The minute parents start asking ‘Can x, y and z’s mom please ping me?’ on WhatsApp, you know immediately what’s coming your way: A birthday party invite. I’ve been to more birthday parties than I feel is reasonable. And if I’m honest, there are few things I dislike more than birthday parties for people under the age of 10. (Except perhaps birthday parties for 40-year-olds, in which case you have to eat dildo shaped cakes which kind of ruins red velvet forever).
Now, seeing how fair a person I am, my antipathy to birthday parties runs to throwing them for my own children. I didn’t even plan one till the older kid was six and wisened up to the fact that while he kept attending parties, he hadn’t had one thrown in his honour. I’ll pause here while you all go ‘awwww’ and marvel at how such a cruel and evil mother got herself a gig writing a parenting column. Since then, I plan my children’s birthday parties with the enthusiasm of someone scheduling a back-to-back pap smear and root canal.
What is it I dislike about birthday parties so much? I can’t decide really. Is it the enforced contact with so many other small children and having to pretend to find them all cute? Hey kid, digging your nose and then immediately rooting around in the popcorn bowl! Not cute! Small child having a tantrum because your Elsa tattoo hasn’t turned out the way you thought it would? Let it go.
Could it be the choice of entertainment? Creepy clowns, semi-drunk magicians and hyper-enthusiastic MCs who look like they were celebrating their own 10th birthday not so long ago. And god forbid you’re at hand when they make the mandatory ‘Bacchon, call your Mummas and Pappas to play’ call to arms. Baby, Mumma wants to sit in a corner, drink a lukewarm beverage and think about Ryan (Renolds, Gosling, and in truly desperate situations, Seacrest.)
No, no. Koi bags. Koi bags are what I hate the most. Koi bags are the under 10 version of The Hunger Games. Each family nominates a child to pit against others. The selected few enter a hallowed space and when they hear a loud bang it’s survival of the fittest. While the young combatants claw each other’s eyes out, grab, pull, kick, bite and push everyone else stands around and watches yelling out encouragement. At stake are Kit Kats, single wrapped Mentos and scented erasers beyond your wildest dreams.
Finally, if I’m honest, I’ll admit, I’m a little pissed off at who get’s all the attention on birthdays. I mean, first of all, I went through nine-and-half-months of getting bigger, becoming increasingly incontinent and developing clown feet. This journey then culminated in having to push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a coin slot. I mean, it’s clear to me that if anyone should be honoured, celebrated and given presents to, it’s the mother. Kid, you just had to slide on out of there. What kind of an achievement is that?
Those reading this feel free to forward it to the school WhatsApp groups I am a member of. I’m
partied out.
(The writer’s parenting philosophy is: if there’s no blood, don’t call me)