I am a partier. From my first childhood memory – my third birthday party – to last month’s graduation celebration for my daughter, I have loved to go to parties.

Throwing them is quite another matter.

That’s why this month’s party issue is so handy. It gives some great advice for dealing with kids’ party dilemmas.

For me, the biggest dilemma was when to STOP throwing parties.

I married a male Paula Deen. Not only does my husband have the knack for making people feel comfortable, he is the Galloping Gourmet of the barbecue.

When we were in college, my husband – then my boyfriend – had a saying: “Wherever you are, you are the party.”

It seemed like good advice, so I married him, and our life has been a party ever since.

The first few years we threw raucous New Year’s Eve parties, then graduated to the sophisticated dinner party: my husband would whip up some pasta dish, and the red wine would flow. I’d get tipsy and plan next week’s party – which I promptly forgot about until someone would call the following week, asking what they could bring.

My husband was never too happy about that, but he would gamely plan a menu, I would uncork the wine, and the cycle would begin again.

There were fun mixtures of guests: young 20-something work friends, our siblings and pals from college. The topics of conversation were obviously diverse, ranging from work gripes to Twin Peaks to the first Iraq war to Kurt Cobain.

Then, we became parents. For the first months or so, our partying habits didn’t change. We propped the baby up in the corner and entertained our family and friends as usual.

Then everything changed. Our children got old enough to expect actual birthday parties.

The first birthday passed with a simple family dinner and the obligatory cake smashing. By the third birthday, I had succumbed to the inevitable: a real birthday party.

Since we had a ready-made group of friends from our playgroup, these parties were generally held during the day – when my husband wasn’t there to prepare everything for me.

So, instead, I relied on a giant rodent. Chuck E. Cheese came to my rescue several birthdays in a row, and it was a smashing success. No worries about entertainment, food or goodie bags. Or cleaning up.

Thus started a succession for my two older kids of birthdays celebrated at bowling alleys, pizza parlors, Jungles, Pump-it-Ups – anywhere where someone threw parties for me.

The one time I tried to throw a party myself – my daughter’s fifth birthday – it was an abject failure. I had PB&J sandwiches, turned on a CD player with Radio Disney and called it a day. I gave out Pixie Stix instead of goodie bags. I’ve been too ashamed to throw birthday parties since.

When we moved to Walnut Creek, we ended up in a very social neighborhood, and within months, we became Party Central. We had barbecues almost weekly during the summer, eight couples and about 25 kids diving in and out of the pool.

We finally called it quits when my daughter, at 14, said, “I hate it when you guys throw parties because I have to babysit all the kids!”

My husband said, “I hate it when we throw parties because I have to cook for everyone.”

My younger sons just said they hated when other kids trashed their house.

And I hated cleaning up the next day with a morning-after headache.

So we shut down Party Central. But sometimes we open up for special occasions, like my daughter’s graduation. For days beforehand, my husband cooked, I stressed about decorations and the weather, and the kids worried about who was going to come.

And I made a special trip to Costco to make sure I had enough Pixie Stix to give out.