Let's Get This (Kids) Party Started!

HE'S HAD a party on a boat, in a museum and even in Italy but this year our son wanted to celebrate his seventh birthday at our house. 

‘Good idea,’ I thought. It would be less hassle to organise and credit-crunch friendly on the purse too. 

So I agreed he could invite as many of his little friends as he wanted and leave the rest to us. ‘It’ll be easy,’ I told my husband, Alexio. ‘I mean it’s only seven six-year-old boys coming over for a few hours. What could go wrong?’

A lot actually – so here’s my top six tips to surviving your little one’s birthday party:
Be prepared – it’s best to make the guest list early. Little Johnny or Keanu has a packed social diary so send out Save The Date e-invites six months before.

This should be followed up with a hand-written (preferably hand-designed) invitation with every which way to RSVP – which no one ever does. Most mums ask for a present list. This could be done at John Lewis or Toys R Us or you could set one up online. Or do as I do and say: ‘don’t bother, he’ll only break/lose/hate/have it anyway.’

Never just send out an invitation email, like I did, a week before. It might mean no one turns up to your child’s party. Or that everyone knows you’re a slovenly disorganised slummy mummy.

Let us entertain you – don’t ever think a bunch of kids could enjoy themselves playing together with your child’s toys. They must be entertained at all times.

Hire in boy bands (for mixed parties), Girls Aloud (for boys only), anyone who will make them march around like soldiers (but not your veteran granddad), teach them football, or to sing and dance (David Beckham and Britney).

Otherwise call in anyone who’s been on the X factor or Britain’s Got Talent – this is easier if you’re friends with Simon Cowell or ask him to be the godfather to your child. Best to do that before the party to avoid disappointment.

On no account hire a magician (all kids hate them), stick on one of your ‘albums’ for them to dance to or dream of making a pass the parcel. Party suicide.

Drop the dead (sweet-filled) donkey – a piñata is the ultimate in party fun. Stuff the hollow cardboard donkey with sweets then blindfold your little one and his/her friends and tell them to bash it until its guts (sweets) fall out.   

This is great for anger management and building up an appetite before bringing out the party food.

Unfortunately, it has to be hung up – usually on a washing line, so the kids can get a good swing at it without getting hurt.

We don’t have a garden, let alone a washing line, so I tied two dressing gown cords together and made my husband and his friend hold either end in the middle of our tiny living room. Nearly being smacked by blindfolded kids only added to the danger and excitement.

I’d also forgotten to buy a stick so had to improvise with Deme’s Harry Potter broomstick.

The boys loved pummelling the donkey. But it was so stuffed with sweets it wasn’t given up without a fight. One friend beheaded it, my son took out two of its limbs but still it held onto the sweets.

‘Hit it harder,’ everyone shouted as their craving for sugar increased. Deme almost took another boy’s eye out and one of the other boys snapped the broom in half.

It smashed into the balcony window, bounced off and narrowly missed the plasma TV.

Half an adrenaline-fuelled hour later the donkey finally split and the broken sweets came out in a mushroom cloud of sugary dust. It coated us, the kids, our furniture and the floor with a zillion bits of love hearts, lollies and boiled sweets.

We then invented an even better game of pan and brush – where the boys had to sweep up the mess before their friends could eat all the sweet debris.

Have your cake and eat it – never, ever make your own. A lop-sided, burnt Victoria sponge with green icing will not pass as a Ben 10 Alien Force intergalactic cake.

It must be from a supermarket, packed full of additives, sugar and have an iced figure of the latest hero on top for the guests to fight over.

‘I want his omnitrix,’ my son wailed as his guests bartered over which body part of Ben 10’s they deserved. My husband performed a professional autopsy before everyone stopped screaming.

Bags of fun – party bags are the real test of how good the party was. You could have booked Justine Timberlake, Diversity or Beyonce to entertain your little one’s friends but if the party bag’s not up to scrutiny you’ll be judged accordingly.

Last year we thought we’d cheat by buying posh metallic Transformers and Spider-Man ready-made bags. ‘Wow,’ all the boys said until they opened it. ‘This is rubbish,’ one five-year-old sniffed.

‘It’s only got a poster and a sweet in it. It’s not even worth taking home.’

