And the birthday train rolls around for another year.
It’s the time of year that parents mothers reach peak sentimentality. Facebook feeds start to fill with Mother’s Group friends wishing their offspring happy birthday – gushing over favourite activities or personality traits, and posting fresh newborn pics alongside a cheery recent snap. It’s early as you write (too bloody early… probably in the 5’s), and your nostalgia is untainted by the irrational meltdown to come over a jumper that’s suddenly too small, or the book you don’t own that they insist they want to take to daycare.
You track key moments of your labour in the day(s) leading up to your child’s birthday. “Oh… it was about this time my waters broke all over your shoes. Do you remember?” Fond memories.
And because your child is of an age where birthdays are now A BIG DEAL to be celebrated, you’re probably neck-deep in party bag planning, chasing bloody RSVP’s, and trying to figure out just how much food 26 adults and 14 kids will eat.
How on earth did this “small party” end up being 40 people anyway?
You Pinterest like a demon. More than half of the inspired menu you ambitiously created from fellow amateur party planners will be culled in the days leading up to the party.
That cute bat-signal fruit platter? Not with blueberries at six bucks a punnet. The individual cups of popcorn with a cute POP printable will become a plain old bowl of popcorn. Maybe you can squeeze out a POP printable if the ink in the printer holds out long enough (unlikely). Cute little super-hero masks for the kids to wear? Meh… ain’t nobody got time for that after stuffing those damn party bags.
This year we I have the joy of planning two parties in a month. The Threenager is graduating to Fournado and the twins are turning one, so we have no opportunity to sidestep party planning. We checked out playcentre party plans and balked at the price. Ironic, considering we will probably end up spending that and more by the time the last balloon is popped and we’ve packed the overcatered remnants of the party into the car to go home.
We have put ourselves at the mercy of the August weather gods by hosting The Fournado’s party at a nearby park. The hubby will be dispatched to secure one of the two sheltered picnic tables available well in advance of any guests arriving. I hope he has the forethought to grab a coffee on the way. We’ve already discussed whether Euro beach holiday rules apply and we can bags a table with a tablecloth and a few token balloons and return later to reclaim it. I’ve been checking the weather forecast for the past 10 days hoping that the “fine with some cloud, 20 degrees” prediction holds so I don’t need to figure out a way to host 40 bodies in my house. But mostly so I don’t have to clean up after them.
I have paper cuts of my fingers from wrapping gifts in cheap dollar store paper I picked up as I was stocking up on party bag tat. I’ve already baked a cake – the birth-DAY cake – and I’m already dreading having to bake again for the party. Less about the baking, and more about the damn Pinterest decorations I’ll be attempting to recreate on four-hours sleep with three kids baying in my ear and half a dozen party food items banked up on the bench awaiting attention.
Remind me again why we do this to ourselves? Because I’m pretty sure after our last big party (1), I said I was never doing it myself again.
Except in four weeks for the girls’ first birthday….
Best stock up on wine. I see a party in my future – and the kids aren’t invited.
How Life Has Changed 