This weekend we went to a 2 year old’s birthday party which I was dreading.
Not because I don’t like this child – he is perfectly sweet- but because I loathe the kind of party where mothers bore themselves into obesity around the food table by talking competitively about attachment parenting, nap routines and the optimum spacing between siblings and the dads bunch together in a defensive clan desperately clutching a beer from the meagre supply whilst not quite keeping an eye on the toddler they have been charged with. Older children run around shouting wildly, snatching balls and balloons from smaller ones who wander around aimlessly until they spy a life-threatening opportunity to fall into a stream or pile of sharp rocks in which case they persistently make a beeline for it no matter how many times they are retrieved and admonished.
It’s simultaneously incredibly stressful and horribly boring and I feel as if I have been to this same exact party at least 500 times in the last five years which is probably not much of an exaggeration. I have become rather ruthless in terms of turning down these types of invitations of late, but this one was our very good friend and neighbour so it would have been enormously rude not to go.
One, predictably, was one of the deathwish toddlers so considerable energy was spent trying to keep him from his Maker. I took the first shift,which at least meant I could avoid the Maternal Confab of Vapid Exchanges even if I was on a small circuit between Suicide Point and the playground:
NO! We do not jump off the bridge! Let’s play with the others..
Here’s the slide- it’s fun! Wait! Where are you going? Come back!
After an hour or so it was time to switch children – Husband had easily had the better part of the deal thus far as Four had palled up with a neighbourhood girl she knows and they were happily playing croquet on the grass in plain view so he could suck on his beer and chat to the birthday boy’s father about manly things that might distract them from the emasculating experience of spending Saturday afternoon eating cupcakes.
Once I’d confirmed that Husband actually was watching One (he has been known to agree to do this and then sort of forget) I turned my attention back to the girls. They were sidling off to the edge of the park where a storm drain led up a grassy, steep hill with trees and houses dotted high about the top.
Like the good girls they are, they called out to ask me if they could climb the hill. At first, feeling a bit lazy and having just run after a toddler for an hour, I said no.
Why not? Four asked, perfectly reasonably.
Why not indeed? I couldn’t actually answer that.What kind of an old spoilsport was I anyway?
I changed my mind.
Ok, I said, where did they want to go?
They pointed out their route, up the hill, along the drain, halfway up, and back down the other side of the park. I’d be able to see them through the trees along the whole route and I made them promise that whenever I called out to them, they’d call back.
So, off they went, quite thrilled with themselves, waving and shouting from time to time, and then suddenly appearing down the other side of the park a bit dusty and with grass in their hair. Emboldened ,they asked if they could go again and this time I said yes straight away.
Just as they were about to set off, Four turned around and said
Hey Mom, wanna come with us? It’s really FUN!
I was about to demur on autopilot and say I’d just watch, but suddenly realised that I really did want to go.
I needed to go.
I needed to wake up the part of me that is still willing to have an adventure and not care whether I have the right shoes on or if anyone is watching me or if it’s appropriate to my age and station in life.
Yes, I’m coming!! Wait for me!
So off we went, clambering up the drain at a fair clip, and this time Four kept on going higher and higher towards the houses with us hard on her heels, scuffing our fancy shoes behind her. When we got to the top we saw the party far below us, the people so tiny and unreal, so inconsequential to where real life was, here on the hill with the breeze in our tangled hair. Four suggested we walk along the top drain past the houses and peek in the gardens which was quite terrifically daring and naughty of her so I immediately agreed.
We surprised several people having a quiet sit in their yards and alarmed not a few dogs who strained at their leashes and barked at us alarmingly loudly. This caused equal parts scandalised hilarity and genuine terror on our parts and we raced along the path, stumbling and squealing like snickering piglets. When we came to the downhill part on the other side, the drain this time was very steep and partially filled with water. It had no slowing effect on my daughter who plunked her bum right into it and slid, wincingly, straight down, shrieking with glee at high velocity. After a moment’s hesitation we followed suit. Towards the bottom we stopped ourselves on the downwards trajectory by bumping into the railings of a tennis court and then climbed our way along the chain link fence, like monkeys, until we found the entrance to the park again where the party was being held.