So this year we went all out to impress and stuffed the bags full to bursting. Not only was the best candy inside but a yoyo, parachute soldier, harmonica, spinning top, flashing necklace, edible vampire teeth, glow-in-the-dark skulls, bubbles, cuddly toy…if the supermarket had it, we bought it.

‘Not bad,’ my son’s friends murmured.

Next year we’re saving up to include Apple Macbook pros, I-phones, a Wii and an all-inclusive trip to Disneyland with £1,000 spending money each.

Stock up on stain removers – sleepovers are the new going out and every guest must be invited to stay the night.

That doesn’t mean they will, of course. Most will wait until it’s at least 10pm, you’ve relaxed, had two glasses of rioja so you’re over the limit, and then decide they need to go home right now.

Do ring their parents to collect them. Don’t try to persuade them to stay. They’ll only wait until you’ve had another two glasses and gone to bed before repeating the same process.

Do put a DVD on a continuous loop, give them popcorn in bed and tell them to help themselves to breakfast. You’ll need all the sleep you can get before beginning the big tidy up after the party.

Make sure you’ve got a variety of stain removers before the sleepover part of the party begins.

The kids will find a way to cut themselves, be sick down the stairs carpet, and miss the toilet.

Buckets, plaster and bed mat protectors are optional but will save the laundry/dry/steam/industrial cleaning bill.

We’re still cleaning up the house three days later. ‘It was a brilliant party,’ my son announced last night. ‘All my friends can’t stop talking about it.’

Neither can me or my husband – as we desperately try to find a carpet cleaner, decorator and psychologist to repair the damage.

At least we’ve got a year to organise the next one. I’m thinking Macdonald’s, the O2 or The Albert Hall…it’ll work out cheaper and less stressful.

A Wee Problem

THE SHOES in the shop window made me stop and drool. They were ballerina pink satin with a fake block toe and delicate ribbons to wind up your calf. 

Very Darcey Bussell – and totally ridiculous for rainy, grimy London. ‘They’d be ruined first time out,’ I thought, prising myself away.

But I couldn’t forget the shoes and kept making reasons to go past the shop to see them. ‘They’re so beautiful,’ I muttered, shocking myself. I’m definitely not a shoe kind of girl.

I was brought up as a tomboy in the country where most people thought I was a lad until 38DDs erupted from my chest at 13.

Wellies, trainers and sensible flats have encased my size 7s most of my life.

I’ve dabbled with the odd stiletto and ended up with a sprained ankle every time. I really can’t walk in anything above an inch high.

So these ballet slippers were perfect. Until I dared to go inside and saw the price. ‘Eighty pounds!’ I coughed, blinking.

They were only a bit of satin with some ribbon attached. ‘Outrageous,’ I tutted, shaking my head. I could buy the food shopping with that, or pay the gas bill.

But I had to have them. I’d never felt this way about a pair of shoes before. ‘And I do need a treat,’ I told myself.

I had two children – a six-year-old boy and little girl, 17 months, who kept me frazzled. I’d been ill, lost my job and hadn’t been able to find another one. ‘I deserve cheering up,’ I decided, taking the shoes to the till.

Back home, I unwrapped them from the tissue and stared at them in the box. They were so delicate. So feminine.

Then I looked down at my feet with their bunions, chipped nail varnish and wonky toes. It had been a long time since they’d done a plie or pirouette.

But once I’d slipped on the slippers, I felt like dancing, they were so gorgeous.

‘Wow,’ my little girl, Anais, said over and over again, pointing to my feet. I laughed.

‘Yes wow,’ I repeated and taking her hand, did a twirl.

These shoes were magical, transforming me from a frizzy-haired, clumsy mum into a giggling girl.

‘Let’s take the shoes out for a walk,’ I said. It was a crisp, sunny October day. No hint of rain, nothing to scuff or ruin my new shoes.

Strictly gorgeous

In them I even walked differently – delicate, as if I could appear on Strictly or put leg warmers on to watch Fame.

‘I’m going to live forever,’ I sang, pushing the pram faster.

Then I looked at my watch. Oh no. I had to pick up my son, Deme, from school. And I still hadn’t bought any food for tea. I’d been too preoccupied with my new shoes.

