All children like parties, right? They spend most of the
year asking asking about when their birthday party is, and in the months before
the event you are up to your eyeballs in flyers from the very kiddie centres
that you spend the rest of the year trying to avoid. Or is that just me?
The first time I took Albie to a friend’s party it brought
back bad memories for me – the distinct smell of the church hall, the shrill
screams of children echoing off the walls, the soggy egg sandwiches and the
dread of not knowing how to play all the party games. Funnily enough Albie had
the same look of apprehension on his face as I scouted out someone’s mum I knew
well enough to talk to. Albie went and hid in a corner and refused to play with
anyone. A group of little girls came up to him to ask him if he wanted to join
their game of ‘kiss chase’ and he shouted ‘no’ at them and everyone thought him
very rude. As an adult he will no doubt still feel like shouting ‘no’ at people
but will have learned to suppress these honest outbursts. We teach our children
to ‘fit in’, to deny that they need space, to please others.
Now, as a mother, I have two choices; I either force him
into a game of musical bumps to a disco version of ‘If You’re Happy and You
Know it’ or I take him aside and let him have the space he needs to observe for
ten minutes. The problem is, the ten
minutes is usually 30 minutes and by the time he is ready to engage it is
nearly time to go home, which brings on the waterworks anyway. I can’t win.
After a few disastrous attempts at parties one little boy’s
party saved the day when he had it at a rather large play centre. Albie was
gone within 2 minutes, excitedly climbing and playing on his own, leaving the
other children far behind, and leaving me to introduce myself to random
parents. There comes a point where I’ll admit I use my child as something to
hide behind, but no matter how many times I tried to pretend Albie needed help
on the climbing frame, the fact that he shouted ‘go away’ at the top of his
voice meant I had no choice but to talk to Sammuel’s mother about her recent
bout of nipple thrush. Would it be rude
if I shouted ‘no’ in her face?!
All was going well, despite the topics of conversation of
course. Albie seemed to be having a whale of a time for once - or so I thought,
as I hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty minutes. I figured I’d better prize
myself away from the riveting conversation and casually walk around to try and
spot him amongst the mass of the multi-coloured play equipment. He was nowhere
to be seen. This meant only one thing; that I would have to get on the play
equipment myself, resulting in taking my boots off and revealing to the world
that I was indeed wearing bright pink fluffy socks with piglet all over them.
Worse still, I was wearing an orange top and I soon became aware that I looked
like I had indeed dressed myself in child centre camouflage.
After searching for Albie for ten minutes I eventually found
him right at the top with a look on his face that I knew all too well. This
look meant that we had to get him to the nearest facilities. Fast. The problem
was that Albie did not want to stop playing and the more I tried to catch him
the more he ran away from me, resulting in 10 minutes of playing ‘chase’, or
more appropriately named ‘follow the smell’. When I eventually caught the
escapee I looked like I had fully entered into the spirit of things, with bits
of Velcro stuck to my leg, my hair slightly damp with sweat and one of my
piglet socks half off. I rushed Albie to the nearest facilities but it was too
late, meaning we had to leave early.
What a party pooper. Literally.
Soon came the time for Albie’s own birthday celebrations,
resulting in - albeit a less messy result – a traumatic one nonetheless. The
moment when all eyes were on him with the ‘happy birthday’ song, he burst into
tears. Everyone tentatively waited until he had summed up the courage to blow
out the candles with parents awkwardly trying to explain to their children why
the little boy was crying.
Sometimes you just have to admit that what is expected of
your child or your family is, well, slightly unhelpful. Would I have looked
like a selfish mother if I didn’t give my child a party, despite being invited
to all his friend’s extravagant celebrations and despite him asking about his
own party week after week? Maybe. But deep down I knew that a trip up and down
the escalators in Debenhams would’ve been more appealing to him than a room
full of screaming kids. A man after my own heart.
Sometimes we don’t do what is best for our child because we
are clouded by the opinions of others. I’m not a bad mother if I don’t throw
extravagant parties. Just call me the ultimate party pooper.
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