Birthday Party Blues

Just as one cannot walk past a Kauai without slipping in for a quick Lemon Breeze and then slurping it with such determined alacrity that one develops a brain freeze so intense that one wonders if one has not dislodged a massive growth in one's brain leaving one frantically googling 'brain surgeons in Durban with very short waiting lists'; one cannot celebrate one's ageing without throwing a mammoth birthday party.  I, for one, am a firm believer in this.

Birthday parties are special for those of non-drinking age and downright painful for everyone else.

And so it was that I threw myself into the meticulous planning of The Daughter's Birthday Party, and by 'meticulous planning', read 'sending out a few invitations, bolding my request for people to RSVP, and then forgetting when people did'.

As the day approached, I realised I was a little under prepared.

Sure I'd booked the 'walk on water balls' months before, but by the day before I hadn't actually received a) an email requesting immediate electronic funds transfer of half of hire cost to confirm booking; or b) telephone call advising me of the company's knowledge of my existence. 

As evening approached, so did the fact that I did not actually have telephone number of said company in possession to try and garner information about their commitment to my plight dawn on me.

I poured an extra-large glass of wine and sat down with The Incubator and The Sister-In-Law (henceforth simply referred to as 'Sil' since that is what I actually call her) to do a wee spot of damage control.

The Pant:  I'm screwed.

The Sil: You're not, my sil.  We'll just set them out on the grass and play all those traditional games.

TP:  Which traditional games?

Sil:  Like "pass the parcel" and "pin the tail on the donkey" and "musical statues".

TP:  Right.  Those games that one needs to have bought prizes for?

Sil:  You've got no prizes?

TP:  Nope.

We sat for a few minutes, me drinking with focus, The Incubator and The Sil quietly puzzling in their brains.

The Incubator:  I know!  Let's just use the party packs as prizes!

A solid idea, really.

TP:  I haven't organised party packs.

TI:  Right. (Think think). Well, how many children are coming?  Maybe we can load them up and take them to uShaka?

TP:  I forgot to keep a list.

TI and Sil (in unison):  You what?

TP:  I forgot, okay?  I thought I would remember but then I didn't because I was too busy remembering other things.

TI:  Like what?

TP:  Like... Like... Like my name for one!  It has two syllables.  And my ID number!  And...

TI:  You're screwed.

Sil:  I'm going to have to agree with The Incubator on this one.

I cannot tell you the sheer relief I felt when the doorbell rang and a slight Indian man with weathered skin advised that he was on site to set up the pool and balls.  I was so excited that I was almost tempted to open mouth kiss him but was prevented from doing so by the strongest scent of stale cigarette that seemed to have permeated right to the very core of his humanness.  His skin was thick.  You know the kind that would most certainly not be affected by the paper cut.  In fact, were said man in need of, say, surgery, I fear that the scalpel would need to be replaced by one with rotating blades, powered by electricity.  A jigsaw, perhaps.

With pool and balls erected betwixt bush (I just cannot avoid the sexual innuendo) I was more than happy to celebrate my fine event planning skills by draining the rest of my bottle of wine.  Seriously, I was so damn good, I'd all but resigned from my job and set up my own events company.  I thought I'd call it 'Party in my Pant(s)'.

I'd like to say that when the start time of the party came, I was as cool as a cucumber, sipping on a gin & dry lemon (excellent party day drink), welcoming guests with warmth, dressed in flowing whites with perfectly applied make-up and reeking of expensive perfume.  But I'm afraid I can't.  The first guests pulled in a good hour and seven minutes prior to the function's commencement - even before The Daughter had arrived from her morning engagement (The German Boyfriend's birthday party to which she went dressed as a vampire).  By the time she arrived - EARLY! - there were already six children scuttling around the show.

And, by Jove, did they not stop arriving.  By mid-afternoon I'd found two boys brushing their willies with The Daughter's toothbrush, one was found relieving himself in the corner of my kitchen, two had taken to playing the piano using suckers to pummel the keyboard.  They were in cupboards, under tables, crawling out of drainpipes.  They were in the balls, under the balls, diving headfirst into the sweets table.

And the parents!  My personal favourite is one whom we'll simply refer to ask Dark Haired One.  She was the one who spent the majority of last year's party angling to corner Larry - who, at the time, was faking it as my boyfriend - to stick her tongue so far down his throat that she'd end up licking his arse simultaneously.

Our initial greeting went something like this:

The Pant: (oh crap, her again) Hi Doll!  So glad you could make it.  Air kiss.  Air kiss.

The Dark Haired One:  Where's that h-h-h-hot man of yours?

