There was once a Mum, a birthday party virgin if you like. Full of hope and excited expectation at their offspring being invited to a jelly and icecream filled shindig. Their child will be the most popular, being welcomed into the cool kid crew, join in all the party games and maybe, just maybe be the Musical Chairs champion of the world! She’d burst with pride she thought to herself. It’ll be so amazing she mused strapping her little bundle of joy into the car. The poor cow would soon learn she was very, very wrong.
She would come to realise kids parties are NOT fun. They are in fact the opposite of fun, they are almost as fun as having a giant cactus inserted into your rectum and twisted (righty tighty, lefty loosey) but not quite. She would have a rude awakening of the rudest kind.
For she would soon find out that she would not be welcomed into the party by Mum’s high fiving her, handing her prosecco and kids elbowing each other, whispering about the amazingly cool Mum that just walked in. Instead she would have the card and present unceremoniously snatched out of her hand, she’d spent hours in The Entertainer mulling over that sodding present. Did she go cheap because after all she didn’t even know this kid? Did she go extravagant so she wasn’t forever seen as that cheapskate cow that went to the pound shop? She went middle of the road in the end and just hoped that Birthday Kid wouldn’t be allowed to open it in front of her and show her the huge, huge disappointment in his eyes.
She would then find no friendly faces and slink off to the darkest corner and there she would stay. Sometimes with her kid, the one who refuses to join in, clinging snottily to the front of her painstakingly chosen blouse or all alone like a cast aside bag of bollocks.
12 times the kid will want to go to the toilet so she has to do the crossing the dancefloor walk of shame while everyone wonders who the hell she is and why she was invited. If she’s lucky she might burst a balloon on the way over so everyone eyerolls at her inadequacy and fat feet.
To her horror when the super fun character makes an appearance Kid will run screaming from the building like Freddy Krueger just rocked up and asked for a Gangnam Style dance lesson. To be fair Peppa Pig does look as though she’s spent the last few months in a crack house but who is she to judge.
The food though, they’ll eat the food, of course they will, when the buffet announcement rings out the kids will smash each other out the way for their sugar rush, like a bunch of mini football hooligans clawing each others eyes out for a jammy coconut biscuit. The poor kid who takes the last chocolate finger can look out – they’ll get a bonk to the brain with a pinata stick because how bloody dare they?
The poor Mum clinging to the last little bit of hope that’s slowly but surely pouring out of her and pooling at her feet like a puddle of piss would make a last ditch attempt to join in by dragging the kid up to Cha Cha Slide like the other Mum’s who have their shit and coordination together. Kid will not be impressed. Kid will kick off and pull away screaming that they don’t want to, out of the corner of her eye she sees pompous Mum dialing the number for social services whilst tutting along to the Justin Bieber song that’s just blasted it’s way into everyone’s ears.
She will thank her lucky stars when the lights go up and everyone is expected to bugger off, Kid grabs a party bag on the way out and she’s wondering why Party Mum had that weird smirk on her face. She wouldn’t have to wait long to find out as the minute she sits relieved in her car seat she will be deafened by the high pitched squeal of a bastarding plastic yellow whistle.
For the love of God. Now she understood.