What She Said: Who are we doing the perfectly pastel toddler birthday party for?

We just celebrated my son turning three. The first three years of parenting under our belt. Hurrah! I bought some champagne – a bottle of Tatty on special offer – hoping to spend the eve of his birthday looking back at old photos, reminiscing about all the milestones so far while of course relying on human nature to conveniently filter out the sh*t bits that were never photographed.

Instead, I spent the evening on his bedroom floor pleading with him to give in and go asleep. There was much excitement – or perhaps anxiety – about his party the next day and he was understandably wired to the moon. The following morning, he rose at the ass-crack of dawn, ready for action.

We had the party at my in-laws’ house. In part, because they have a much bigger garden that could accommodate a bouncing castle, also in part because I turn into a frazzled version of myself I do not like when I’m hosting in my own space (it’s called Hostess Neurosis). He napped en route to my in-laws’ which I figured would save us an exhausted meltdown or two (you have to game out every eventuality with toddlers). He’d have enough gas in the tank. We could do this. In that first half hour, he was probably the happiest I’d ever seen him, pulling his dad up onto the bouncing castle, singing Happy Birthday to himself. The sun was shining, conditions were perfect. Might we have the kind of day that kids-parties-of-Instagram dreams are made of? Shortly after, the guests arrived. As soon as there were more than a few people standing around and the noise level went up, he was done with the garden. I must have had a feeling this might happen, and thankfully, I had the foresight to book in our minder who could spend one-on-one time with him while I did the rounds with trays of sausage rolls and vol-au-vents. As more people arrived, I could feel my blood pressure rising; everyone was here to celebrate the little boy who wanted no part in it. All of the other kids gravitated toward the bouncing castle. It was fun, boisterous, loud, and in hindsight, absolutely not my son’s idea of a good time.

Eventually, he agreed to come outside when it was time for the cake. If in doubt, get where you need to be on the promise of cake. Then as people started to leave, he came back to life. We had some lovely moments together. I got the Instagram-worthy picture (which I felt compelled to follow up with an honest take of the day in case anyone else felt pressured to have the same kind of party for their kids when in reality it did not play out how we had hoped). Our homeward journey featured a 40-minute meltdown of epic proportions due to a beloved burst balloon (you see, he had wanted the balloons to burst but when they did burst… well, if you’re a toddler parent you know how it goes). It was never about the balloon, it was the overstimulation, the overwhelm, the exhaustion, and the over-sugaredness coming out in him. By the time we got him to bed, I didn’t want to speak to another human being until the following day.

The thought occurred to me: was I really doing this for him? Or for myself? Or so I could tick the box of what I think I should be doing because it’s what I see others doing? Mothers in their droves reassured me in my DMs that they’ve all been there. Their kid, like mine, is just not a party kid and they’d be much happier celebrating their birthday with their immediate family and a Colin the Caterpillar. Parties for an awful lot of little people are overwhelming, especially when it’s all eyes on them. And for a lot of not-so-little people too. Especially after Covid which obliterated any ‘hostess-with-the-mostest-chilled-vibes-small-talking-also-while-ensuring-your-child’s-needs are-constantly-met’ abilities I might have had. It might have looked like I was having a good time, but I really wasn’t. I was feeling guilty about having distracted half-conversations with the people who made the effort to be there. I was comparing my sensitive child to their more confident child and catastrophising in my own mind. I was worrying about what others might think. I was worrying that people always had a drink and a nibble in hand. I was looking for confirmation that everyone was capital letters HAVING FUN. And most of all I was worrying that I had put this on my son and it was just too much for him.

Kids’ parties, in all their pastel glory, with bespoke balloon installations and themed three-tier cakes – are what we’ve come to expect. But if a trip to the playground with some pals that they’re comfortable with, or a family-only gathering at home with a couple of jam buns is their idea of heaven, then maybe that’s enough. A perfect party is not a measure of a memorable, love-filled childhood. The fact that you give a sh*t is. So until my son comes to me and begs me for a party of that ilk – which I will happily deliver – I’m hanging up my party hat.