There comes a time in every mother’s life, when your child is invited to a party. This little piece of paper has so many different meanings, you might not realise it at first, but every mother goes through the same emotions when they get handed the crumpled up envelope at the end of the school day.
- Oh wonderful, you’ve got a friend, we will buy them something awesome!
- Actually, it looks like everyone has been invited, that’s a bit less special, maybe just a small gesture-type present.
- Billy’s mum has bought him a 9″ Transformer with realistic Transformer sound effects (you need to prepare yourself for a whole other blog on the ridiculousness of Transformers, but not right now, it’s too hot to get angry over nothing today), shit, that means I have to spend at least £20 or I look cheap.
- When is it again? I’ll write that in the diary and be sure to let his mum know straight away that I will be there.
- *2 Weeks later* Shit, there’s his mum, I forgot to RSVP, don’t look, don’t look. “Oh, aboslutely Carol, Oscar is so excited to go to the party”
- Shit! When is the party again?
- *Day before the party* “Are you looking forward to the party?” “Shit, when is it?” “Erm, tomorrow.” “Oh, yes, we can’t wait. What time is it and where is it?”
- *Day of the party* “Oscar we need to go, the party is in 20 minutes, I have no idea how to get there and we’ve still not bought a present.
When you finally arrive at the party it’s always difficult to know whether or not parents are meant to stay. Personally, I never leave Oscar alone at a party, the adult:children ratio never quite seems right, and I don’t really think it’s fair to inflict an unsupervised Oscar on unsuspecting parents, especially when they are providing him free food. This said, it seems a lot of parents don’t mind leaving their children, and often sneak off for an hour or so of child-free time. In no way do I judge these parents, I envy them, I envy them down to my very soul, these parents aren’t forced to make awkward small-talk with people with whom the only thing they have in common is that they had sex at around the same time as you.
Now, I have met some lovely, and amazing people through parties, but that doesn’t detract from the initial awkwardness you feel. You walk in, not quite sure where to put the present that you frantically wrapped 30 seconds ago in the carpark, someone, usually a grandparent that is feeling even more awkward and out of place than you are, but have even more obligation to attend than you do, will sweep in and rescue you. This leads to about a minute of small-talk before the next person comes along and takes your place. You duck out of the way quickly and go and find yourself a seat in the deepest, darkest corner of the room. If you could go out and sit in your car for the rest of the party you would do, but you don’t want to miss out on the opportunity of some half-fingered sandwiches and leftover cake, so you smile and nod at everyone that looks at you, and then the worst happens…a parent you don’t know sits next to you.
At this point, adrenaline is coursing through your veins, you hunt for a flight opportunity but none present themselves, The other parent is looking at you, doing the cursory smile and nod, that all polite Brits do, and you have no choice but to smile and nod back. It is at this point you say,”Isn’t this a great idea for a party?” It doesn’t matter if it’s a pirate theme, a bouncy castle, in someone’s house, no matter what is happening in that room, it could be flame throwers and sword swallowers, you will still comment on how wonderful it is and how the kids seem to be enjoying themselves, even though at least ten of them have been crying on and off since you got there and little Johnny fell and broke his arm and is currently sitting in the corner being placated with cake while he waits for his parents to come back from their child-free time so he can have an x-ray. Among all this chaos, the parents of the birthday-boy are frantically trying to wrangle the children together for…DINNER TIME.
Children’s party food hasn’t really changed over the years. When I was attending children’s parties as an actual child, the standard menu was egg sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, ham sandwiches, jam sandwiches, all cut in triangles with the crusts off, pizza slices, a few cocktail sausages, a selection of crisps, pork-pie if the hosts were rich, chocolate fingers, party rings and cake. Nowadays, you still get most of the above except every 2nd bowl of crisps is replaced with cucumber and carrot sticks hummus (I’d never even heard of that until I was 20, but Oscar demands it at least three times a week). So the children sit down and begin painting their faces with various foodstuffs. At this point, even the sight of your own makes you want to throw up, and you notice the holy grail of kids’ parties, the untouched plate of food. By now, the whole social awkwardness thing has passed, and all you can think about is when it will be appropriate for you to help yourself to one of the egg sandwiches that hasn’t been sneezed or slobbered on. You have whole conversations with people, but your eyes do not leave that plate. If just one kid touches it, it’s game over. You know you can get in there when the cake comes out, no child wants sandwiches when there is cake on offer (truth be told, Oscar would eat cake and cucumber sticks at the same time).
You sidle over to the tray of sandwiches, but someone else gets there before you, Dolly bloody Dogood takes the tray of sandwiches and hands them around the parents, the exact opposite way to where you are standing, all you can do is watch in dismay as one by one the tray of untouched sandwiches becomes less and less, until it gets back to you, and all that is left is a small bit of sandwich with a bite missing from it. You toy with the idea of eating it anyway, but you decide against it. Besides, the cake will be out next.
The lights are dimmed, and sure enough out comes the most incredible feat of culinary engineering you have ever seen. It’s a Transformer, that actually transforms! We all sing Happy Birthday and marvel at the incredible cake that has obviously cost more than I earn in a year, but inside I’m thinking “It better taste as good as it looks!” But you never get to find out, because as soon as the candles are blown out, the cake is swept away and the children are sent off for the rest of the party.
The remaining time is spent discussing with yourself (normally in your own head) when is the most appropriate time to leave. You can’t leave straight after you’ve eaten because that would appear rude, but you don’t want to be the last one there, or you will have to help clean up while making more small talk with people you don’t really know, and who you are clearly far too common to be associated with. Then someone leaves, clever gits had told the parents that they had to leave early for some reason or another, you curse yourself for not thinking of it sooner. Eventually, there is a queue forming at the party-bag handout station , you jump in quickly while screaming for your child to join you. You take your bag, make your child say thank you, thank the parents for a wonderful party and apologise for having to leave so soon, but you really must go and visit your dying donkey, and you leave. Buckle your child into the car and he says “Mummy, can I have a Transformers cake that really transforms for my birthday?”
You cry a little into your seatbelt and go and buy a big bottle of wine.