TP:  You met Christmas?!?  And oh Lord, tell me about it, sister.  That beefy beef sticks... All. Over. My-  Hi, Dad.  This is The Dark Haired One.  Dark Haired One, this is my dad.

Chat chat.

TDHO:  No, wasn't his name Larry?

TP:  Who?  My dad?  No, no-

TDHO:  No, your boyfriend.

TP:  Oh, him?  No, he's long gone.

TDHO: (with feigned concern)  Why?

Oh shit.  I'd really not wanted to get into that.

TP:  (with the seriousness of priesthood) No, darling.  I've been emancipated!

TDHO:  Pardon?

TP: Sweetie darling!  Can't you tell?  I'm smiling again!  That ship has sailed.  And thank the good Lord too.  Couldn't imagine any more days of tirelessly working at a deflated self-esteem any more than I did.  Not to mention my own.

TDHO:  Well, do you have his number?

TP:  If I did Sweetie (I said as I stared at her teeth smeared in lipstick of an orange hue) you'd be the first person I'd give it to.

The Dark Haired One decided to dull her obvious pain by diving head first into the drinks and found by glass three, that she'd simply carry on.  My Sil, bless her soul, took The Dark Haired One for one of my dear friends and struck up an instant friendship.  Sadly, I didn't find the time to corner the sil and explain that this woman had about as much class as the back end of Belair and that if we encouraged her, we'd be in for some serious trouble.

However, by the time My Sil realised that The Dark Haired One was unable to converse in the socially accepted manner of you-speak-I-speak-you-speak, it was too late. (She prefers the I-speak-and-when-you-think-it's-your-turn-to-speak-I-shall-just-interrupt-you way of interacting.)  She'd already announced to the entire party that she now had another reason to come and live in Durban: The Budding Friendship between herself and The Dark Haired One. 

A good two and a half hours after the party, when my energy levels were so depleted I was on the verge of giving up my will to live, Dark Haired One removed herself from our company for a momentary bathroom break.

Sil: (with pronounced worry in her voice) She's nice.

The Pant:  What!?!

Sil:  Isn't she?

TP:  No!

Sil:  Have I got the whole thing wrong?

TP:  Yes.

I spent the next couple of hours trying to surgically remove The Dark Haired One from the Sil, with little satisfaction until The Husband of The Dark Haired One rang to insist that she'd perhaps overstayed her welcome.  I wanted to place the man on a pedastal and begin a mini-worship session.  But my elation was short-lived.  Because when she returned to her own home, with the express desire not to miss out on any fun had by those "new friends" she'd just acquired at the boozy birthday party of the 5 year old, she rang tirelessly to try and find an in into the inner-circle.

So, yes, my sil.  You did get that one wrong.  Big time.

The Daughter Ages.

The Daughter ages today. And so, I'm slightly stupefied today, not only at how old having a five-year-old human child whom I have both made, incubated and raised single-handedly (sometimes double-handedly, but both the hands belonged to me) makes me, but by the magnitude of love I feel for this human.

I'm also in awe at the following:

1). How effing long it takes to wrap presents compared with the speed at which it takes a small-size someone to unwrap them,

2). How sore one's back gets while wrapping said presents,

3). How, in spite of aforementioned pain, one continues to wrap and ribbon presents individually for the sole reason that one wishes to make one's child the happiest alive,

4). How one is able, on occasions such as this, to reflect on childbirth fondly, and,

5). How very proud I am to hear that little girl call me, 'Mom'.

Happy birthday Light of My Eyes,

Your kindness astounds me and inspires me to be a kinder individual. Your innocence delights me each and every day. Your sense of humour - so astute - has seen me keeled over on more occasions than I'm able to remember.

You're the greatest blessing to me, to your granny and grandpa, to Cat (even though you taunt him so).

My life is lovely because of you.

Each and every day spent with you is an honour for which I thank the Lord every day.

You are magnificent.

Thank you for defining my life; for giving me focus. Thank you for filling each day with bubbling joy. Thank you for being YOU - the best little girl in the world.

My love for you, my darling, is much bigger than what these arbitrary things called 'words' is capable of conveying.

xxx

Turning 20. Again.

The best thing about ageing, is sharing your celebrations with people who totally rock your world.  Which is what I did yesterday.  I'd originally planned a dinner with friends - but upon the realisation that things may turn a touch messy, I cancelled said plans and chose to spend my birthday with The Daughter.  She rocks my world, you see, to its very core.

For her, birthday celebrations work in a systematic structure and if this structure is ignored, then birthdays are not complete celebrations at all.

