Birthdays weren’t a big deal in our house when I was growing up. Crowded, noisy, soppy, silliness was just not done. We had cake of course. And some muted, out of tune singing. Sometimes we even had hats. Well we did once, I think. But balloons and games and running around madly for no apparent reason and having far, far, too many sweets. Just Not On.
And being hugged, and kissed, and hugged tightly again just for being born – and that too not of your own free will – well that made no sense at all. In our house, it was called ‘bill’alla pun’.
Very expressive.
What does that mean, asks my husband, who loves birthdays and in whose home, birthdays were the biggest deal and who’s still hoping one day I’ll throw him a mega party. Its called fantasizing. Anyway, for want of a better explanation, the word means extreme silliness, like extreme sports.
So in our house, now that I’m all grown up, birthdays are done but are usually slap, dash, last-minute affairs.
And our older two accepted this casual attitude to birthdays without demur. Although, for last minute affairs they were usually pretty good: with sparklers that set the tablecloth on fire; at least one child who didn’t like my ‘useful’ party bag idea; another who didn’t like the games, and lots of junk food.
Our little cartwheeling, hummingbird – who thinks her grandad should be able to throw presents down from the stars – being in heaven is no excuse for missing a birthday party – was having none of it this year. I got away with it until her 7th birthday when she decided to take matters in her own hands.
And i discovered we were having a party when the first mom messaged to say her little one would love to attend Tashi’s birthday ‘outside’.
She would? What party?
Further investigation revealed that we were indeed having a party and all those casual conversations about dates, times and places that I had absent-mindedly indulged while conjuring up dinner or battling the laundry safe in the assumption that May was a long way away and I’d get organised at some point, had not been casual at all.
The date had been set and it was a weekend; the time was in the ‘day’ ; and the place was ‘outside my house’. The cards had been handmade and given out. And the menu. Yes, that had also been decided and the list was in my notes.
As this was only the middle of March, the other moms were most impressed by my organisational skills. Alas, they were my child’s. After the chaotic scenes she’d witnessed the previous year and the lack of any scenery whatsoever the years before that, she knew if she left it up to mom, she risked another birthday without a party. Even though we always have cake.
Will Grandad be able to throw his gift down from the stars she checked just to be sure. Of course he would, I said.
The party hats were ordered from Colorado – straw stetsons in fashion colours. Only because hubby dear was ‘working’ there. Why are conferences always at resorts?
Sunday dawned bright and sunny – perfect for a party outside my house. A sunbeam table cloth set off the polka dot lemonade bottles and stripy straws. There was lots of cake too. And some cheese and jam sandwiches. Some fairy cakes. It was a perfect afternoon tea.
And then she took out her list of games for which there had been a mad scramble the day before when we realised how much wrapping paper and little gifts and candy we would need. Pin the wand on the fairy; pin the small heart on the large heart (hand made with a named heart for each of her friends); pass the parcel; musical chairs were all played with much hysterical laughter and somehow everyone managed to win the same number of prizes!
Did I mention the kitchen? It was ripped out three weeks before the party. The new one made it in time – but only just.
Moral: It’s the little pleasures.
sandcastlesinmyshoes 
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