In less than three weeks WallyBubba turns one.
That’s right, my daughter – AKA the DESTROYER – will have officially been on this earth for an entire year on 15th December…
Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are…
I’m fairly sure I’ve been dazed, depressed or drunk for most of the past 12 months, so it’s feels appropriate that this occasion shall now be known as ‘Triple D-Day’. With optional gin-flavoured hiccup.
It’s a day that will hold mixed emotions… I feel like I don’t remember enough of her first year… Like the tiny new-mummy goblins kept removing my brain and replacing it with a sausage at regular intervals or something… so I think in some part the ‘guilt’ of not paying enough attention over the past year has led to me inadvertently organising the party of the century in her honour. Shit.
‘We’ll just have a few close friends, direct family and a cake.’ I said to the WallyHusband a few weeks ago.
Will we bollocks. Slowly the guest list has begun to take on a life of its own, inviting friends and extended family all by itself via Facebook… then it thought we needed other babies. Yes, as many other babies as possible. A gaggle of babies. A shitting plethora of babies. A BABY ARMY. Without tiny people smashing cake into my carpet and licking my radiators, it won’t be a proper fucking party now will it – no.
Cake – well the cake needs to be at least the size of a Nissan Micra, and shrouded in cupcakes, fairy dust and edible frigging glitter. And alcohol – you can’t have a first birthday party without booze – EVERYONE WOULD START TO SEE THE REAL ME IF THEY’RE NOT DRUNK. Order everything pink and fizzy and I want pink and fizzy plastic glasses to drink it out of godamit.
Decorations – a fairytale pink masterpiece; balloons, and streamers, and banners, and ribbons, and tablecloths, and a [email protected]*king piñata. Because that what one-year-olds need. A giant pink, frilly, tissue paper donkey and a huge stick to decapitate it with.
And nibbles – we need nibbles, we must order Tescos – all of it. The whole lot. Because I’ve just checked Facebook and the guest list is at 75, and that doesn’t include the neighbours, the grandparents and the babies… all the babies…
And entertainment, all the babies need something to do – hire a clown. NO – Peppa Pig. I need an out-of-work actor dressed as a giant farm animal in a dress snorting around some one year olds for a minimum of half an hour. And indoor fireworks. And outdoor fireworks. And a pony.
I’ll print out giant pictures of her face. Yes. Everywhere – giant WallyBubba face pictures. She can come in riding on a pink dolphin, wearing a solid gold tiara, chewing on a rice cake throwing personalised confetti over her baby army. Yes. Yes. YES.
At this point, I begin to think I might have gone slightly over the top…
So sod it.
Scrap the lot.
That settles it. It’s not a first birthday party, it’s an ‘I MADE IT THROUGH THE FIRST YEAR OF THIS SHIT NOW BRING ME SOME ALCOHOL AND TELL ME I LOOK THIN’ Party. Wine and/or gin required on entry. Dress code – scruffy as possible to make me look better. Bring your own food and take your [email protected]*king shoes off. No photos of me crying.
See you there guys.
Should be awesome.