19 Sep Hosting Anxieties

As Vicki Englund lurks in the shadows of parties past, she bows to peer pressure and procures a performer for the party present.

Pre-birthday-party tension. Every year, a couple of months before my daughter’s birthday, it starts. Most mothers and some fathers are familiar with it, and it looms like that dreaded dental appointment you’ve been studiously avoiding.

No doubt my memories of my own childhood parties are romantically idealised, but I’m pretty sure they were simple affairs, as were those of my friends. Some games of the Pass The Parcel and Pin The Tail On The Donkey variety were on the agenda, and then we’d sit down for sandwiches, lollies and fairy bread. A round of ‘Happy Birthday’ followed as the birthday child cut the bought cake, which was decorated with garishly coloured cream that looked and tasted like recycled axle grease. As everyone was too stuffed to eat the cake, each child took a piece home with them, wrapped in a serviette. Ah, the simple pleasures.

Of course, that was long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away and now there’s a multitude of new industries based around children’s birthday parties. It seems it’s all just so pre-millennium not to have a fairy/wizard/superhero attend your offspring’s celebrations, and if you don’t, then the chances are you’re having the party where the entertainment and food are provided by a fast-food outlet, play centre or animal farm. It’s a rare thing indeed for the kids to just turn up at the house, eat enough sugar to keep them awake for two days, and amuse themselves.

As if the pressure of hosting the coolest party for the children isn’t enough, there’s also the pressure of keeping the adults happy in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. My daughter is only turning five this year, so I’ve still got to cater for the big people as well. In this regard, the bar has been raised inhumanly high. I’ve been to a four year old’s birthday party where the ‘adults-only’ area, complete with mood lighting, boasted an array of home-baked scones with freshly whipped cream, and jam made from strawberries growing in the garden. A silver tea service and hand-embroidered doilies completed the picture, leaving me to wonder what could possibly top the display, which looked fit to grace the cover of a gourmet-food magazine.

That’s when the birthday cake arrived, and I realised what a fool I’d been to think the ante couldn’t possibly be upped any more. “Oohs” and “aahs” from all the parents accompanied the grand parade of this objet d’art, as the birthday child’s mother said with false modesty, “Oh, it’s nothing”.

I’ve never been very good at cake baking or decorating, and I find that it cuts out a lot of unnecessary stress to order the birthday cake from a cake shop, where I’m happy to pay grossly inflated prices for it to turn out the way it’s supposed to. As for the silver-service tea-and-scones ceremony, well maybe our guests will have to make do with the type of pikelets that come out of a plastic container.

After last year’s modest and old-fashioned fourth-birthday party for my daughter, this time I’m bowing to peer pressure and am going to have a ‘fairy queen’ attend the proceedings. I figure my daughter will outgrow the concept in a couple of years anyway. And of course there will be that undeniable thrill of seeing the look of joy on her little face (if we can stop entertaining the adults for long enough to notice).

The main stroke-inducing anxiety that remains is who to invite. With my daughter in her first year of school, she’s at that in-between stage of still pining for friends from mothers’ group pre-school and day care, and making new friendships that aren’t quite entrenched yet. I can feel the headache coming on as I start to draw up the list of potential guests.

It has, however, given me an idea for a new business that I could start up to make money from this whole saga – birthday-party counsellor. Surely there are others like me lurking in the shadows who feel hopelessly inadequate in the party department and who need to know that they’re not alone…

Illustration by Angela Pellatt