Party panic times two

“Mum, we want our party at home this year.” My twin girls approach me with confidence. They’ve obviously been discussing this together. They did not want a Harry Potter theme. They would save that theme for when they turned eleven. They were turning nine, so their theme would be ‘Dress to the Nines’.

I swallow. Part of me is relieved that they are not asking to have a party at the noisy play factory that smells like feet. But a party at home? A party at home is a lot!

You would think I‘d have got the hang of it by now. It’s not like I haven’t done an at-home party before. I have six children. I’m a seasoned party host. So why does the thought of two hours of simple games and fairy bread still shoot ice water into my veins?

I know what it is. I believe this single event will define my worth as a mother, nay, as a human being. Don’t tell me I’m being silly. This is a real thing. Go to any playground-adjacent conversation among parents. I can promise you at some point the load-bearing properties of lime buttercream – as discovered at 1AM on the morning of a child’s birthday party – will be discussed in vivid detail.

Lately, I’ve been trying to let go of this crippling perfectionism. My secret weapon? PR language. I imagine my family is a company with a particular way of doing things. So while other families might have gorgeous decorations or expensive entertainment or elaborate cakes, such things are not really ‘on-brand’ for us. Our brand is ‘friendly chaos’, so we will work within those parameters instead.

This is how I learnt the life-changing magic of Phoning It In. I decide what is important, then I cut corners everywhere else. I could have a party with entertaining activities OR beautiful decor OR a delicious homemade cake that defied the laws of physics. I could not have all three. So I chose fun activities.

Did I tell you that all my kids’ parties have spreadsheets? Don’t roll your eyes. They’re important. This spreadsheet has evolved over the years. Now it has eight pages: ‘Guests’, ‘Food’, ‘Shopping’, ‘To Do’, ‘Activities’, ‘Running Sheet’, ‘Jobs’ and ‘Random Questions’. I used to avoid too much planning, but I’ve gradually come to accept that preparation is my friend. I don’t like making decisions, but if I’ve got to make them, it’s better I make the decisions earlier on a spreadsheet with a clear head and a coffee, than later, on the fly, in the midst of a chaotic party.

Spreadsheets are just fancy lists after all.

The running sheet was a detailed thing of beauty. I’ve learnt a lot from past failures and know what sorts of activities I’m good at, and what will just confuse me. Also, I’m very easily distracted, so a plan helps me stay on track. Jelly cups are a cheap and easy crowd-pleaser. ‘Pass-the-parcel’ is hours of preparation for what is essentially a game of ‘Sit Still and Wait Your Turn’. No thank you.

Despite all this planning, Sunday loomed ominously. And it was looking like I was going to be short-staffed. My husband had to take my older son to his finals game and we didn’t know when they’d get back. Still, my twelve-year-old daughter loves party things and was so excited to make the jelly cups, hang the decorations, fill the party bags and prep the fairy bread. Plus, I had my running sheet. Everything is better when you have a running sheet.

And it all came together on the day. My sister called me to let me know she could drop in after work. She arrived wearing a 1980s ballgown and promptly helped me string donuts onto the clothesline. My husband and son managed to get back from the game just as the party was starting and while my son grunted and disappeared into his room, David reappeared wearing a dinner suit and set to work putting frozen sausage rolls onto oven trays. While I melted at the sight of him, one of my birthday girls took one look at her dad and turned to her twin ‘Oh look! Our butler has arrived!’

Not everything ran to plan. I was not expecting the kids to get so excited about the sourgrass flowers in our back yard. Do you know the weeds I’m talking about? You chew the stems and they taste sour. Anyway, one of the little boys was running about distributing handfuls of it and saying ‘Eat your greens! EAT YOUR GREENS!’ Then my husband pointed out that you could also eat the nasturtium leaves. So then we had a whole bunch of kids crawling all over the nasturtium patch munching on weeds when there was a perfectly good selection of party food on offer. Meanwhile, I stood there with my running sheet looking up at the scene in front of me and down at my carefully planned activities and up again, scratching my head!

This event was never going to feature on anybody’s Pinterest board. Lots of things were unglamorous and store-bought, including the cakes. But the party was still a raging success, and full to the brim with joy. I think the best part of all came after all the small guests went home. In the past, I have fallen in a heap among the cake crumbs and pass-the-parcel wrappings, a sleep-deprived quivering mess. I often have a good cry. This time, I feel relaxed and content, all due to the magic of phoning-it-in.

I start to tidy. In my box of supplies, among the string and sticky-tape and balloons and toy tiaras, sits an untouched block of Cadbury Dairy Milk. I had planned to use it in the Chocolate Game, but we ran out of time.

I slide the block into my pocket. Nobody needs to know.