‘We can’t be late,’ I said, sprinting along with the pushchair now. Deme was the last one waiting by the school gate.

‘Sorry sweetie,’ I panted, guilt – and not the shoes - pinching. ‘I’m not late am I?

He looked down at my feet. ‘Nice shoes, Mamma,’ he said. ‘You look like a dancer.’

I grinned. These shoes were ridiculously expensive but really made an impact.

I was in a good mood as we walked to the supermarket. ‘I want to go home and watch Ben 10 Alien Force,’ Deme moaned.

‘It won’t take long,’ I promised. I only had a few things to get. But at least it was a good excuse to show off my new girly shoes.

Deme sulked down the fruit and vegetable aisle, then begged to look at the toys.

‘Just let me get the shopping,’ I said, trying to ignore his pleas and the baby’s singing.

I was trying to decide between spaghetti and macaroni dried pasta when I heard it. ‘Ooow, ooow, oooww, ooooh,’ my son wailed.

I looked up and saw he was bright red and dancing about on the spot. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as he jigged and wailed in pain.

‘I need the toilet,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Right now.’

I glanced around for the toilet sign, then sprinted down the aisle, past the cakes and burst through the doors into the nearest loo – the disabled one.

There was enough room for all three of us, including the pushchair. ‘Made it,’ I said as Deme struggled with his trouser buttons and zip.

‘Oh noooooo,’ he screamed, desperate now.

‘Let me do it,’ I said, battling to undo his zip as Deme hopped from one foot to the other.

Finally I wrestled it down and turned to give Deme some privacy. Too late.

He needed to go so badly, a fountain of wee arched in the air. In slow motion, I watched it begin its descent, frantically trying to get out of the way.

Before I could move, the wee hit the rim of the toilet and splattered everywhere – raining down on my new shoes.

‘Aaaaah,’ Deme sighed, relieved.

‘Noooooooo,’ I screamed, distraught. I was now standing in a puddle of wee and could see it spreading across the fine pink silk of my shoes.

‘Sorry,’ Deme said, doing up his zip. I couldn’t speak. My shoes were ruined, a large stain already marking each one.

I’d owned them for less than a couple of hours. Now they were only good for the bin. ‘I’m sure they’ll be OK when they dry,’ Deme said, embarrassed.

I kissed the top of his head. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I reassured him. ‘It was an accident.’ I blamed myself. Silly ballet shoes at my age? They were a wee mistake.

Do you think there’s a stain remover for wee? Or do you know another way to save my shoes? Please let me know…  

Hands off Jordan - Simon Cowell's mine!

STARING AT the photo of them smiling into the camera, arms wound around each other, jealousy twisted through me.

‘So Katie Price fancies Simon Cowell does she?’ I muttered. ‘Well she’ll have to get past me first.’

The ink was barely dry on her divorce from the gorgeous Peter Andre and here she was declaring her lust for Mr X Factor himself.

Tough luck, Jordan, I thought. I spotted him before you.

Five-and-a-half years ago, to be exact, when I auditioned for the pop show just after having my son, Deme.

Fresh from changing nappies, weaning and sleep-deprived from his teething, I decided I’d been hiding my real talents all along.

I was better than Britney, could out-warble Whitney, and knew I could teach Mariah Carey a thing or two.

A tone-deaf husband and eager-to-please toddler only added to my self-belief.

I chose to sing Blondie’s Heart of Glass at the London round of auditions and bombed. But I didn’t care.

Throughout my disastrous rendition, I was just inches away from Simon, Louis and Sharon Osbourne – and was shocked at how sexy Mr Cowell was in the flesh.

On screen, I’d laughed along as Ant & Dec teased him about his high-waisted trousers, terrible haircut and megawatt smile.

Now, up close, he was sexy in a raw multi-millionaire way.  

Raw Passion

He was the sort of man I – and Katie Price – could imagine throwing you over his shoulder in a primitive but oh-so passionate manner.

What a shame I was married, a mum and he thought I was the worse singer he’d heard that day - which was only marginally better than Louis telling me I had absolutely no star quality!

Now I’ve forgiven him for not seeing my star potential.

'Can I be Simon?’ my little boy, Deme, now six, asked when we settled down to watch the X Factor at the weekend.

