School holidays. God’s ultimate way of testing our love for our kids. Day one was deceptively fine. So fine in fact that it gave me reasonable hope that we might all survive the next 5 weeks with all our limbs intact. That was until day two - The Party. Or should I say, the little girls party. Goodbye ears.
Just to clarify things, I love little girls. As a mother with two sons, I’ve always had little girl envy. The clothes, the pink, the gingham, the makeup, the sweet maternal nature, the ballet, the girly bedrooms, the long hair, the shoes with bling, the hair goodies, the cuddles, the girly smell; you name it. It took one girly party to make me feel grateful for my masculine lot in life.
A friend of mine once said to her daughter (well, only once in front of me, she may say it daily for all I know), it’s not what you’re saying (clenched-teeth face); it’s the PITCH of your voice (fierce-face). At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant, but after witnessing, or rather hearing, the fairer sex is en masse; I now know what she was on about. It shouldn’t be allowed. They clearly try to out-soprano one another. One’s enough, two’s The Mikado, three is an auditory assault. Their pitch makes Vuvuzelas sound like Bach. The Unbearable Pitchness of Being is what I call it.
I’m kind of peeved with myself for going in the first place. I know better. Unless the host is a good friend, children’s parties are the pits. Before I had kids I thought they’d be delicious fun. They’re not. You have to look all friendly and interested and ooh and aah over the birthday kid and his/her mother, who is trying desperately to win the over-achiever of the year award. Know what I mean?
I normally don’t know any of the other moms. Conversation is stilted. I end up consuming copious amounts of coffee in an attempt to fuel dialog. Add to the mix several half-eaten cupcakes that get tossed my way and I end up feeling entirely queasy (my body being the pure temple that it is.) Nowadays when I open a kiddie’s party invitation, the queasiness sets in by way of association. The worst thing is that most hosts refuse to serve booze (necessary to counteract the effects of the coffee, nothing else), as it’s deemed inappropriate. Inappropriate! I ask you! Bloody party poopers! And while we’re on hot-tips for parties, why do we bother serving the cake part with the cup cakes? The only thing that gets eaten is the icing. Yes, save yourself the hassle and just tube some icing into a cupcake paper thingy and top it with a smartie. No waste, no crumbs, no PT.
So, my big achievement for this week is sending in my submissions to the Oxford Dictionary of Collective Nouns. Along with a grunt of men, a thug of boys, a grumble of old farts, a moan of farmers (this one is true, really) and a mad of mothers, the new collective noun for a group of little girls is…yes you guessed it, a pitch of girls. And I dearly, dearly hope, that the next little girl’s party I am invited to includes the game “let’s learn sign language”. Ouch. Adieu.
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