The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

It's All Greek To Me

It has been a busy old week with regards to the combined demands of primary school and social commitments. Monday was 'Superhero Day' for Year 2. Eddie hasn't worn a superhero costume for a couple of years, so some improvisation was needed. 

Yesterday was 'Forest Schools' followed by a party at a local farm park. This required the sorting out of a present for the birthday girl - on a school night - and, with an after work meeting and ferrying the kids to clubs until 9pm, I left Daddy in charge. He surpassed himself. I had expected a tenner stuffed in a card, but the present was thoughtfully chosen, wrapped and delivered on time.  

Today was 'Greek Day' for Year 5, so, following the success of mid-week birthday-gate, Hearth-Father was promoted to costume design for the first time. With hindsight, I don't know why I have found the last few years remotely stressful. I should have handed over responsibilities a long time ago. I may be about to announce my retirement. Somehow he managed this:

And is utterly forgiven for raiding the wardrobe for my sandals and destroying a pillow case. I have no idea about the authenticity, but am overwhelmed by the commitment. After nineteen years I have discovered my husband's secret dressmaking skill. The needle and cotton are his domain from now on.

Currently reading: The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley

Running in Colour

'There is no such thing as fun for the whole family' is an epigram attributed to Jerry Seinfeld, and I am, ordinarily, inclined to agree.

Until, that is, a few weeks ago we took part in Brighton's Colour Run.

Getting ready (in pristine white t-shirts) was fun in the morning: I had kept the race packs hidden until the big day so it was a nice surprise for everyone to get their goodies over breakfast.

5km was short enough for Hearth-father and his dodgy hip, and for Eddie and his little legs, and enough of a challenge for Gertie and Gilby who, to give them their due, ran pretty much the whole race.

It helped that it was a gloriously sunny day, despite being near the end of September.

The race itself involves being squirted with dry paint and/or foam every kilometre or so. Not sure why this is such a laugh, but for some reason it is.

And the fun didn't end at the finish line. There was a kind of after-run party that felt like a festival with periodic colour bursts into the crowd and great music.

 Apologies that this post is more of a photo album, but there were some good ones!

There was even, and this was one of my most favourite parts of the day, an opportunity for a celebratory post-run beer on a roof-top terrace overlooking the beach. Not bad for late September!

(Admittedly this part was probably more fun for mum and dad, but hey.)

So, Jerry, take note: Everyone wants to sign up again for next year's run!

Currently reading: H is for Hawk by Helen MacDonald

Making and Breaking

Eddie's sixth birthday party is fast approaching. Last year he had only just arrived in reception and didn't know anyone's names, so I panicked and invited the whole class. This year is much more sensible: three friends to a trampolining place - don't know much about it other than the fact that I have had to buy 'special socks' for them to bounce in. That's the party bag sorted, then.

But some of his friends' mums have contacted me to ask what Eddie might like as a gift.

This is quite tricky to answer. Eddie has two main hobbies: making things, and breaking things. By 'making', I mean that he is the most creative of the three. What he can do with a couple of cereal boxes, some toilet rolls and a roll of masking tape is quite astonishing. But he wouldn't be terrifically happy, I suspect, if he unwrapped a box full of recycling. He likes Lego, and insists on making the thing, then remaking it 8-10 times until he can do it without having to follow instructions; useful if I need to keep him busy for a couple of hours. But Lego is very expensive and I wouldn't want to suggest that people spent that kind of money on a birthday present for him.  His newest hobby is whittling, and he's desperate for his own whittling knife, but at six, it just doesn't seem entirely appropriate ask someone to buy him a knife.

By 'breaking' things I do mean smashing things up. He quite likes demolishing the junk models after he has made them, but also shooting, slashing, hitting, firing, blowing things up, throwing things: in short, weaponry. All types, medieval to modern. This is quite a difficult thing to word appropriately in an email or What's app message, and so I made light of it:

"We have bought him a crossbow! Don't tell social services! 😀😔😕😨😩" That sort of thing.

