Kids on the coast

Instead, there I sat, cucumber sandwiches in hand, week-old bubba number three on my lap – and while this exceptionally beautiful bundle of gorgeousness was indeed a present on which I could never put a price, I couldn’t help but marvel over what this scene represented. That is, that since having children in my life, wildly elaborate birthday fuss has been exclusively reserved for them.

Now, I should preface this by admitting that party organiser extraordinaire I am not. Far from it and I have photos to prove it. Just ask anybody who attended Mister Five’s third birthday affair, in which my well-intentioned home-designed cake covered in Spidermen climbing to the top of a chocolate mountain collapsed in on itself and looked suspiciously more like Spidermen climbing an enormous pile of...well, you fill in the blanks. But the point is, when it comes to our kids’ birthdays, there is always effort.

Oh the effort. There was the Superhero party (at which the now infamous Spiderman cake raised its ugly head), at which my hero-obsessed son, for the first day in months, blatantly REFUSED to wear any super-themed attire. That’s right – at his themed birthday party.

Then there was the extravaganza of ridiculousness that was my firstborn daughter’s first birthday. I stopped short of inviting every person we’ve ever been introduced to, but not by much. We opted for a ‘bring out your inner child!’ theme, which, while seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. It basically entailed nobody, except for yours truly, embracing the idea by dressing up in kids’ clothes, complete with a (gulp) bib. I know: stunning display of creative genius if ever there was one.

Oh yes. Let’s not forget the wonder that was Little Mister’s second affair. It all seemed so simple. Fruit kebabs. Check. Chocolate muffins. Check. Nudie run. Hang on, nudie run? That’s right. My son, done with the fun, frivolities and formalities decided to add his own twist on pass the parcel, appearing in complete undress – and various fractions thereof – for the remainder of the day, much to the amusement, and hastened departure, of many of the invited. Are you feeling a theme here?

Yet when it comes to the hubby and my birthdays, our celebrations these days are not only superhero, inner child and (thankfully) nudie-run free, they are, well, barely celebrations at all. We have gifts of course: perhaps a breakfast in bed, singing, cake and perhaps a greater commitment to not burning the dinner, but it’s about there that the party ends.

There was a year when my poor hubby awoke to realise, horrified, that he’d actually forgotten my birthday completely. Fleeing to the car in a mad dash to make amends, he returned some twenty minutes later with, da da da da, a bag of Hungry Jacks. Yes, you read that right. Hungry Jacks. Be still my beating arteries.

As I find myself sometimes struggling to make an effort to keep some semblance of the old me alive in the throes of the wonderful, messy chaos that has become our life with children, I wonder if there may be something to the symbolism of our post-parental birthday celebration quashing. After all, it’s the one day of the year that’s special simply because you are who you are, parent or not. Perhaps it’s time to reclaim the day. Silly? Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? We’ve got the whole other 364 to be sensible.