1.  Party 1 

2.  Party 2

3.  Party 3

A two party day. On the calendar, it looks so achievable. The Nursery Party was at 1030, in the village hall favoured by Nursery Mums.  The Town party was at 2pm, in the church hall favoured by some Town Mums.  Party 1 had a cross children’s entertainer. A member of the Magic Circle, professional, funny, but bossy and hostile, obsessed with his line. “Don’t come in front of it. Don’t put your hands on it. Don’t move the line.” As far as I could tell he needed the children behind the line because, occasionally, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and moved around blind.  Er.. strike the hat pulling kiddo - this is a 4th birthday party and they’ve just feasted on sugar. He told Son 1 off for playing with the whoopee cushion Son 2 aged 21 m won in pass the parcel during his magic show. Imagine how well that went down with the mother who thinks her child should colour over the lines to show he’s not constrained by groupthink.  

Party 2’s entertainer was camper, warmer, with a better hair cut and had the saving grace that he clearly liked children. Before the show Son 1 fell over so badly he ripped half a toenail off on his right foot and grazed his knees and shins.  Before I got there, the Entertainer, heaving in equipment and out of costume, had stopped and bent down to see if he was ok.  Did I mention we were early for the party? Charged around like loons, two children off their trolleys from Party 1, The Man giving a commentary unstilted by drawing breath on the perils of over-scheduling, and me still struggling because Someone Lost All The Sellotape on the day we had two parties. Pushing Son 1, oldest child on Mumsnet still in a Pram, up the road, miserable because I’m Always Late For Everything, we arrived at 1420 to find the start time was 1500. Hooray. At the end, I had everyone turning the hall upside down looking for Son 2’s shoes.  I’d taken them off and put them on a radiator. Gone. Nowhere. One of the children must have tidied them up in an unrealising grown up’s bag. Yes I know they didn’t fit, but they were the only ones we had.  Back home we found the shoes.  I’d taken them off at the first party. He’d gone to The Town one in bare feet. 

After the children were in bed, The Man and I sat out back at the patio table, talking, drinking wine and dunking bread in microwaved camembert.  A neighbour has a pack of three pre-teen girls who were outside till late, clearly having some sort of sleepover.  “How many children do you think they’ve got staying?” I asked. “Just one I think,” said The Man. “It just sounds like a lot more.”  Next Door But One, who went on a Business Trip with The MAn, was putting down slug pellets and bantering back and forth with The Man.  Michael Jackson songs wafted over from somewhere else.  The light held forever.  We might do that again.

1.  Getting A Goal Back

2.  The Hall in the Squall

3.  A Lovely Boy

Grim, grisly, gruesome night.  I went to bed late and Son 2 aged 14 months woke howling at around 2am.  Around because I knew he was crying, but thought it was the morning and The Man would get him.  The Man snored by my side.  At 2.30am I snapped awake, looked at the clock and went down.  I think Son 2 is still suffering from the MMR - he’s still got his rash - so I gave him calpol and water, cuddled him, put the fan on and then did head-in-the-cot.  At 0310 I gave up.  Too tired and needed to go to bed.  I called The Man down, he got into bed with Son 2, I went upstairs to sleep.   One to Son 2.

Son 1 aged 4y 2m had a 4th birthday party - a child from Nursery - 20+ miles away on the other side of The Big Town.  We arrived at the Village Hall as a freezing squall blew in.  Two other families there, and no other cars.  In the (empty) hall, we compared notes.  I had the invitation in the car.  Back into the squall.  Son 2’s thin wisps looked Brylcreamed to his head.  We needed the Church Hall. Off we went, us in the front of the convoy.  Into the right Hall.  Say hello to Birthday Girl’s Dad.  There’s the changing bag, there’s the baby food bag.  Where’s the present?  Son 1 went in, Son 2 and I went back to the car.  Back at the Village Hall, there was a Mother, on foot, with small daughter, looking for the party.  I explained.  ”I thought it was strange,” she said.  “There was nobody here, but there was a present on the table with Birthday Girl’s name on it.”  The squall whipped our faces.  They got in my car.  Sand. Feathers. Pine cones. Leaves. Dried out baby wipes. Breadstick crumbs.  Two pairs of posh pointy shoes for The Office.  Hell.

Back at the party I took Son 2 to sit on the side, at the front, thinking he would enjoy the balloons.  There was a magician, with 15 small children sitting on the floor gazing up at him.  In the front row was Son 1, the only child in fancy dress. Captain Hook.  The Magician asked for a helper. Up shot Son 1’s hand.  Up he went.  He laughed, he giggled, he yes-ed, he no-ed, he laughed again, spellbound.  Back he went.  I watch him in profile for the rest of the act.  Face tilted up, eyes dancing, smiling, laughing, calling out.   “A lovely boy…” clad in a red tailcoat with lace at the sleeves, “but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth.”  That first teeth smile in profile, backlit from the windows high above him, was heaven.