But I do I love that about him … most days. His constant enthusiasm, excitement and eagerness about everything, (apart from teeth cleaning and putting his Lego away.)
The build up to his party might feel like it’s been happening for the last 365 days but really it’s only been three weeks. Three long weeks.
Of course, it started with deciding who to invite.
Simple, right? You just invite who you want … everyone says yes, (why on earth would anyone say no?) and it then rains unicorns and rainbows.
Hmm … not so much.
He has free reign as to whom he invites … it’s his party after all. However, when I ask him to make sure he’s actually inviting people he likes not just people who he thinks he should invite, the trouble begins. When someone asks why they’re not invited, (bearing in mind they’re not even friends,) my guest list explanation gets lost in translation. It has now become, “Mum says I’m not allowed to invite you.”
This makes for interesting eye contact in the playground from certain mothers.
My son is now at the age where he’s happy to chill with girls and not be freaked out that they are, in fact, the opposite sex. He’s invited a few girls, and a couple of them are brave enough to come! Quite what they’re going to do whilst the boys play with the Super Soakers, I’m not quite sure yet. I hope they’ll join in because I suspect they’ll get bored with bubbles and a skipping rope after a while.
You’d think buying a birthday cake would be easy. But alas, no. It has to be the right birthday cake. He’s 7 after all. He can’t possibly have anything that’s CBeebies related. He settles for Yoda. Good choice son, good choice.
We’re going to have a BBQ … easy enough, but then there’s the specific requests for dessert. I have to get the right eclectic mix of Mini-Rolls, jam tarts and brownies. Quantity over quality seems to be the order of the day.
I made a rod for my own back last year by making Rocky Road for son to take into school for everyone. Kicking myself at 8am this morning, however, when the damn thing is stuck to the bottom of the tray and I can’t cut it up. Icing sugar, marshmallow and swear words were strewn across my kitchen by the time we finally left.
Should have just stuck to mini packets of Haribo.
England, I love you, I really do, but the weather really gets right on my tits. Every year I know the weather’s going to be ropey, and every year we decide to have a party outdoors. As I look outside as I write this, and see the black clouds rolling in, I’m making the executive decision to cut this topic short. Before I cry.
They’re normally full of tat right? But we always do them. Supermarkets might do ‘3 For 2’ offers but they still cost a bloody fortune. Neon plastic puzzles, unsharpened pencils, rubbers too small to use, obligatory packet of Haribo and a teeth-shattering lolly. And then there’s the issue of girls. (See ‘Guest List.’) I’m sure they don’t give a crap about having a yo-yo that looks like a football, so I bought small tubes of lip balm. Then I start worrying about whether their parents might think that’s inappropriate and I’m a bad influence. *sigh*
So this year, I’m really doing to do my best to chill out. I shall have a glass of wine (or four,) sit on a rug in the sunshine, (it will not rain, it will not rain,) and supervise proceedings from a horizontal position.
Bit like being at home really.