The fragile and dilapidated world of New Orleans post-Katrina (or "post-K," as we say) calls for courageous gestures of faith, imagination, and resourcefulness, especially from parents.

On any given day, my mood can travel from amazed despair at the sight of a hollowed-out corner store on which "DO 6" (six dead bodies found) is spray-painted in red or quiet melancholy at the memory of walks in Audubon Park with friends who have left and languid afternoons in coffee shops that no longer exist, to a bright flash of euphoria at the energetic turnout for the New Orleans Film Society's first fundraiser since the storm (entitled "Save the New Orleans Film Festival") or inspiration at people's grassroots engagement in the city's recovery.

Most people I meet in this world seem to be navigating some version of this emotional rollercoaster. What is more difficult yet is navigating those daily peaks and valleys as a parent. Children are, of course, highly sensitive and attuned to their parents' feelings. Thus, a certain amount of psychological insulation is required to shelter one's children from death or the many deaths we suffer as part of the human condition. Long enough for them to gain the strength and maturity to shelter themselves. Providing that insulation in an environment that has been both battered and debilitated is, at best, challenging. A recent birthday party for one of my son's classmates provided me with a striking example of this delicate maneuver.

The invitation was encased neatly in a brown paper bag, cut in the form of an envelope, and tied with a piece of twine. I unwrapped it carefully, as Dylan jumped by my side, eager to get at the contents of his mail. Inside was an orange card that framed in yellow the drawing of a sturdy little dump truck on laminated construction paper. In stenciled black print that resembled the lettering of construction site signs, the card read "JAMES IS THREE! PLEASE JOIN US! UNDER CONSTRUCTION!" I was impressed by the artful precision of this handmade invitation, amused by its good-humored reverence for masculine icons. What I did not know was how truly it reflected the site and spirit of James's home.

The party was uptown, an area of the city that, generally, sustained minimal wind damage and little flooding. Thus, I did not prepare myself, as I usually do, to enter into the dead zone of ghostly ruins that is 80 percent of New Orleans today. The trip from my house to uptown is one of the few journeys that allows me to forget the odyssey of the past five months. As it turns out, James's house happens to be on one of the few blocks in the neighborhood that "took water," as the phrase goes. And as we drove onto his street, a mere half a mile from the insistently green, tree-lined, and elegant St. Charles Avenue, I was startled afresh by the gray desolation, debris and brownish yellow water lines of a flooded neighborhood. Glancing anxiously from silent house to silent house, I searched for movement, color, or some other apparition of life. "No wonder the card said 'under construction,'" I muttered to myself, scanning the cluttered street, as Dylan slumbered in the backseat.

Sure enough, James's house, a dirty white structure in the middle of the block, loomed as sullenly as its neighbors, its downstairs gutted, and before it, a pile of rubble adorning the curb. Yet, like impossible flowers blooming through a bank of snow, cheerful balloons had been tied to bright orange pylons and piles of wood in front of the house. On the door was a sign announcing, "Welcome to James's Construction Zone!" I climbed from the car, walked around to the passenger side and nudged Dylan gently awake. "Here we are, honey," I called softly, "at James's party." Dylan's eyelids fluttered open and he turned his head to look outside. Bypassing the piles of trash and chalky gray soil, he zeroed in immediately on the balloons. "Ba-lloons!" he exclaimed, a sleepy smile transforming his face. "Yes," I confirmed, marveling at his ability to focus on the objects of his pleasure. Could it be, I wondered, that Dylan was becoming indifferent to the spectacle of shelled-out houses and piles of debris? Is this what happens to toddlers who live in Baghdad or Belgrade?

We approached the house, me wary and Dylan enthused. I knocked hesitantly on the door, and peered into the empty white rooms of the first floor. After a moment, I heard a voice, and saw James's mother trotting down the stairs, a baby perched on her hip. "Hey!" she cried. "Good to see you all! Come on in!" We entered and followed her up the stairs. "This is Mia, James' little sister," she announced, as she climbed to the landing of the second floor and spun around to display a wide-eyed baby in a white onesie. "Hi Mia," I said. "Dylan can you say hi to Mia?" Dylan waved his hand distractedly. Already, his eyes were fixed on a stack of shiny yellow hard hats beside which sat an open toolbox, similar to his own. James, who was standing at the top ready, grabbed a hat and thrust it at Dylan. "Here," he said, grinning. Dylan took the hat and, at my urging, handed James his present. In turn, James ripped open the present before his mother could intervene and examined the contents (a puzzle and book) briefly, before tossing them aside. "Wanna play with my trucks?" he asked Dylan, gesturing at his play table in the center of the room. Dylan nodded shyly, turning to look at me, before ambling across the room with James.

Soon, the party was buzzing with children in plastic yellow hard hats who played with trucks and assembled Bob the Builder puppets, as the adults stood at a distance, surveyed the scene and exchanged anecdotes about their respective homes, their respective evacuations, and their plans for the future. Everyone seemed resolved to wait and see how the reconstruction effort went before deciding on whether or not to stay. Everyone expressed ambivalence and doubts about the current political climate. And yet, as with most post-K festivities, everyone seemed both happy and relieved to be together. I was impressed, not only that the party was being held in a home as opposed to an official party venue (the norm for birthday parties in New Orleans), but that it was being held in a home that had been half destroyed and that this couple had recovered a theme for their son's birthday from amid the ashes of their former life.

When it came time to eat cake, James's mother produced a homemade sheet cake frosted in a pastoral green, in the middle of which a dirt-red road snaked off into the yet-to-be-constructed future. Beside the road were assorted piles of "dirt" (crushed Oreos), ready to be pushed or lifted by the various tiny plastic construction vehicles—tractors, steamrollers, and cranes—that decorated the cake. The children let out a raucous cry and gathered around the coffee table as James's mother lit the three small candles that stood proudly at one end of the road. The voice of children and adults mingled in an exuberant rendition of the "Happy Birthday" chorus, followed by cheers and applause. When the cheering died down, it was Dylan who leaned forward and began very noisily to blow the little candles out. "Dylan!" I squealed, mortified. "Those aren't your candles!" "It's okay," James's mother laughed, "They can blow them out together." Hearing this, Dylan, who had paused at the sound of my voice, leaned forward once more, this time pressing his head lightly against James who leaned from across the table, and the two of them blew. In a moment, the candles went out and another cheer went up.

Perhaps, I mused to myself looking around the room, this is okay. Perhaps it is precisely through such moments of collective innovation, that we will, as a community, construct anew.