It was utterly fantastic stuff. Quite the best adventure I have had in years and years, possibly since I was a small girl myself and used to jump up on the interconnected back wall of our garden behind the blackberry bushes and walk along it through the neighbourhood, peeking into other people’s lives, following cats, playing imaginary detective games and meeting friends in their back yards without ever going out into the street or our parents knowing. Days of delight and discovery I feared would never come again and yet here my small girl had offered me the rare privilege of accompanying her on one of her own capers, not as her mother, but as a partner in crime.
Moving beyond words.
We returned to the celebrations with hair dirty, clothes wet, shoes ruined, hair full of burrs, neighbours scandalised and dogs apoplectic.
I was able to tell the hostess with utter integrity that it was the most amazing party I had been to all year and best of all, we were still in time for cake.
The moral of this story is:
You may put the girl in Stepford, but you may not put Stepford in the girl.
{ 13 comments }
That is so gorgeously sweet (in a nice way). I find myself saying no to far too many requests from my children just because I can’t be bothered. But when I do agree they are so genuinely thankful and the thrill they get from sharing an adventure with their Mummy is so worth it (and of course the thrill that I get is worth it too)!
Maternal Tales’s last blog post..Head-on collision with pet/death scenario
Wait, you’ve been to the same parties I have! I always feel like a fraud, and at any moment someone is going to rush in and take my children away because I am just not bothered about so many things.
I find myself saying the automatic “no” also, and when challenged, dont know why.
I love your adventure – we need more adventure, less limits, slef imposed usually.
I had a smaller, much less muddy, version of this insight when my niece was around 3. We were at a neighborhood cook out/fireworks/lobster at the beach at my grandmother’s association and I was duly miserable, and also noting that I had failed to interpret the dress code, possibly because I do not own white clothing. People who really are named Muffy and Biff were milling about with martini glasses in hand, laughing in high trilling voices. My niece found a nice big dirty pile of wet sand, probably eight feet high, and demanded that I climb up and jump off it with her, repeat, repeat, until we were both grubby, flushed, and very pleased with our brave selves. I remember that same feeling you describe, of recapturing the high of being small and daring, of getting away from the dread grown-up party, and of being immensely flattered to be included by this small person. Thank you for reminding me of this lovely alternative to misery at parties.
The unreliable historian’s last blog post..Running with Brooms- College Quidditch comes of age.
I detest children’s birthday parties. I have never been able to talk to so-called “normal” women.
For many years, I thought it was just me.
Now I know better. It’s not just me. It’s women like us, who have brains. We still seem to be in the minority.
And, yes, I’d rather play with the kids than make inane chit-chat with airheads.
The Mother’s last blog post..I Left my Heart at the PTA
Hallejiah. I can’t believe you didn’t want to sit around and talk about what school you have selected for Tommy and how you fit back into your size 0 jeans, a month after giving birth.
So Lovely’s last blog post..Springtime (sigh)
Maternal Tales: I always find it’s worth going on a jaunt with Four. One time she wanted to show me something ‘magic’ and it turned out to be a tomato on a vine at the neighbour’s garden. “Nobody knows how it got there!” she said, awestruck. Reminded me that it was a kind of miracle. Very humbling and refreshing.
Jessica, you’re so right. A fraud is exactly how I feel, too. Degenerate fraud.
Unreliable Historian: Fabulous tale! It sounds like exactly the same emotions I had. I wonder if we might be able to recreate this at boring grownup parties? But who to instigate it?
The Mother. Where did all those other women’s brains go? They MUST have had them at some point? I can’t believe everyone is so very dumb, can they be? It’s depressing.
So Lovely. What is it about competitive motherhood? Like it’s not bloody hard enough without making each other feel bad about our performance. Ugh. And what terrible role models for our children. Grow up and turn into boring automatons. No thanks.
