I am a survivor, I bear the wounds of battle but I am still here.
As I type I am also cuddling a large glass of Pinot Grigio, my award for successfully hosting a party for twenty-five children and successfully not losing or maiming even one of them. I feel behind my back that other mothers may call me a ‘responsible‘ host.
Twin boy and twin girl hit the big six today, it has been six years since they climbed via the sunroof into my life, six years since they taught me the overwhelming feeling of unconditional love, and six years of speedily gaining more wrinkles and grey hairs.
The day started with shrieks of excitement, and ended with hugs, some sobs and fights were endured through the course day but we have all come out the other side intact. The party was the focal event of the day, and I don’t mind telling you, it has been stressful to organise. First of all, our chosen venue had a restriction on the numbers of children we could invite; so I stupidly left the choice to my children who are known to change best friends with the same regularity that I change my knickers.
Following this decision, I went to help in school this week and found myself confronted by a sea of sad faces all looking at me to tell them why they hadn’t been invited. I tried to explain to these innocent eyes that I could only have twenty-five children, and three of those had to be my own, so it wasn’t my fault, it was the venues…. I seemed to be winning the sympathy vote until one little mite slipped her hand into mine and said
‘can I come to the party please’,
I bent to her size and started to explain my tale of woe and began to transfer blame to the gym where the party was to be held, I saw sympathy in the child’s eyes for my predicament; that was until Twin Boy marched up, bundled in and declared….
‘you’re not coming because my mummy said your mummy didn’t reply till the last minute last time, so you are off the list.’
Shit, shit, shit: an army of schoolchildren looked at me with accusation in their eyes and I left the playground wrapped in a cloak of shame.
So whilst studiously avoiding the playground for a week I have prepared for the party, the party bags have been wrapped, the cakes bought (sorry mum), and an indecent amount of chocolates and sweets have sat in bags in my cupboards waiting for their time to shine. I only consider a party a success if the children take a week to come down from the sugar rush.
Then it began, they played, they jumped, they danced, they partied, on the whole it went pretty darn well. Twin girl suffered a minor upset when a girl friend tried to break free from her game and introduce a new idea; twin girl ran to me sobbing, dramatically clutching her neck and she hiccupped ‘she wont do what she is told and I have had to raise my voice and now it is hurting my throat.’
Twin boy also suffered a moment of sadness which involved a tantrum any two-year old would be proud of. As I lit the candles on his football cake one party guest decided to sing…..
Happy Birthday to you, stick your head down the loo
My little thug of a son didn’t feel this was appropriate birthday party conduct so he retaliated by throwing his arms in the air and wailing like a baby just born; embarrassing at the time but some of the pictures are simply quite priceless.
Then it was over, the presents lay unwrapped looking to find a home within a house that was recently kissed by Christmas and all its gifts. The wrapping paper lays bundled in a corner and all my babies are sleeping. I am now a mother of three six and under, my small ones are growing into medium-sized treats and whilst this road of parenting we started on six years ago shows no sign of smoothing out into an easy ride it shows many a signal of taking on new forms of fun.
Happy Birthday M and O, words cannot even begin to describe how much I adore you and how when you entered my life you changed it and made it, simply, better.
(and for the love of god don’t get up before eight!)