The Joy of Birthday Parties

We were invited to a birthday party.

Not the kids. But ME!

Well, me and hubby AND kids. But still, it wasn’t one that I’d have to do a drop and run, or worse, a drop and sit around in freezing factory-like setting drinking insipid coffee (I use the term “coffee” loosely) in the middle of nowhere, as the drive home would only require me to turn around and come back for the pickup.

A 30th.

Still, it was a growed up’s birthday party, so figured I’d put in an effort. Didn’t get a chance to wash hair, but still made attempts to style it. Then put on makeup as todler smeared his snot on my leg. Hadn’t yet got dressed, so this I could deal with. Then put on very nice, new top. The idea was to highlight my eyes to detract from bad hair, then put nice top on to detract from bad hair and bad attempt at makeup job.

Retrieved newly washed and folded jeans from bed, where Grumpy had placed them, discovered they were still wet and recall conversation of earlier today, moments after I checked the washing on the line and deemed it “still wet”, where I advised Grumpy Pants not to take clothes off line as they were still wet. It appears he did not heed my instruction.

Retrieved jeans I’d had on all day, and readied them for this evenings soiree by spit-washing the snot and Vegemite off them, and removing today’s undies from the right leg.

The joy of being married to a chef is, so I’m told, “awesome” and I am so lucky etc etc blah blah. The real joy is that inevitably he is working on the night that you have something to go to, usually all relating to his family, so it’s kinda nice that he be there, and it’s a very long drive away and you have three kids to take with you, then deal with, entirely on your own.

Being His family, I redied the kids by getting them in the bath 15 minutes before we had to leave, Monkey Boy getting a bit anxious about us being late, then clicking that there is no point in us hurrying as none of the other rellos would be there anyway.

Off we go, remembering to leave a light on for when I returned home, and being remided to kick the tripping hazzard in the form of one 29th of the trains we have crossing the doorway. If things didn’t change, I was fairly convinced I was gonna end up flat on my arse with a screaming, just woken toddler in my arms when I returned home and walked in the door.

Although the plan was we be a full hour late (and half an hour before the rest of them arrived) we still managed to be there “early” by 15 minutes. We had the shock of all shocks when a car pulled up behind us and it was an uncle and some cousins! Hurrah!

Which only meant that I had someone I knew to talk to, whislt I either stood with Chippie clinging to my leg, or slumped on my hip and clinging to my left nipple and a handfull of hair should I contemplate putting him down to, oh, I don’t know, attempt to eat or drink something. Or perhaps head for a wee after the long drive. Or lie in the foetal position, sobbing.

Thus, my evening’s wine – just the one, I was driving, – was had hours after arriving and spilt down my arm, I could do very little about the fact that all my children – including Chippie who had snuck away from me for 23 seconds – and a few others had stood in dog poo, and the music was just there, taunting me evilly and I was unable to dance! Ever tried bopping along to Jesse’s Girl with a toddler hanging off your hip and the smell of dog poo embalming you?

It’s not fun.

Godzilla ate the equivalent of 37 bowls of chips, despite being threated with loss of DS if I saw him eating any more. “Dinner” was served three hours after we arrived, where all kids refused to eat much more than some chicken wings, and Chippie didn’t eat at all.

So, we left. Good food, good company and good dancing were all teasing and taunting.

I used the “Sorry, must go. The kids have had enough and it’s really late” to make my leave.

Really, it was more a case of “Must go before I end up in the foetal position sobbing”.

Took the long drive home, which wasn’t as long at that hour, the subtle scent of dog poo assailing my nostrils, and the groans of the seven year old with the sore tummy and the Not Listen To Mummy ears emantating from the back seat. Still unsure as to whether there was dog poo actually on anyone, or if it’s that phantom smell you get when affronted with a trauma such as children standing in dog poo.

Grumpy home and actually awake when we arrive, get kids to bed and am asked 5 million six hundred and eighty questions about who was there, what they were up to, who was married, having babies, working where …

Eventually get through to him that I was stuck on a chair, with stinky, snotty, grumbly toddler and didn’t actually get to speak with anyone in any significant way.

And on that note, I went to sleep.

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