The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
WORK PAID OFF WITH BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER
And on Sundays we rest. We are possibly broken. Unable to leave the couch or even muster the desire to get out of our jammies.
The mister is about to head back to work after his “annual leave” and he is skipping back as quick as possible because, even though they’re incredibly busy, he’ll have less of a todo list than he’s had here recently. It’s been a busy “big birthday” week. She opened presents, ate her birthday brekker and went paddle boarding with her sisters. In the evening we went “out out”.
Remember going out for a meal? I’d completely forgotten how it works – the getting dressed bit threw me completely. Does anyone know who stocks going out clothes with elasticated waistbands? Please let me know. The meal was lovely AND I got to buy our girl her first (legal) cocktail before she disappeared off to celebrate properly.
Our glorious Scottish weather has proven a rather rude inconvenience this week. We had allowed the biggest to have the correct quota of (lateral flow tested) friends in the garden to help celebrate. As you may recall, our garden is nothing short of the “before” scene of an episode of DIY SOS, leaving a lot to do. Time for a list. An “inside job list”, an “outside job list” and a “leaving the house for something” list.
Naturally, even though rain slowed play dramatically, I was determined all the grand ideas for decoration were still going to happen.
Every time the family Whatsapp chat buzzed I could hear my children’s school holiday joy shrivel a little more, the younger two blaming the biggest when all she’d done was age a year.
When we woke on Saturday, mother nature was still leading the way, bringing rain until midday. Thank goodness for fantastic friends helping with decorations, laying turf and potting plants (in the rain), and even delivering hay bales. My brother, sister-inlaw and niece arrived on the Friday and, having not seen them since October, we were delighted.
My brother has since renamed our home the “hard labour prison camp” having shifted tonnes of soil, built barbecues and fixed anything up high.
Luckily, he’s a sucker for the adoration of his nieces so, while he’ll complain bitterly about it, he’ll do it all over again when I’m daft enough to plan another party.
This overwhelming need to celebrate the bairn’s birthday has unveiled yet another revelation regards adulthood. If I had a pound, or even 50p, for every time
I say “after this week things will slow down a bit”, I’d be rich enough to employ people to undertake all these ludicrous, self-inflicted tasks while we sip cocktails and instruct from afar. All because 18 years ago, for the first time in my life, I did something perfectly. Well, at least I believed I had 10lb 4oz and 51cm long of perfection and, as much as we were terrified and completely out of our depth, we knew we were going to be simply fine.
Saturday’s sun finally shone. The guests arrived. The dogs had no clue what was going on. The birthday girl was spoiled with a fantastic cake. The middle, and her wee team, knocked out pizza after pizza from her new wood-fired pizza oven.
We chose to ignore how fond they were of setting things on fire and made a mental note to add “pyromania” to the (almost guaranteed) future counselling sessions.
The parents retired to play (read, show themselves up) Super Mario after a few too many ciders.
I’m not quite sure how we feel about being the parent of an “adult”? Let’s be honest, we’re jealous. Remember when we thought people in their 20s were adults? Ha Ha Ha!
As we gingerly came downstairs and placed ourselves gently on the couch this morning, she popped off to work at 10am, fresh as a daisy. Himself napped along with his dogs and I placed an “out of order” Post-it note on my forehead and let myself be soothed by the Wimbledon final.