Unfortunately, one of the other mums in the group is, in fact, a social worker. Oh dear. Busted.

So, it transpires that I have indeed bought my son a crossbow for his sixth birthday and am contemplating getting him a knife. I can't help feeling that something has gone a teensy bit wrong with my parenting somewhere along the way.



Currently reading: Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry by Mildred D. Taylor.

Non-Stop Party People

We are non-stop party people, oh yes.

This is not a hangover from the rave culture of the late nineties (oh how dim and distant that now seems). In fact, there is often not even a small glass of wine on offer for a weary parent. And they definitely aren't playing the sort of music I like.

No, it stems from the fact that three children means endless rounds of children's birthday parties at the weekends.

Only the two this weekend, which feels like a result.

The complication is that we have a radius of about thirty miles to encompass all the usual suspects in terms of venues: soft play, bowling, cinema, swimming, parks, garden centres (seem to be the new thing!) Pizza Express (other pizza restaurants are available) and people's houses.

Inevitably the three little people will be going in different directions - and at mutually disagreeable different times. Often there is just enough overlap to make it really stressful and touch-and-go in terms of making it to drop-off or collection, particularly when Hearth-Father is working at the weekend. Right child at right venue with right present can be a mission.

Still, all in the name of fun. Wouldn't want to be a party-pooper. Cheers.


Currently reading: Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie

Lords and Ladies of the Dance

I have actually just organised the best eighth birthday surprise and celebration in the world. (Types smugly)

A few months ago I was accidentally watching Graham Norton's show when Michael Flatley was on promoting Lord of the Dance in London. I hadn't known it was his farewell tour and so I thought it would be a nice idea to get a ticket for Gertie for her birthday. (It goes without saying that this also required buying one for her mother to accompany her...) They weren't cheap, but if this was the only time that the current CAID Primary National Champion was going to get to see the world's most famous Irish dancer then so be it.

Through the wonders of the internet I managed to get tickets for the actual day of her birthday from the comfort of my sitting room whilst Graham Norton and Michael Flatley were still chatting.  He seemed like a nice bloke, so with a glass of red wine inside me and an iPad in my lap it suddenly seemed like a good idea to send Mr Flatley a little email explaining the situation.  I put a little picture of Gertie in for good measure.

Twelve hours later I had a reply, and an invitation to meet the cast.

The show was spectacular. More dramatic, exciting and beautiful than I remember from, ahem, twentyyearsagoish. And Michael Flatley himself performed, which we weren't expecting, so Hearth-Mother was a little overcome.

And the lovely cast (who, at the end of a long week probably had far better things to be doing than meeting an eight-year-old girl) were lovely, even singing 'Happy Birthday' to Gertie.

Gertie was amazed by 'Little Spirit' and her breath-taking flexibility on stage; then delighted to discover that in real life she was so petite that they weren't far apart in height. A magical evening was topped off by the gift of a signed programme from the main man himself.

The following day she had a 'pool party' with 25 friends, including raft races and a profiterole tower instead of a cake (Gertie's choice).


Alas, smug as I am and delighted by the success of creating an absolutely unforgettable eighth birthday, I am well aware that I may have peaked too soon.  What on earth to do next year...?

Currently reading: The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney

Magic Number Seven

Seven is a magic number.

It is a lot of candles on a cake.

It is the difference between a cake that looks like a cake - something that grown-ups might like to eat too - and one that looks like this, from last year:

It is the difference between having a tea party with cup cakes and jelly and ice-cream, and going out to the cinema with a few mates from school, which was this year's 'party' choice.

It is a long time in years and it makes for one very grown up little girl.

Things have begun to happen very fast indeed.  She had a sleepover with two friends.  And they were entirely sensible, asking to brush their teeth after their 'midnight' feast, and all asleep by 10pm.

Her present from us was a tablet (much debate and agonising).  We haven't sorted out the internet controls yet, but she has, unfortunately already downloaded 'Candy Crush Saga'. On the upside, it means that presents are getting smaller.  More expensive, yes, but less plastic, bulky and ugly. She is more self contained.  She had a friend round to play earlier in the week and they sat quietly and made bangles for an hour and a half.

