This time last year I was firmly in the No Party camp. It was a month before my daughter’s third birthday and her only request was to spend the day riding a pony, eating cake and opening presents. Easy. I was totally let off the party hook.

I looked on with amusement as friends organised parties for their soon-to-be three year olds. They posted Facebook updates about feeling stressed, alongside pictures of intricate handmade party invitations. “They’ve totally brought this on themselves,” I thought with smug disdain.

You see, I saw these mums and secretly judged their choices to host spectacular parties for their kids. To me, it seemed like the parties weren’t really for the children but were for the mums themselves, giving them the opportunity to show off their amazing motherhood skills – a chance for a bit of one-up-mumship, if you like. 

These were Pinterest Party Mums, good and proper. Not only did they arrange a birthday party for their child but they made the invitations, decorations and food themselves. They wheeled in entertainment and spent hours planning the whole spectacle. Then they blogged about it and got lots of traffic from their amazing ideas via Pinterest. “Yeah, whatever – who has time for that crap?” I thought, as I dived head-long into another 80 hour working week. I was lucky to find a pair of clean socks each day let alone make 30 handmade party invitations.

And now, here we are. In exactly one month it will be my daughter’s birthday and – guess what – she wants a party. Not just any old party, but a rainbow-themed party. She has been very specific about the rainbow element.

Up until just a few months ago I was still in the No Party camp. I still looked on with mild disdain as I read blog posts about elaborate birthday parties for four year olds. I wondered where these parents found the time to organise such incredible events. But, oh, how the tables have turned.

My last couple of weekends have looked something like this:

Yep, that’s right. I saw an invitation I liked on Pinterest (this one) and spent my Friday and Saturday evenings making them. 20 in fact. Funny how much you can get done on an evening when you’re not able to drink wine.

The thing is, I was almost embarrassed when I sent my daughter off to pre-school to proudly hand out her rainbow birthday party invitations. When one of the pre-school mums told me how much she loved the invitation I was a bit apologetic. “Oh I’m such a loser,” I laughed. “It’s only because I’m pregnant and have nothing better to do at the moment!”

But that was a bit of a lie, actually.

The reason I spent my precious weekend evenings painstakingly crafting twenty birthday party invitations for my daughter is, well, for my daughter. I wanted to make something special that she would be excited to give to her friends. In fact, she’s even taken on her own interest in the rainbow delights on offer on Pinterest.

Before you roll your eyes and think, “She’s not even four, what’s she doing on Pinterest?”, let me explain. It was 7am and, as I struggled to wake up, I let my daughter look at rainbow party ideas on the iPad. She was excited about her party (she knows we’ve booked the village hall) and wanted to talk about it. So I opened up Pinterest and she quickly worked her way around the rainbow party pages, pinning ALL THE THINGS.

This is the first time my child has really understood that it’s her birthday. She knows what a birthday party is because she has been to a few (and loved them). For the first time in her short little life she has asked to have a party. She wants to invite all her new friends, which is a big deal because we haven’t even lived here a year and it took her a while to settle into her new pre-school.

So before anyone judges me for letting the sisterhood down by embracing the Pinterest-Party trend and going all-out with home-made decorations, fancy vintage style straws and fiddly food, take a moment and realise this isn’t to prove a point to other mums. I’m not interested in outdoing anyone – most of the parties my daughter’s been to have been with her dad anyway as I’ve been working – I just want to do my little girl proud.

And, for the first time ever, I find myself with both the time and inclination to embrace the party mania. Her excitement and enthusiasm is infectious. I get a thrill every time I win a new rainbow party bargain on eBay. I am actually enjoying making home-made tissue paper pom-poms and rainbow paper wreaths. My mum has got in on the action and offered to make some party bags, we’ve even discussed at length what should go in each bag. I’ve booked a kids’ entertainer and planned a colourful spread of party food.

This is all stuff I wouldn’t have had time to do if I was still working 80 hours a week. But it’s also stuff my daughter would never have wanted before – and may never want again.

So, for now, yes – I’m a Pinterest-Party Mum. And you know what? I’m proud to be one.

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It seems to me that the ability to plan and host a child’s birthday party is a staple part of being a good parent. From the carefully designed, hand-crafted invitations, right down to the unique and personalised gifts in the party bag, if you can’t do a good party you have failed at being a good parent.

Or have you?

My daughter turns three years old in a couple of months. Since she was born, the arrival of spring has always signified the arrival of birthday party thoughts. From who’ll be invited to what kind of cake we’ll offer, I’ve really thought about every little detail. Granted, things haven’t always gone according to plan (stale sandwiches last year, way too much pink plastic tat the year before) but the thought was there.

This year though, things will be different.

I had planned a big party. My intentions were to hire the village hall and outdo my efforts of the previous two years. I was going to find a children’s entertainer, make enough sandwiches to feed an army and spend a fortune on party bags. I was going to. But now I’m not.

Frog is old enough now to be able to tell us what she wants to do for her birthday this year. “I not want party Mummy,” said my little girl as we drove home from nurery the other day. “I not want anything Mummy.”

Surprised, I offered a few other options; a family day out, a trip out for lunch, a visit to friends. It turns out she is happy not to have a party. In fact, she positively can’t be bothered with one.

Instead, she wants us to drive all the way to Devon to see my parents, go horseriding wearing a new pair of jodhpurs, go out for a fancy lunch, eat homemade birthday cake, go to the beach and then listen to Olly Murs on repeat. I know, totally low maintenance.

Part of me was a bit disappointed not to have one final, big party before we move from the area. Part of me wanted to invite all her new nursery friends and watch as she mingled with all the groups of kids. Part of me could completely accept that the idea of a party was, actually, more for me than her.

