Yesterday was Carnival in our nursery – a German thing, rather like a big fancy dress party but where making fun and chaos is taken very seriously by everyone (adults and children) involved. The children were expected to come in costume and the day would deviate from its normal safe routines, allowing for dancing to pop music, watching a little video and eating party food; there were limits, however, on the amount of sweeties and cakes each child was allowed to amass on his or her plate.

We talked for at least a fortnight about what costumes our children would like to wear. We started at a lion and a cat, lingered on the idea of Hansel and Gretel and finally, having done a careful survey (a breathless dash around the local shops the day before) of affordable capes and polystyrene props, plumped on a somewhat predictable knight and princess in the end. I must admit I had dallied for days over the idea that I would make costumes by hand but the pressure of potential filial disappointment, when they realised their costumes were nothing but clumsily adapted versions for their own clothes, pushed me down a more commercial route. Next year – I will start earlier and make our own.

In any case, the afternoon before was filled with excitement. How they paraded, sceptre and sword in hand, our sweet damsel and brave soldier, tripping up over dress hems and peeking out of polyester helmets. They would have slept in character, if we hadn’t been worried about the flammability / suffocation risk. And again some convincing was required in the morning that is was simply too cold outside to walk there already robed. Buzzing like bees, we rushed up the road and round the corner, trailing pink netting and silvery armour in the brisk wind.

But anticipation was the sweetest part. When we were greeted by a great big green frog and a golden-robed lady (barely recognisable as their trusted nursery teachers), both children recoiled and buried themselves in my lap. Some coaxing and much explanation later, they stood hesitantly, but at least now costumed, peering into the noisy room where usually an hushed hum of child’s play reigns. “That’s too loud for me,” the little princess said, looking at me with great big eyes. The music was lowered, her hand was taken by the now-recognised golden lady and she was convinced to join in.

Hours later, slobbing at home in trusted old tracksuit trousers and tomato-stained t-shirts, eating a near-monastic meal of boiled potatoes and fish, they claimed to have enjoyed themselves. I believe them only partially. I can believe they liked eating donuts. I can also believe they liked wearing their costumes, and having them admired by their little friends. But beyond that, I think they probably prefer normal days. You see, when I picked them up, their expressions were dazed, and their reactions dulled. At the age of nearly three, so many costumes and extraordinary experiences had all been too much.

I am forever grateful for efforts made to please our children, but a little sensitivity and a lot less face paint possibly would have made it a happier day. A slight breach of normality is exciting and funny – costumes in the living room for instance. But there is a reason, clowns are almost universally feared by young children. Far too strange.