She doesn't volunteer for anything anymore.  She used to be the 'pick me, pick me' person, unable to stay in her seat with the effort of thrusting her hand upwards.  She was forever up on stage as the helper in the pantomime or magic show.  Now she would rather sit back and watch other people make fools of themselves, which is a little sad.

But we giggle together at something shared.  Often.  I do a lot of laughing with the boys, too, but it's usually at something they've said or done.

How do I feel?  Proud of my so clever and confident and beautiful girl.  Slightly wistful for the innocent bygone days of pleasures that don't involve a screen and downloading stuff.  A tiny bit frightened by how fast it is all changing...


Currently reading: Strange Music by Laura Fish.

A Very Surprising Kinder Surprise

Yesterday we celebrated Eddie's first birthday.  All went well, (you can invite the grown-ups you like to a one-year old's party, as opposed to other children you don't, as they get older) apart from the fact that Eddie ate so much cake that he made himself sick.  But I suppose you should be able to do that at your own birthday party.

Atthe end Gilby was given the very important job of handing out Kinder Surprise eggs to all the children.  I had carefully calculated to allow at least two or three extra, so that Gertie and Gilby could have one too. 

Shortly afterwards, Gilby came running up to me clutching two little yellow 'surprise' pods and looking mightily pleased with himself.

"Look, Mummy, I have two!"

"Yes, I can see that.  And how, exactly, did you manage to get two?"

"They were there together inside my chocolate egg!"

I didn't bother to talk him through the impossibility of that explanation.

His first deception!  Aaaghh!  And not even a very clever one.  He will need to learn better spacial awareness if he is going to get away with those sort of fibs in future...

Five Years, Five Cakes

Hard to believe that my little girl is five years old. I still haven't quite got used to seeing her in her school uniform, all grown up.  But here is the cake to prove it. Slightly trickier than the 'number one' I made for her first birthday and didn't go far between the 25 kids who came to her party on Sunday, but I was pleased with the finished result.

Let Them Not Eat Cake!

In preparation for Eddie's baptism, we had to go and collect the cake the day before and deliver it to the party venue. As the picture shows it was a thing of beauty, a cut above my past efforts at Mr Bump, Peppa Pig and a Fairy Toadstool. As soon as they saw it, Gertie and Gilbert were desperate to try it so I had to explain, quite forcibly, how special it was, and how we'd have to wait until it was time to cut the cake after the baptism. There would certainly not be any cake-eating before that moment I intoned sternly, pushing visions of a half-munched cake firmly from my mind.

When we arrived for the party holding a newly-Christened Eddie aloft, a lovely buffet was set with the cake as the deserved centre-piece. The children soon piled up their plates with party food. Gilby kept coming up and anxiously asking if it was 'cake-time' yet. Eventually I said that it was and he looked mightily relieved as he reached up to take the final fairy cake from a nearly empty plate.

What a lesson in noble restraint. It seems that my sermon had hit deeply. He had waited all that time, thinking that he couldn't have any cake, watching all the other children repeatedly helping themselves, desperately willing the final one not to disappear.

Baptism

Our baby was baptised last weekend. It was a great occasion, with so many family and friends present and a lovely party afterwards. Big sister and brother were on best behaviour, apart from a few lively moments around the font.

But for the first time, we had to undertake a 'rehearsal' with the parish priest before the day. Since this is the third time we have done it, I wonder exactly who the rehearsal was for...

Things That Go Bump in the Kitchen

Another year, another birthday, another mess in the kitchen, another baking triumph (but don't look too closely, it's a little, er, 'rustic' round the edges).

Yes, Gilby was two last week, and with a few days to go before the event he announced that he no longer wanted another train cake, but 'Mr Bump'. Good, I thought, at least it's round. Though blue was not the most appetising colour for the, mostly adult, guests at his tea party.

Pregnancy hormones must be kicking in big time, because I also MADE bunting for the occasion. I saw some for sale at the primary school fete and thought, 'Twenty quid for a couple of metres? Pah! I'll make it!'

