In truth, I’m sat in my Primark cotton pyjamas, crunched over the body of an 11 month old baby who has drifted sweetly to dreamland, as I mentally try to organise the rest of my week and determine which events have to be missed or cancelled as I prepare for his birthday. As his dad is cooking dinner for us in the ridiculous heat of Hampshire this evening, I’m sat in the dark, praying my Mac doesn’t overheat whilst I finalise plans.
His first, and my last first, birthday. He’s too tiny to be one – and although I’ve said that twice before as a mom, it’s true. Time flies on wings that are too swift during childhood.
Before I get all weepy and melancholy over the fact my babies are growing without my permission, I’d better get on.
On Saturday we’re having a birthday afternoon tea at home, just us, and then on Sunday we are headed to the beach for a BBQ with friends and family. I love planning and constructing parties – I just seem to somehow feel that I have to leave things until the last minute. And it’s not because I can’t be bothered – it’s because I worry I will get things wrong – that I will change my mind. If you know me, you know I have trouble choosing anything. I’ve been that way since childhood, just ask my parents, or anyone who was ever behind me in the sweet shop.
But now, it’s done. The decor is chosen, the menus are planned – and I’m just waiting and praying that my sister’s car is fixed and her family can make it, and that I remember to buy the charcoal. A Summer party! I can’t wait.