We were as eager as the rest of Britain to find out the final 12 going through to the live show.

‘Of course,’ I said, handing him his Cowell Costume – a pair of high-waisted jeans and grey V-neck T shirt.

I smiled at my baby, Anais. ‘Do you fancy being Cheryl or Dannii?’ I said.

She was wearing a flared mini-skirt from Gap. More Mrs Cole than Ms Minogue, I decided, cradling her next to me on the sofa.

That just left my husband to play our Saturday night talent game of rate the singer. ‘You’ll have to be Louis,’ I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Alexio was furious. ‘That means I have to choose those awful Irish twins, John and Edward,’ he sulked.

Britain’s Got the X-Factor

The music began and we leant closer to the TV, all imitating our chosen judge.

‘Uuggh aaggh,’ my son went, pretending to press a buzzer. ‘Where’s Piers, Mamma?’

I laughed. ‘No this is X Factor, darling,’ I explained. ‘Not Britain’s Got Talent.’

But I could understand the confusion. With the live audience and heightened emotion, the two programmes have merged.

Deme ignored me and carried on buzzing anyway. Anais screamed for her milk as the groups performed, and Alexio screamed in frustration at big-haired as well as bigheaded duo John and Edward.

Me? I just waited for the glimpses of Simon in his (shock) white V-neck T-shirt at home in Hollywood.

And I bet Katie Price was doing the same. She has been arguing with her cage-fighter boyfriend Alex Reid over her lust for Simon.

But I don’t blame her. He might have a weak top lip, a limited wardrobe and loo-brush style hair but Simon’s up there with Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and Keanu Reeves.

Now Simon, who’s 50 tomorrow, is launching his own X Factor aftershave and I’m really excited. I’ll be able to spray my husband with it and sniff him all day long.

Jordan’s right to fancy Simon but she’ll have to get in line. I’m proud of my Cowell crush – to me it makes perfect scents! 

Do you fancy Simon or are me and Jordan mad? Tell me what you think by leaving a comment below…

Things That Go BUMP!

MY BUMP is growing fast. What was a relatively flat(tish) stomach seven weeks ago is now ballooning so much I can’t do up my jeans.

Same for my boobs. There used to be just the two of them, but now there’s an extra pair cascading over the top of my bra.

‘Do you want my seat?’ a suited stranger offered me on the tube yesterday. I grabbed it, happy to take the extra weight off my feet.

What a shame I’m not pregnant.

No, this extra stone-and-a-half around my middle is a pasta and wine baby. And, short of liposuction, the only way I’m going to shift is to go on a (gulp) diet – or get pregnant again.

Being up the duff does it for me every time. I lost four stone during my last pregnancy and two expecting my first child.

Morning sickness, heartburn and general lack of alcohol had the blubber falling off as my babies grew inside me.

Sure, I suffered stretch marks, leaky boobs and had two emergency Caesareans.

But that’s a small price to pay for a belly that will no longer hang over my giant knickers because I can’t resist cheap wine and seconds of spinach and ricotta ravioli in cream sauce.

‘Your tummy’s getting fat,’ my six-year-old boy Deme said, eyeing it, the other day. ‘Am I having another brother or sister?’

I glanced over at my gym-buffed husband and saw him flinch. ‘Not unless I keep my Spandex pants on for a drink-filled night of passion,’ I muttered under my garlic and rioja-scented breath.

Even Alexio suggested I join him for a workout. I would, if only I could find a gym kit to squeeze into. I’ve decided no more babies. Ever.

So now I’m counting down the days until next Monday when the diet starts. Until them I’m pigging out on red wine, cava and pasta in every shape and flavour.

‘You’ve got to stop eating so much,’ Alexio’s already warned me. ‘Or you’ll never fit into any of your clothes.’

But I’m not worried. I found my maternity jeans at the back of my wardrobe this morning. If I wear a baggy top no one will ever know!

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby!

AS SOON as I saw the couple sprawled on the grass I knew it meant trouble.

We’d come to the park to play on the swings and whizz down the slide, not watch teenagers make out.

‘Get a room,’ I muttered as my little girl toddled off to explore the playhouse.

My six-year-old son was transfixed. ‘What are they doing?’ Deme asked. I took a deep breath.

