Monthly Archives: April 2012

Before the guests arrived

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We strung balloons along the table and bunting in the trees. A large floral blanket covered the paltry grass, which was still recovering from the brutal vicissitudes of last winter. Like the blossom on the surrounding trees, the excitement was tangible. Green party plates and white paper cups stacked neatly on the table; it did look pretty – and so thought our children. 

They pointed animatedly at the colourful decoration and exclaimed with glee as we lined up the drinks. Previously unknown quantities of apple juice and breadsticks were unveiled before them and they were allowed to take as much as they liked; something special was happening, though they were not sure quite what. That didn’t matter. 

We commended ourselves on our decision to invite friends to the park to celebrate my birthday, having thought the children – ours and other people’s – would have a much happier time there rather than curtailed in a stuffy cafe where mashing food into the floor, kicking a ball, or throwing sticks are all generally frowned upon. Our gamble on Spring was paying off, and chilled, but not frozen, we revelled in our children’s laughter and waited for the first guests to arrive.  

Then, for all the afternoon’s joyful promise, as people slowly gathered to drink up their apple juice and dilute our rapt attention, the children became dejected and lodged themselves firmly on our hips. Other children played happily under the alternating watchful eyes of their non-host parents, but ours – perhaps anxious if they were not attached to us they would receive no attention at all – refused. 

We still had a lovely time, of course, there under the trees, talking to friends and tucking into large slabs of birthday cake, and the children were only mildly sulky, not miserable. But it is a contrast that sticks with me, days after my birthday – the children’s initial explosion of bliss followed by arm-aching whinging. The moral of this tale? And I will be sure to write this into the plans for the children’s May birthday: to strictly limit the number of adults (and children) to only those we see very frequently and owe no long conversation to. It will be a day for complete devotion. 

The t-shirt wars

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There is always something, no? And it is never quite what you could have imagined it to be.

Our mornings had been disrupted recently by a “no t-shirt” campaign. The old playful time we used to spend getting dressed had become an obstinate battle of wills. Sitting on the changing table, soft arms exposed in his white vest, my son’s small chin would set firmly in an uncannily adolescent way as he met every t-shirt proffered with a vigorous shake of the head, dismissive wave of the hand and the proud shout of “no t-shirt”.

At first, a doting mother, I was rather charmed by his articulate and meaningful adoption of the word “no”, and his strong opinions: this bode well for his future I thought smugly. But a few days in, the arduous process of running through his entire wardrobe, though admittedly limited in its scope – no more than six or seven with most caked with crusting smears of tomato sauce and porridge at any given time – was trying. March had not yet fully blossomed into springtime, so I battled on, my chin set just as obstinately as I pulled the first t-shirt offered over his downy head. With a bit of insistence the phase would pass I thought.

But then one morning after a few, albeit short, tearful episodes (on his side), I, tired and disliking the discontent, relented and put a cardigan directly over his vest. Half an hour and a good bowl of porridge later, he trotted up to me and questioningly said “t-shirt”, pointing to his little rounded chest, at which we went off to his bedroom and happily pulled it on. The next morning the t-shirt was immediately accepted, though I grant the success to it being his favourite cow t-shirt rather than my skills of negotiation. And the next morning? There was a little pause, a bit of playing and then the second t-shirt offered went smoothly on.

It probably comes down to deciding something for himself. Fair enough really. And now I know, whether he wears the t-shirt or not, I am much happier to avoid our bull horns locking. In the future, I will not meet obstinance with obstinance.