, I’m listening. So, which door are we breaking into?” “We’re not breaking in, technically. It’s a children’s party. We blend. We infiltrate. We smile. We act like… what do normal parents do at these things?” “Um, sweat nervously, juggle juice boxes, and look like they haven’t slept since 2016?” “Perfect. I can do tired. Watch: I’m exhausted and my toddler’s named Jonas and he’s somewhere under the balloon arch eating glue.” “Convincing—wait, should I be your husband or the weird uncle?” “Definitely weird uncle. Your mustache screams ‘questionable family member who brings inappropriate gifts.’” “I’ll take that as a compliment. So, target: presents table, right? Front right, adjacent to the clown, perilously close to the bouncy castle?” “You memorized the layout?” “Of course I did! Look, here’s the napkin map with my Cheeto dust fingerprints.” “Bill, that’s… a genuine effort. But is that a dinosaur or a bagel?” “Either. The bagel/dinosaur is the birthday kid, and all presents converge there.” “All right. We enter with the parents. You distract with the old ‘balloon animal accident’ and I swipe the bags.” “How many bags? There’re like, twenty kids. That’s twenty sets of parents waiting to interrogate me.” “Which is why you start a commotion with the pinata. You ever seen grown adults throwing elbows for candy? It’s mayhem. In chaos, I become one with the presents.” “And then?” “And then, we disappear out the side gate. You run interference with the dad who’s grilling hotdogs.” “I love that guy already and I haven’t even met him—bet he burns half the buns. Question: what about disguises?” “I already bought two ‘World’s Best Parent’ t-shirts. They scream wholesome.” “They scream ‘shoplifted from Target,’ but I’m in. Secret codeword in case of trouble?” “‘Unicorn stampede.’ If you hear it, bail hard.” “One last thing—what if an actual unicorn stampede happens? Hasn’t been ruled out. I saw that magician’s promo video.” “Bill, if real unicorns show up at a suburban kid’s birthday, I say we retire. Agreed?” “Agreed. So, we’re set: you swipe, I create chaos, we meet by the hydrangeas and divvy up the loot.” “Bill, you remembered the loot bags?” “I have three—one with ducks, one with dinosaurs, and one, tragically, plain blue.” “Give me the dinosaur one. All right, one last run-through: You—chaos, me—conspicuous parent, presents—acquired, dads—dodged, grill—avoided.” “Got it. Snacks on the exit?” “It’s a crime if we don’t. Save me a cupcake, okay?” “Only if it’s not the green ones. I heard children sneeze on those.” “Bill.” “Sorry. But may I suggest—after this, we try adult parties? I am running out of fake nephew names.” “Agreed. But right now, we have a party to crash, presents to plunder, and possibly a unicorn to dodge.” “Let’s roll, Molly. And if anyone asks, Jonas is terribly allergic to glitter.” “Perfect. And Bill?” “Yeah?” “Try not to eat any more marshmallows before we get there.” “No promises.”