But while part of me was in mourning for the party that never was, the rest was positively joyful. No need to organise a huge toddler birthday party in the middle of what will be my busiest month of the year? Fine by me.

And if that means I’ve lost some invisible mum points so be it. Now bring on the horseriding!

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I revel in the limelight of birthday greetings, cheerily sharing the secret of the special day with anyone who cares to listen. I have been known to stop complete strangers in the street, just to let them know it’s my birthday – although now I have a toddler who does that task for me.

In many respects I am still the child I once was. Feverishly anticipating the exciting tinge of the day – even if there was school – and looking forward to cake, cards and maybe even the odd present.

But as I look over the pile of gifts I received for my birthday earlier this week, I have to accept that the child has gone.

Instead, in her place, sits a woman hurtling towards the end of her twenties, who squealed with delight at the foot-massaging slippers and pyjama bottoms bought as a present by the husband.

The shiny new peg holder was opened with whoops of joy as I realised I could finally bin the creation I once fashioned from an old jumper and broken coat hanger.

And when the paper was torn off this little beauty I actually shed tears of pure, unadulterated pleasure…

Just look at her, sitting there in all her perfect spherical beauty. My mother has done me proud…

I cried over a teapot.

And rather than rushing out to buy a new pair of shoes with the generous cheque given to me from Granny from the North (my mother-in-law), I put it straight into our savings account.

Yet another sign of how birthdays have changed.

But when it comes to presents, one thing remains the same. A certain man still has the ability to make me smile. Maybe a hint of my younger self lingers on after all.

It’s official, I’m eleven years old again…

****

Disclosure: Please see my disclosure page for more information.

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My beautiful girl.

How on earth did you get so big? You’re all long and lanky now, just like your dad. Your gorgeous skinny legs – although far too flexible – remind me of a dangly scarecrow. Not much different to the day you were born, really.

This day two years ago, we looked at you as you slept in your clear plastic bed, discussing your frog-like feet and scarecrow limbs. Love hit us like a bullet.

I just want to kiss those legs. Especially when they’re bare, running naked in the garden on a hot sunny day. You hate it when I grab you for a kiss though. You laugh, “No Mummy!”. Then you’ll give in and submit to “The Mummy Love”, letting me give you a cuddle for a split second, before batting me away to continue with your game.

You’re a fierce, independent, stubborn, cheeky, loud little spirit now.

You have tantrums. Regularly. You like food, drawing with crayons (often on the furniture), talking on the phone to your Mar Mar and splashing in the bath.

You also like “CAKE!” and “CHOC CHOC!”. This often causes problems, especially when you decide to express your heartfelt love for said treats in the middle of the vegetable aisle in Sainsburys.

But, I must admit, I love to see you devour a cheeky cupcake or chocolate button. Your excitement is on a par with mine over a glass of wine on a Friday evening.

This is you a year ago, at your 1st birthday party. You’re covered in cake after having a food fight with BB, the little girl you met through my blog. BB belongs to Northern Mum and she’s also rather partial to a spot of chocolate.

Look at you. Beautiful girl.

We’ve had a quite a year.

You were bridesmaid to Daddy and I when we got married last August. You cried during the ceremony, but then had quite a time on the bouncy castle and enjoyed clapping and cheering during the speeches. You’re a born performer and love to be part of the action.

You also rather like your own company and become engrossed in drawing pictures, sorting shapes or doing jigsaw puzzles.

You are such a girl. You brush your doll’s hair (named Euan, after your friend at the childminder’s) and paint crayon onto your eyelids, no doubt copying me doing my make-up. I caught you trying on my heels the other day, while you dangled one of my bras on your head. When I laughed, you reached up and dabbed some of my deodrant on your armpits.

You’re a happy child, now. This wasn’t really the case six months ago.

You wanted to walk, you see. But your hypermobile joints and flat feet wouldn’t let you. We were all very worried. No one knew what was wrong with you, just that something was, indeed, wrong.

I was told you wouldn’t walk without help. You clearly thought, sod that, and couldn’t be bothered to wait for your turn on the ever-long NHS waiting list. You’re yet to receive your special boots and physio treatment, but you’ve defied them all and now walk everywhere.

I’m so proud of you.

You’re unlikely to realise how deeply felt even just one spec of my love is for you, little girl. The understanding of how it often roots me to the spot, unable to move, is not something you’ll comprehend any time soon.

It burrows deep, down through my feet, twisting into the earth so that at times I have to simply stand and catch my breath, just to look at you. This love that I feel for you, it can’t be measured. It’s impossible.

But you’ll know one day, little Frog.

When you’re a mum, you’ll know.

Happy birthday my beautiful girl. I love you.

Mummy xxx

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The tears flowed freely when I heard my mum’s voice on the end of the phone.

“Nothing’s happening,” I sniffed. “I thought it was all kicking off yesterday, but everything’s stopped. I don’t feel like it’s safe in there anymore!”

I heaved my whale-like body into the passenger seat of a hot car and patiently allowed myself to be driven around the countryside by the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine, in the vague hope that the movement of the car might encourage this baby to make an appearance.

At eleven days past my due date, this was one stubborn child. Even the speed bumps at our local supermarket couldn’t get things started.

Returning home, laden with goodies for a barbecue (my husband knows the route to my heart), I was greeted with a surprise visit from my sister and mother. They bathed my newly fat feet in cold water and massaged my sore back.

And then it started.

That was two years ago today. The next morning I greeted my stubborn, beautiful little baby into the world.

She’ll be told this story tomorrow. And every other birthday I share with her.

(For the record, she’s still stubborn. And still beautiful.)

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