Esther McCarthy: Why I’m going to make more of an effort to mind my friendships

Esther McCarthy: We can forget our own pals as we spend so much energy arranging our kids’ social lives. Picture: Emily Quinn

One new year’s resolution I vow to keep this year is to make time for friends. MY friends.

We can forget our own pals as we spend so much energy arranging our kids’ social lives, planning playdates, organising themed birthday parties, car pools, days out, giving the sitting room over to their buddies, and of course the newest addition to the roster, hosting ‘gaffers’.

A gaffer to you uninitiated is what we would have called a free gaff when we were teenagers. Ah, the highlight of our halcyon days when a Nirvana-esque plaid shirt and a pair of acid jeans with the bottoms tucked and rolled was your flashiest going out garb. We knew nothing of fake eyelashes; tan was only if you’d managed to get third degree burns with the baby oil on that one hot day in summer; and if you had access to a hairdryer with that diffuser bit on the end to make your perm look fluff-tastic , you were only trotting after Peter Mark himself.

A house party back in the day was talked about for weeks in advance. We’d plan how to get there, where we’d meet first, who fancied who, and crucially, how were we going to get our hands on a few cans of Ritz?

Then we’d all pile in to the parentless house with our bag of cans and a couple of packets of Tayto, The Doors CD would be in full flight, until someone took charge and put on a bit of Pearl Jam, and then the Bodyguard CD so you could sing along with an empty bottle. It was obligatory that you’d laugh at the host’s baby pictures, mock the curtains, and maybe have a nose through the hot press.

The night usually culminated with a sneaky snog with a rando from another school on the sofa, and a not-so-sneaky vomit in the mother’s hydrangea bushes. You’d spend the next three weeks denying he got outside boob, and blaming the vomit on him.

Good times.

In our day, we could only have a house party when someone’s parents naively left their teenagers home alone. That didn’t happen all that often, so we made the most of it when all the stars aligned.

A gaffer to you uninitiated is what we would have called a free gaff when were teenagers. Picture: iStock

Now in our micro-managed teenagers’ world, they wouldn’t have the gall to pull that off — or even the inclination, I’d say.

So they have the ‘gaffer’ with full permission and all the family around. Our son asked us could he have a gaffer to celebrate the end of the Christmas exams.

He told us how many would be coming, and that they’d arrive at 7pm and be collected by 11pm. All their parents would know where they were. Bit different to our day.

But some things never change — he took the time to turn around all the photos I had out of us at Santa over the years, and hid any baby pictures of himself. I even had to cancel the slideshow I had prepared to be projected on to the side of the house. Party pooper.

He also warned us to stay upstairs, and not to embarrass him. But I’m not a regular mom, I protested, I’m a COOL mom! His brothers were allowed move their Playstations into their rooms from downstairs so they wouldn’t be annoying them, just for one night. They happily concurred.

We didn’t provide any alcohol. Pizza, yes, cider, no. What they happen to bring in a backpack is no concern of mine, as long as there’s no more than four. Plus, I knew I was going to make a fortune of the returns, suckas.

I warned the neighbours before the lads arrived, and checked in with them the next day.

“They weren’t as loud as YOU used to be” comes the text back. We’ve been neighbours for a long time — his own kids were at all my gaffers — and many a party I’ve been at in their house, hopping over the back wall and stumbling back two days later. The commute was perfect.

But it makes me think, when’s the last time I threw a party? Is it just the way of things, along with the cat in the cradle and the silver moon? Move over, granma, it’s the next generation’s time to shine — and make eejits of themselves around a fire made out of a washing machine drum in the mucky back garden. 

What’s left for us then? Scouring RIP.ie for a good removal, putting on our girdles for the 50th birthday parties where we can swap cholesterol scores, waiting to get a plate licker invite (the afters) to our kids’ friends’ weddings?

Before that happens, I’m going to make more of an effort to go for that cup of coffee, get out at the weekend for a bit of fun instead of spending it scrambling to find clean GAA shorts for matches.

Otherwise we might find our future selves looking around the empty nest, our husbands long dead, (there’s no way we’re giving them the satisfaction of dying first), and we’ll have no one to go crocheting with, or do virtual crack cocaine or whatever it is future little old ladies will be up to.

So here’s to minding our friendships in 2025. Because we need our pals. The ones who not only know all your crazy stories, but helped you get in trouble in the first place.

The ones who sang along to Whitney with you, and held your hair back while you defiled the hydrangeas.