Goldilocks and the bear-faced cheek

As a writer of attempted positivity and feeling rich with empty pockets, I admit to needing to wait a few days before writing this post – as not to make it comprise totally of the words ‘fuck’, ‘shit’ and ‘bollocks’. Today I present an attempt at pride and dignity, through now un-gritted teeth, as I write a review of my son’s fifth birthday party…

The party theme was woodland adventure/forestry; it was beautifully set up, with lots of time clearly spent on the campfire setting. The hosts were enthusiastic and good with the kids; who were undeniably excited and happily getting involved in all the great activities. I had a good time with the children: making teddy bear shelters, pulling worms out the ground, lighting fires and eating the stew – which was very nice. Unfortunately it wasn’t the only beef…

Reading this, I would be thinking ‘pull yourself together woman, why moan about a brilliant party?!’ Well it’s a bit like a beautifully-wrapped present which is concealing a Tupperware of diarrhoea.

It transpired that this was the first party the company had done and it was being used to kick-start a business – blink and you may have missed the Facebook reference – but fear not, it was repeated throughout the party. The focus was so heavily on the business that a few risks were overlooked; long hair was rescued from close flames, by other parents ninga-rolling across the grass having spotted the potential hazard. The ‘ready, steady, run!’ was issued without thought for the cyclists who were on the path, and nearly went arse-over-tit into the pit fires and marshmallow skewers.  And one lass waved goodbye to the roof of her mouth, after launching into a portion of stew which had been scooped from the base of the metal pan. The hosts were oblivious. I also would have liked to have been given a nod when they presented the cake – managing only to leg it away from the child I was nursing a worm with, arriving sweaty and out of breath for the ‘toooo yoooouuuu!’ ending, thanks to another mother coming to find me.

So my son is now the apparent face of the company, with the overlook of not gaining my consent. Perhaps it wasn’t needed; given the party was delivered by his dad and the girl he left us for…

It was a great party, and I have no general feelings of anything other than well-wishes for the hosts, but I had no idea it was being used to boost a business venture, only the announcement they were putting on a party but not as anything other than I’d done last year: finding a space and a theme. The deceit and finding out through another parent mid-party, was a two-fisted punch in the boobs. My replacement meant no malice but having fallen crotch-first onto the father of my child at a time when trying for baby number 2 was halted by my need for a biopsy, she didn’t need to then use my son’s party to boost her business. She’s not mean – she’s just void of any awareness that I am a human being with feelings, further evidenced by her telling my son to say thank you for his presents and being with him for the cake. The only thing she said to me was to ask me to go and buy milk for the teas and coffees. I am the invisible mother. I am tough, but it hurt like a sandpaper-coated rolling pin up the arse. I wanted to twat her with the piñata stick, but instead I thanked her for the party.

So after the party, I return to working at the restaurant, go home, drink wine, eat a 500g block of mature cheddar and remember that the kids enjoyed it, and that’s what’s important; they were thankfully oblivious to the egos of the hosts. I bless this as more blog material and realise that, if my son is now paraded publicly online, then my photos of him that show more than the back of his head may as well go up too – and new Facebook and Twitter profile pictures are born.

I also remind myself that if I’m going to do any justice to the title under which I write, I cannot carry any anger about the potential financial success of my ex and his girlfriend – which is all on the back of the degree and all the courses my parents and I funded for him before he left. Life becomes rich by the look on the kid’s faces when they’re toasting marshmallows, not by the cash landing from the future bookings or local council funding. And I am thankful that at least there is a girl who cares for my son, regardless of her disrespect for me. I express gratitude that she’s not a crack Whore.

Point made, bitterness swallowed and my virtual pockets feel full again.