‘Er, looking for something they’ve lost,’ I lied. But he wasn’t buying any of it.

‘No they’re not,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘They’re kissing. Why’s he lying on her though?’

I tried to wing it. 

‘They’re playing a squashing game,’ I ventured. Deme raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re practising horizontal dancing,’ I went on. 

Deme shook his head. ‘I know, Mamma,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘They’re tired from so much kissing and just want to relax.’

I smiled. ‘That’s it,’ I said, steering him towards the climbing frame. ‘How did you get to be so clever?’

All day I kept Deme distracted, knowing a giant can of wiggly worms had been opened.

I was right. The moment there was a silence at dinner he blurted it out. ‘Dad, do you ever get tired of kissing Mamma?’

I already knew the answer to that one. We’ve been together 13 years, married for nine. Our last sexy snog was circa 2003 when lack of sleep and stretch marks became a contraceptive.

‘Er, what do you mean, Deme?’ Alexio asked, confused. I hadn’t had time to fill him in on the teenager’s open-air groping session.

‘Well do you ever have to lay down on top of Mamma?’ he continued.

Alexio nearly chocked on his spaghetti. I did a quick one of our looks – the evil eye – so he knew to change the subject fast.

But it was obvious Deme was growing up quickly. We wouldn’t be able to put off having that chat for much longer.

‘There’s no way I’m telling him,’ I wailed as soon as Deme went to bed. ‘I’m his mum. I just couldn’t.’

This was a father’s job. ‘I’ll tell Anais when she needs to know,’ I promised. That got me off the hook for another seven years.

‘OK,’ Alexio agreed. ‘I’ll teach him all about sex this weekend.’ I grimaced, making a mental note to be out of the house when the talk happened.

Our son needed to know all about the birds and the bees. But it meant he was growing up too fast. And I wanted, like all mums, to keep him my little boy forever.

All week I dreaded the approach of the weekend. Was Deme going to be different somehow when he knew where babies came from?

‘What are you going to say?’ I quizzed Alexio. He shrugged. ‘I’ll just say what comes into my mind,’ he said. I frowned.

Alexio was Italian and had been educated by nuns. I could imagine what their sex lessons had been like – all ‘not before marriage’ else you’ll go blind or be burned at the stake. This was going to hurt him a lot more than it hurt Alexio.

That night, Deme came out of school, looking very pleased with himself. ‘I know all about kissing and stuff,’ he announced.

Alexio and I looked at each other, worried. We’d left it too late. Now he’d found out from someone else. ‘Who told you?’ I demanded.

Deme smiled. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘The big boys.’ I closed my eyes, dreading what they’d said.

‘Tell us then,’ I whispered. There was a pause as we waited. Deme puffed out his chest.

‘Kissing’s not just for boys and girls,’ he said. ‘If you kiss a boy it’s called Gage and if a girl kisses a girl then she’s a Toni.’

I could feel the air rushing into my lungs, hear my heart beating once more. ‘Oh, yes, very good,’ I mumbled as Alexio looked even more confused.

Sex education in the playground? I think Deme needs a few more lessons.

Baby's Gone To Rehab

I COULDN'T wait for my husband to get back from the shops. It was Friday – my one night of the week when I could drink.

Before I’d been pregnant with Anais I’d party two or three times a week, necking rioja like it was ribena.

But morning sickness that lasted nine months and a year’s breastfeeding had turned me into a teetotaller.

My body – and liver – were now my own again and I was ready to road test my alcohol limit.

So I’d sent Alexio off to do the supermarket to pick up a cheeky red or two.

Now all I had to do was bath the baby, tidy up and persuade my six-year-old son that Strictly really was better than Ben 10.

‘Come on Princess,’ I smiled at Anais. ‘Bath, book and bed.’ She grinned at me, then toddled off in the opposite direction, dragging her best friend with her.

She had a vast selection of dolls but Baby Rosie was her absolute BFF.

Whatever Anais did, Baby did too. My little girl would kiss her, cuddle her, feed her a bottle and put her to bed. It was all I could do to keep Baby out of the bath.

‘Leave Baby here, she wants to watch the dancing,’ I giggled, picking up Anais and heading to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, she was happily asleep in her cot, and I could smell Alexio cooking downstairs.

