Lindsay Woods: My son turns nine in the next few days
My son turns nine in the next few days. He has decided on an outing to the cinema with a few of his friends to see the new ‘Goosebumps’ movie followed by a trip to the Golden Arches to chow down on all things deep fried and chock-full of additives.
He is a relatively unfussed character so he is continuing on from last year’s theme… by doing the exact same thing this year.
Our last year’s viewing was the latest ‘Thor’ offering. The word ‘anus’ was mentioned once during the entire movie.
This is what a then group of eight-year-old boys remembered. From the entire movie.
That one word. One was so taken by the term, he felt the need to recount it with unbridled glee to his parents on arrival to collect him.
Whilst I bumbled apologies and the remaining kids fell about the place laughing and batting the word back and forth between them with intermittent shovelling of nuggets into their mouths.
My track record as a kid’s party hostess is far from illustrious. When once upon a time we marked the occasions at home, I was far more co-ordinated.
In so far as, people got fed, we had a little cake, a few photos and no child vomited. Once they began to start requesting parties outside of the house is when the wheels started to come off the train.
In my naivety, I thought I would be able to have these little intimate gatherings in our home until they were at least nine.
That’s the same tripe you hear from a first-time parent. We know not what we say. By the time number two arrives, our coughs have been considerably softened.
Then came the first party invite. It was at one of those soft play/gateway to hell/petri dish of bacteria places. They are all called Jungle something or other.
In a shocking admission, I had never brought my children to one previously. Purely, due to my utter abhorrence towards them. The soft play areas... not my kids. I like them. Most of the time.
Everything is generally shocking in these establishments. The WIFI, the coffee, the ambiance… actually it’s an insult to use that word as the general atmosphere is, in fact, one of despair. Naturally, my children on seeing this for the first time thought it was the most magical place they have ever clapped their saucer like eyes upon.
‘Drink it up kids because the only time we are ever coming back here is when there is a party.’
Parents would try and convince me, or maybe themselves, that it was great: ‘We get to sit down and they can play.’
I wasn’t buying it. Particularly, when I could get a decent cup of coffee elsewhere, with WIFI and my kids were still at an age where giving them packets of sugar to ‘file’ entertained them for indeterminate amounts of time.
I should add, that when the parents were trying to convince me of the merits of these places, they would do so at a decibel that could penetrate my eardrum and blow my eyebrows off. Which was warranted, due to the sheer volume of noise in these giant, multicoloured sheds.
The lure of these Palaces of Bad Taste became too much for my then soon to be five-year-old daughter and she begged and pleaded to mark her birthday there. On arrival, it was clear they were at maximum capacity. I immediately began to sweat.
The first casualty was a little girl who developed a raging temperature and had to lie prostrate on one of those grim leather sofas until her parents arrived to collect her.
The next I found in a somewhat foetal position under the slide singing to himself.
After coaxing him out (and trying to convince him that I could take his place if he so wished?), I noticed my daughter looking slightly pale.
Out of concern for her friends no doubt? She confirmed it wasn’t when she promptly vomited while attempting to blow out her candles.
Needless to say, neither of my children ever requested to celebrate one of their birthdays there ever again. Or to spend any amount of time there for that matter. I’m pretty sure the proprietors of said establishment were just as pleased at that fact.
So, I’m pretty content with sitting in a darkened, air-conditioned room with a giant screen showcasing the latest cinematic offering.
Where the extent of my hosting amounts to flinging indeterminate amounts of popcorn and sweets at a baying group of nine-year olds. For close to two hours, any physical exertion will only be in the form of toilet breaks and not negotiating a hostage release from the ball pit.
If all else fails, I’ll just order extra nuggets.
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