Julie Jay: When birthday celebrations become a week-long jubilee

We all want to mark these milestones, but even by my Kardashian standards this birthday has gone completely out of control

Julie Jay: I took no notice of how many slices were being consumed. By the end, I’m sure most of us were running on 80% chocolate

This was the week when Number One celebrated turning the big five, and while I obviously wanted to mark the occasion, I feel it’s all got a bit out of hand. Somehow, the whole thing has turned into the queen’s jubilee, only minus the problematic historical connotations.

First off, we had three birthday cakes: One Spidey cake, one homemade cake made with Mammy’s special ingredient (tears), and a cream sponge, which Number One only picked at, having suddenly decided he didn’t like cream. This was despite declaring 10 minutes previously that he adored it. But, much like Irish politics, opinions in this house change like the wind.

What set this birthday apart from the others was that it was the first time we had a shindig with Number One’s little friends, and I took it all in my stride. By stride, I, of course, mean having numerous panic attacks prior to the big event. 

A West Kerry petting farm, called Sandy Feet, in Castlegregory, was the venue of choice. It was so lovely that I nearly booked a vow renewal there for my husband and me. It has nothing to do with the status of my marriage: I just want to go back and avail of the five-star service.

The staff thought of everything, and the in-house mouse worked overtime as he happily let a gaggle of five-year-olds take turns giving him a rub. No doubt, like me, Stuart Little was only fit for the bed afterwards. The party itself was a huge success, one of those rare days in life where things really couldn’t have gone better.

The zipline proved as chaotic as you might imagine it would be at a five-year-old’s birthday. The concept of ziplining is simple: You jump on a frisbee attached to a rope and hope for the best. The intensity with which the children clung to the zipline was somewhat hilarious, given that at its highest point they were merely two feet off the ground, but I guess two feet is considerable when your height stands at three.

We had pizza and pasta galore, with the proprietors cleverly putting sauce and cheese on the side — this is clearly not their first rodeo.

Cake-cutting was much like vultures descending upon a corpse, only with less organisation. Number One started chewing the side of the cake before I’d even cut a slice, and things only went downhill from there. 

For any parents who left their children in my charge and returned to find their small person trying to cuddle a chicken, high on buttercream filling, I can only apologise for not keeping a closer eye on serving quantities.

So concerned was I with making sure the knife didn’t wind up in the wrong tiny hands and then in an evidence bag to be used in court at a later stage that I took no notice of how many slices were being consumed. By the end, I’m sure most of us were running on 80% chocolate.

During the week, we had another cake with family, and I baked a chocolate biscuit cake to bring into school. I say baked, but really I just melted chocolate into a bowl while simultaneously eating my body weight in Maltesers, because winter bodies are made in autumn.

At the end of the week-long jubilee celebrations, needless to say, when it was all said and done, I was pooped. Thank god birthdays come but once a year — my waistline needs 12 months to get over this.

Of course, the birthday celebrations were totally over the top, especially when it came to the generosity of Number One’s friends. Or, more specifically, his friends’ parents, as child labour laws mean they’re unlikely to have their own income.

The array of gifts was nothing short of embarrassing; the Kardashian clan wouldn’t get a look in. Though I berate myself for not having insisted on a ‘no present’ rule, when I see the joy that sticking slime to his mammy’s bottom brought to Number One, it is hard to deny these simple pleasures. 

I attempt to itemise the catalogue of presents Ted received, and I think back to the love language quiz I insisted my husband take with me over the summer. 

While his love language came back as physical touch, mine came back as acts of service, followed closely by gift-giving. It was a surprising result, given I have always insisted I have zero interest in material things, unlike a young Madonna. 

However, the results of this quiz told their own story. Surveying the presents received, I can’t help but feel Number One could soon be taking after me in the gift-loving stakes. Because while money can’t buy love, monster trucks can most definitely secure lifelong friendships.

As I treat myself to a glass of vino at home when everything is done and dusted, I make a toast to myself and Stuart Little. Because, as the saying goes, behind every great parent there is a great mouse.