First there was breastfeeding. Ever bashful, it took me a moment to come to terms with getting the bosoms out in public, but I did it.
Then there was the first time I was the parent-helper in my son’s playgroup. Sixteen toddlers ganged up on me for putting out the wrong kind of biscuits and I was reduced to a snivelling wreck, rocking back and forward, clutching a packet of custard creams. But I survived. Just.
And what about the first long-haul flight with two toddlers? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, on disembarking, please check the overhead lockers, remove all your belongings and collect your therapy vouchers from the air hostess on the way past.’ I recovered eventually, although the fear of bored toddlers in a confined space hasn’t quite left me yet.
Now, it’s time for parenting test number 456: the birthday party.
As the whole playgroup/biscuit incident showed, much as I love kids, I get nervous around any more than four at a time. And that slides to two if there have been E-numbers involved. Look, it doesn’t make me a bad person, just one with a low tolerance to chaos and the demands of small people who cry a lot.
Thus, my poor boys have never had a birthday shindig.
‘Mum, can I have a party, please?’
‘In two years’ time when you start school.’
‘Mum, can I have a party, please?’
‘Next year when you start school.’
This year: ‘Mum, can I have a party, please?’
‘Next year when… Aaaaaargh! Where did that school uniform come from?’
There’s no getting out of it – we’re having a party.
Out came the clipboard and I put on my most efficient head – the one that usually only surfaces at times of financial discussions and when I’m pretending to car mechanics that I know what they’re talking about.
I asked Low the Elder who he wanted to invite. Two hours later he was still talking. Forty-seven kids! Why couldn’t I have given birth to a child who was shy, introverted and happy with his own company?
I knew I had to reduce the list but – ouch – a sore spot and a mortally embarrassing admission. One day last year, when he was still at nursery, he came home with his bottom lip hitting his boots. One of his ‘best’ pals was having a party and he hadn’t been invited. The wee soul was distraught and my heart ached for him. Now, as parents, we have to take the mature ground and handle these situations in a responsible, sensitive and intelligent manner. So I did. I took to drawing the mother really evil looks behind her back and made effigies of her out of Play-Doh.
So, back to the guest list, how could I cut anyone out and risk inflicting that kind of trauma on a wee person, not to mention his/her mother? And, let’s face it, an effigy of me would take up a whole lot of Play-Doh.
After an hour of ferocious debate that would have had an FBI negotiator reaching for the antiperspirant, I managed to get it down to forty by crossing off children I definitely didn’t think would make it. Much as his pals in Galway love him, I think a trip across the Irish Sea for a box of chicken nuggets and two hours in a plastic play area might be a stretch.
Next the venue. I hit the phones like a double-glazing salesman. After the first three calls, I started to panic. Apparently, I had more chance of getting Robbie Williams to dress up as a Brewster Bear and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ backwards than I did of finding somewhere to hold a party for forty in three weeks’ time.
More frantic calls, and just as son was about to get on the hotline to social services to complain about my substandard parenting, I finally found an available slot. Glee!
Then they told me the cost. It was difficult to talk further because I was hyperventilating into a party bag.
But, still, my boy is delighted and can’t wait to see all his chums. Meanwhile, all I need to do now is buy the invitations, write them out, deliver them, make up goody bags, buy a cake, find a present and spend the next three weeks fretting that I’ve upset a five-year-old by forgetting to invite him.
Oh for those halcyon days of breastfeeding, playgroup and long-haul flights.