More importantly, I heard the glug of wine being poured into a glass. ‘Aaah,’ perfect, I sighed, taking a sip.

The fruity, rich rioja caressed my taste buds, making me smile. ‘I’ve missed you,’ I announced, taking another sip, then another…

By the time I’d finished my ravioli half the bottle was gone.

‘Better pace myself,’ I thought, grabbing the half-empty bottle to drink while watching celebs in sequins trying not to trip over their own feet.

‘I’ll tidy up later,’ I said, pushing the toys and Baby aside to sit on the sofa.

The rioja slipped down far too easily. I felt my shoulders relax, laughed at Brucie’s jokes, even agreed that my son could watch the entire Harry Potter film collection in bed.

Alexio had a glass too. ‘It’s the only way I can endure this dancing nonsense,’ he muttered.

But soon, thanks to the wine, we were scoring each celebrity, discussing Tess Daly’s dress and Alesha Dixon’s attempts to be the new Cheryl Cole.

And when we realised that bottle had gone, Alexio uncorked another. By the end of Strictly our teeth and lips were black, and everything was suddenly so funny.

We were laughing so much our son stormed downstairs to tell us to be quiet. ‘I can’t hear my film,’ he complained, rolling his eyes. ‘And if you carry on you’ll wake up Anais.’

I tried to act sober. But his stern face was making me want to laugh. Then Alexio started to giggle and that set me off too.

Deme stormed off, disgusted with his silly, black-mouthed parents, but we were having a great time.

We chatted on, raided the kids’ crisp and sweet cupboard and even had a cushion fight.

‘Take that,’ I giggled, hurling a giant fluffy one at Alexio. He ducked, then threw a leather cushion back.

It was coming straight at me, so I swerved, lost my balance and began to fall. I put out my arm to save myself – and knocked my last glass of red wine all over the floor.

‘Oh no,’ I yelled, considering whether to suck up the spreading pool of rioja. It was such a waste and I’d mopped the wooden floor that morning. But as I bent down, I gasped.

Baby was lying prostrate on her back covered in red wine. Her babygro was soaked, her long blonde hair matted with rioja, her soft body wet through.

‘Look what I’ve done,’ I said, holding the wine-ruined doll up. Alexio shook his head. ‘Let’s put it in the washing machine,’ he suggested.

But I could tell it was ruined. The doll’s body was soft but its limbs were plastic. There was no way we could save it.

So, ashamed and full of guilt, I went to bed.

This morning – after taking two painkillers and drinking a litre of water - I inspected Baby. She stank like a wino and was stained beyond recognition. Time for the dolly to go to rehab, I decided.

‘Sorry Baby,’ I said, throwing her in the bin before Anais woke up. All morning my poor little girl’s been searching for her BFF.

So now I’m off to buy a replacement. This one won’t be called Baby Rosie though. I think Amy or Britney would be better. That way she’ll survive my slummy mummy Friday nights.

The Mum Who Walked Into Doors

ONE MINUTE I was asleep and the next a bottle hit me over the head. Luckily it wasn’t glass. But the contents of my baby’s half-drunk milk dripped down my face, making sure I was suddenly wide awake.

‘Don’t use me as target practice,’ I muttered, peering at the clock. 5.30am. Oh great. Another early morning in the Pasquali Jones household, thanks to Anais.

She was shrieking by now, desperate to leave the confines of her cot at the bottom of our bed. ‘Time for you to move into your own room,’ I decided. ‘And to start anger management classes.’

To say my little girl’s violent is an under statement. Most days she pulls my hair until my scalp burns. She has her six-year-old brother in tears with her headbutts.

And she can throw anything – no matter how heavy – at least six feet, and has an uncanny ability to always hit the target, even if it’s moving.

I’ve turned up at nursery with scratches, bruises and, once, even a fat and bloody lip. I’ve caught the sympathetic looks from the other mums. I could tell what they were thinking: ‘Poor woman. She’s obviously been beaten up by her husband. Why doesn’t she leave him?’

I don’t say anything. I mean who’s going to believe the only punches or slaps I’ve ever received were from my little baby? But I might have to start a help group for battered mums – or learn to duck quicker.