Step One: Shopping


The Incubator took her to Woolies to pick out a few gifts for me.  It has since been reported that The Incubator had to fight with steely determination to avoid the purchase of some questionable items.  You see, I don't own any purple garments or, really, items at all.  And that is simply because I really don't like the colour purple.  I like The Color Purple but the colour purple, not so much.  And so these were the items she wanted me to have for my birthday:

1)  Purple satin bra and granny panties set.
2) Purple brushed nylon pyjamas
3) Lime green nail polish and matching eye shadow
4) At least four different dressing gowns in varying shades of purple.
5) A purple pencil skirt.
6) Bright purple cushions for my lounge.

How The Incubator managed to make it out of the shop with non-purple really nice items, I am dumbfounded.  I fear, though, that this year may mark the last in which I receive items of my liking.  I suspect that by next year things may be a little different.

Step Two: The Wrapping Process


We spent the night with my Parental Unit prior to the ageing day.  I do this because The Daughter is too young to make tea on her own and it is of vital importance that one is woken up with "Happy Birthday to you", presents and tea in bed.  But also, so I don't have to do the wrapping of my own presents.  It kind of takes the surprise out of the whole gift receiving thing, does wrapping your own presents.

So The Daughter, The Incubator and The Father disappeared into the parental unit's bedroom on Tuesday evening, armed with packets of things, wrapping paper, sticky tape and far too many ribbons.  And since I am still not an adult, I tried to leopard crawl down the passage to catch sight of my gifts.

The Pant:  I'm not going to look.  I just need to borrow granny's slippers.  My feet are freezing.

The Daughter:  Not a chance, Mommy.  Get out!  You can't see your presents because I've already wrapped the perfume so you won't be able to see it so you won't know what it is.

Step Three:  The Gift Handover Session


We have a tradition in the Liner household.  Once the house is awake, which on birthdays is usually at about 5 am, the birthday girl/boy gets to climb into the marital bed, and the rest of the family goes to the other end of the house to collect presents, make tea, form an orderly queue and proceed down the passage blaring "Happy Birthday".

The only problem yesterday, was that The Daughter had hidden the gifts so well that she, and the parental unit, and in the end, I too, were unable to find the gifts.  After 25 minutes of turning the house upside down and The Incubator mentally ticking off gifts as they were recovered, it appeared that all the gifts were ready to be opened.

I climbed back into bed, and the procession made its way down the passage.

Step Four: The Gift Opening Session


The Daughter:  Okay, Mommy.  This one is pink body wash that I chose.

As I took the present into my hands to begin opening it, it was ripped from my grip and she began tearing at the paper.

The Daughter:  Look!  I told you it was pink body wash.

The Pant:  That's lovely.  Thanks my darling.  That's very kind of you.

The Daughter:  I know.  And this one is perfume.

(she was right.  After she opened it, it was perfume.  On this score, it must be mentioned that The Incubator is a truly fabulous woman.  This perfume, which is my most favourite, is almost impossible to find.  But she tracked down the very last bottle from Dallas.  Go The Incubator.  You're all kinds of rad.)

TD:  And this one is a grey jersey.

(She was right.)

TP:  Oh wow!  Thanks my darling.  I love that.

Within ten minutes, she had opened all my presents, but had told me what they were before.  And she was mighty chuffed.  She tried on the very special bra she'd chosen - one that promises to instantly add two cup sizes (was she trying to tell me something) - which she then declared a dud since it didn't fit her snug.

Step Five: The Luncheon


I don't know how this happened.  But I invited a good mix of people for lunch at the parental's - and I ended up cooking.  Such was my birthday busy that I forgot to put a face on and by the time I remembered, my hands were covered in egg & flour from dipping brinjal pre-creation of the famous brinjal parmegianos that it was just too late.

But I also got to spend my day with The Brother.  (Who, upon arrival, told me we don't hug but he could bump my side to show an acknowledgement of the fact that it was my birthday.)  And The Daughter's BF & her parents (who are seriously the most amazing people in the world.  We've just spent a glorious five days away with them over Easter and I have to tell you, that it was, by far, the best beach holiday I've had in years.  The Daughter and I have the tans to prove it.)

And what would a birthday be without My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Touch My Inner Thigh?  Apart from having the skill to make me feel like the most wonderful woman on the face on this earth, he sure does know how to thrill a girl.

This is the card I received from him:

He knows me so well, because the message inside the card reads:

Sure, birthdays are a drag.

But honey, at least you're still smokin'!

Ah, bless his cotton socks.

And just to complete the radness of birthday love, I'm dining with The BF, my people tonight.  (Roast chick and veggies, if you're reading, please).

My life is full of such lovely people, that I don't even mind getting older.  In fact, I welcome this 20th birthday with open arms.  Again.