6 hours ago
3
When my beautiful firstborn turned one, about 70 people came to the pub to celebrate. There were drinks, there were meals, there were balloons, there was singing. They were celebrating me. Since then his birthdays have become about him and his friends and the quality of the event has spiralled precipitously.
These days, with two kids out in society, kids’ birthday parties dominate our family’s schedule. Barely a weekend goes by without a scramble to find a gift that’s appropriate, I’m getting increasingly desperate for some form of wrapping apparatus, and I have long given up on cards.
When we arrive at a party, the gorging begins. I consider myself on the chill end of the spectrum yet even I can feel the teeth deterioration from across the room. The only thing worse than this is a “sugar-free” event, which should be a reportable offence.
The most gastronomically memorable kid’s party I attended had a coffee cart for the parents. I’ll probably never know a joy like that for the rest of my days.
Birthday parties allow me to observe my kids’ interactions with other kids – like David Attenborough with a wide-angle lens. It’s found wanting. A sort of mania takes over until they exhaust themselves and agree to be carted away.
What chance do they have when they’re surrounded by self-conscious, tired parents making conversation with all the ease of undergoing a pap smear. How are the little ones supposed to learn social graces when their role models are trying to make small talk with parents they don’t know from a bar of soap and who screech “Oi!” mid-sentence to break up a dispute or get their kids out of a tree.
There is a promised land, where the kids can be deposited at a party and I can spend the time quietly meditating or scrolling my phone. I have not yet arrived there but other parents tell me it exists, and it sounds akin to paradise.
My kids’ demands when it comes to their own parties have become louder. The days of a sheet-pan brownie with a single candle in it are no longer acceptable. Now a theme must be adhered to, their interests reflected, their wishes regarding the guest list and (infinite) balloon quantity heard.
And now the other kids talk back. They ask questions. They have requests. They seem to miss that a couple of years ago I actually grew a human being from my flesh and, despite not being built for it whatsoever, successfully delivered this human being into this realm. I get very little credit for this at these events. Pointing this out is not well received by five-year-olds.
Instead the kids tear around, create an 80-decibel environment and have elaborate beefs that flare up and dissolve in an instant. They ignore that they are coeliac, invent new games, inevitably leave someone out, try to blow out the candles.
Sometimes they even provide feedback – imagine!
I do my bit: blowing up balloons until I’m dizzy, putting out a sugar-rich spread, frantically cleaning, worrying nobody will come, freaking out when they do. I have 300 attempts at a conversation, none of which go beyond a few sentences.
Despite my inability to gracefully host a few sweet kids and adults, the fact that my kids have lived another year is a triumph. They grow, they change, they stay the same, they ask perplexing questions, they go to school, they have parts of their lives that I am not a part of. It’s scary and it should be celebrated.
As society becomes increasingly weird – moderated through our phones and where we often don’t know our neighbours – kids’ parties can be part of the cure. They build real-world relationships and our kids’ friends at these ages could be part of our lives for ever. Every connection is a new or potential friend in our area. What could be more social than celebrating life’s mundane milestones?
After all, the worst part of a party is not being invited.