So, having invested in a sewing machine and a selection of fabric, I reckon my bunting has set me back over £200. Oh well.

But the little man was on top form, dressed in shirt and tie for the day, and even going as far as to sit back up in bed, more tired than I've ever seen him, just after kissing him goodnight to say, "Thank you for my party, mummy," in the sweetest, most angelic little voice.

Now, lest all this sound too good to be true, and I'm even sickening myself with the homely baking and bunting imagery, let me just pronounce, for the record, that the terrible twos began in earnest the very next day as Gilby kicked and screamed and demanded, "More presents, more presents, more presents..." for hours. So domestic bliss was short-lived...

34 Weeks pregnant: Definitely not feeling the bikini body...
Currently reading: That Summer in Ischia by Penny Feeny

Magic Mushroom

It is that time of year again. Gertie is four at the weekend.

We have the party and the celebrations sorted. I finally managed to persuade her that the North Pole wasn't great at this time of year. So, she will have eight friends from nursery trailing round the local farm park with her in the morning; a visit that will culminate in a picnic lunch. Then, in the afternoon, we have planned a tea party with all Gertie's cousins and family. Hooray! Not a husky or an arctic explorer in sight.

Now this is all jolly exciting, except that it means I am forced to make my annual trek into the kitchen where I pretend that baking, icing and decorating comes naturally to me, and produce a cake to rival Jane Asher.

Last year's highly successful Peppa Pig appeared to be the pinnacle of my culinary achievement (well, when one's husband has appeared on Masterchef, one doesn't get much opportunity to experiment in the kitchen...) but I feel that I have topped it this year, even though it was fairy tricky:

Party Ideas Are Poles Apart

I was warned, way back in the very early stages of pregnancy, about just how competitive the birthday party scene is in parent-land.

So far it's been fine. We had a nice tea-party at home for Gertie's first birthday; more adults than children, more wine than squash. Perfect.

Birthday number two took place at the local farm park; a few friends and family and my mother, who works there, to help organise.

The third birthday was the most ambitious: We had a bouncy castle in the garden. It was great, because all I had to do was simply supply a bit of party food and watch the little people bounce. The sun was shining, but not so much that I had to worry about continually slathering on sun-cream, and nobody got bounced on. It was easy, and I didn't have to organise any games or prizes or anything.

However, the stakes have been raised somewhat, and we've now reached a bit of an impasse over Gertie's fourth birthday party. It's not until May, but I thought that now might be the time to get the plans made and do any organisation that might be required. The trouble is this. We had Abigail's party where there was a professional party-planner sorting out all the entertainment; Cameron's birthday party where there was a 'pirates and mermaids' theme; Sophie's at the village hall where there was a dressed-up Peppa Pig, and Adam's is next week and it's some kind of Toy Story 3 extravaganza.

So we began the discussions. They went something along these lines:

"What would you like to do for your birthday? Shall we have another party in the garden, or go back to the farm? (positively, head nodding in the hope of eliciting an affirmative response.)

"No." (Firmly) "I'd like to go to the North Pole."

"Um. Well that would be a little cold for everyone."

"That's ok. We just need to all wrap up warm. Like we did when it was snowing."

"Ye-es."

"And make sure that we're all wearing our hats and scarves and gloves."

(I can't really argue with the logic, and have a slight feeling of being 'hoisted by my own petard' but have another idea to attempt to dampen the enthusiasm.) "But it's a very long way away for everyone to travel..."

(Looking at me as though I am stupid) "We can get on an ae-ro-plane." (This is very deliberately in three syllables, as though to spell it out to the senile mother who can't quite keep up with the conversation.) We'll all fly there."

"Oh. Will we?

"Yes." (Abrupt shift in the direction of the conversation to allow no room for negotiation.) "Now. I've done some invitations already."

(Weakly) "What...?"

So. There we are. I am apparently flying fifteen-odd pre-schoolers to the Arctic for a fourth birthday party. I wonder if that's all-inclusive?