Saturday 21 and Sunday 22nd January 2012
This weekend I have been
blessed to be invited to two pre-school parties, or are they toddler/tweenie
parties if you are three years old?
Anyway, I am not a huge fan
of these parties as they often involve two things I find frustrating:
1.
Lots of hyped up children on sweets and
over-tiredness running around like nutters
2.
Lots of parents (normally mums) looking
coiffured to within an inch of their lives tottering on exceptionally high
heels and complaining about their latest nanny only working 12 hour days rather
than the hoped for 15
On both counts I get jaw
ache from clenching my teeth too much and forcing an inane smile.
At the first party I was
feeling particularly savvy as I constantly offered to help the birthday boy’s
harassed mother who was eternally grateful whilst giving me the opportunity to
ignore the parents and their conversations about the latest Lipsy design. The only time I had to converse with them was
to offer tea and coffee and found it delightful that I was delegated as the
“help” and therefore not worthy of conversation, although through my glee I
felt a pang of sadness for the real “help” who are probably treated like a
sub-class human being.
This particular party had
the parents decide to entertain the kids themselves by dressing as Power
Rangers. The poor dad was drenched in
sweat and was getting sick of being kicked in the shins. I do hope he didn’t end up with shin
splinters, a very painful experience.
After two hours of dancing,
eating and general mayhem the kids came away suitably hyper and I felt I had
managed to dodge the superficial conversations.
Of course the second party
the next day proved to be harder.
This time I managed to
persuade (force) my husband to attend which I thought would stand me in good
stead as a guaranteed conversation for the two required hours of fun, but
no.
Even my husband was aghast
at the conversations between the parents.
An actual conversation went like this:
Mum no 1 is standing with
her son who had an alice band in his hair in a beckham style
Mum no 2 comes over: “oh my
goodness, your son looks AMAAAAZING like that.
Did you have that alice band designed for him?”
Mum no 1 looking very
pleased with herself: “Oh no, this is my hair band but I wanted him to look
like <insert name of pathetic footballer>”
Mum no 2: “Wow, he looks
faaaabulous, I must start doing this.”
It would be funny if it
wasn’t true, sadly it was!
But despite the fact I
detest these parties and despite the fact I despise going, seeing my sons’
faces at them lights up my heart. I
would walk through glass if it made them happy and do you know what it probably
would.