You could set up as a party consultant. Must be money to be made in that. You could offer themed “Explorer Parties”, or “English Sunday Afternoon Walk Parties”.
Iota’s last blog post..Boy talk
I have never had children but it is reading stories like this that really make me wish that I had. The way that children challenge and change the way we think about things is so refreshing and to have such and adventure, well, no better fun than being naughty.
Good for you for breaking out.
I spent the day in the back garden yesterday discovering worms and bugs in the soil. When my two asked if I would join them I was all ‘but it’s dirty and I’ve got things to do and blah blah blah’ but then I thought why the devil not? I think we so easily forget how to have fun and our children are perfectly poised to show us how!
Tara@Sticky Fingers’s last blog post..The definition of a ‘tricky’ child
That sounds brilliant – I spent a good part of my girlhood exploring the storm drains of Hong Kong. And I SO know what you mean about the deathly maternal confab. (Dads at parties, on the other hand, don’t bother to talk to ANYONE. )
nappyvalleygirl’s last blog post..Birthdays, courtship and Arthur Miller
That’s the kind of thing my mum would do with me all the time when I was a child. And I remember it well and really appreciated having a mum who liked adventures as much as, if not more than, me.
On a much smaller scale, yesterday, we were making birthday cards for my mother and sister and Rosemary had to wash her hands because they were covered in glue. While washing her hands in the kitchen sink, she got distracted and had to scrub out the sink (don’t know where she gets her need to scrub and wipe, really don’t) and then get the cloth and go off round the whole of the ground floor, wiping tables, chairs, doors, floors and anything. I started off getting cross and saying she needed to get back to the cards and she could wipe later. And then I thought ‘Why? It’s three hours before we have to be anywhere. What does it matter if the cards are finished right now or in half an hour, when she’s bored with wiping?’, so I let her get on with it, and emptied the dishwasher in the meantime. Everyone was much happier.
There are times when it’s necessary and right to say ‘No’, of course, but sometimes we can get in the habit of saying it too much.
Coding Mamma (Tasha)’s last blog post..A little help with the housework
Nice tale of adventure. I’m happy you indulged yourself to join in. I think this brings to mind one of the reasons we have kids in the first place (or, at least, I did): to wake up the inner child in ourselves. I have a boy, whom I’ve nicknamed “Pigpen” (from the Peanuts cartoon). He is always getting in to messes and adventures and I just love it. My sister (who has two girls) come for a visit and is alarmed by the mess I allow. My response: why fight it? Most things worth doing involve a bit of a mess.
p.s. I think you may underestimate some of the women/mothers at the party. I think there is more to many of them. Question is, how to unearth the silliness in them?
Iota: Perhaps Four could pay for her college tuition that way! What a good idea.
Victoriark: It really is one of the true blessings of children that they give us back our own childhood, but only if we let them. It’s shockingly easy to turn into one’s mother and become a harridan.
Tara: Bugs and soil! YES! We have a snail collection who are enthusiastically being fed our young herb garden. I had actually hoped to eat the basil myself this summer but our ‘pets’ are more important..
NappyValleyGirl: I didn’t know you grew up in HK! How fascinating. I wonder if any of the dads feel the same way about each other as we do about the DMC?
Tasha: Yes, let the mess ensue. It’s not like it’s going to end anytime soon, and it’s SO much fun. Today Four and I spent a most enjoyable half hour jumping on, hammering, and having a tug of war with a roll of bubble wrap that Husband uses for packing things. The room looked like cellophane snow afterwards. It was fabulous.
Domestic: What a marvelous moniker for a child! I love the character Pigpen and feel that I channel him on pretty much a daily basis. I agree thoroughly on the mess issue.
You may be right about the other women. I would love to see the sillier side of them. Often find my quips cause blank stares or overly earnest responses (dire!) or else subject backs away uneasily and clutches her offspring protectively in case I infect them with nasty British offhandedness or similar. It must be the way I tell ’em 😉
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