Five

February seems full of birthdays for our family. Lots of family and friends are celebrating now. Including little Hattie, a full 9 years and 364 days younger than my daughter.

I had mixed feelings as I arrived at her 3rd birthday party. I would see a couple of friends - parents of her small buddies - because I remember now, parents don't leave 3 year olds on their own at birthday parties. Not if they want to get invited next time. That was good. I also remembered the angst I sometimes felt having parents hanging about at the party and feeling like you had to entertain them too. And the angst of having many very young children in the house all at once with their own happiness/unhappiness being displayed in countless ways. And the angst of having my own 3 year old literally not wanting to come down to say hello to guests because she was so overwhelmed. All that is behind me now and that felt good.

But there was still a little nagging sadness.  A longing for those days. When we threw glitter around the room, mashed the cocktail sausages into the floor, oohed and aahed at the terribly cute kids, washed it all down with more beers than was probably decent, and felt completely at one with the world once everyone had gone home.

It also threw up the awkward truth that although we have a record of A1 parties from previous years I have been beaten by forces beyond my control and find myself on the eve of my daughters 13th birthday without a party planned and not a single friend invited.

Said nearly 13 year old occupied herself happily, with her buddy of nearly 10 years, face painting any of the toddlers they could persuade. And when they (quite quickly) ran out of willing victims they occupied themselves happily painting themselves. Maybe that could count as her birthday party? I didn't have to look after any of the 3 year olds, didn't have to entertain the adults, was given a glass of cava and didn't even have to clear up. Bargain.  

So, the heart today rightly found a place on Hattie's gold front door.