We don’t get out much, us mums. But when we do, it’s in December. Cards at the ready – you’re about to play babysitting bingo! Christmas throws upon us the heady mix of more social occasions than the rest of the year put together, and the organisational nightmare of arranging childcare so we can attend. You are pitted against the other parents in the town in pursuit of a babysitter not only for one night, but potentially several. School occasions see you competing for sitters against your own classmates, from a pool of often common childcarers. Your fourth favourite girl at your child’s old nursery now seems like a golden option. Throw into the mix your work / husband’s work parties and you’re in Diary-Gate. Whose occasion is more worthy? If you’re the one expected to babysit that night, is your event eligible for engaging a sitter? Like most people, we end up negotiating madly and in the end our social scene in December is dictated by babysitter availability, not personal preference. I’d rather disclose my bra size than my babysitter’s number If there’s a secret you keep closer to your chest, I should like to know it. It’s all very well in, say, March, to succumb to another mum’s plight and give out a reliable babysitter’s number. But come December and you’re both going to the same class drinks, you will rue that day, mark my words. Rue it. I’d rather offer to babysit myself than give up my premium sitter, whom I have wooed over months and bamboozled into somehow liking my children enough to enter the evening with enthusiasm. If I were to help a friend in need by sharing a top sitter’s number, I would have to privately enforce an embargo, whereby I should always get first refusal. All this is laughable, of course. Market forces are at work here as in every other sphere, and she with the most generous hourly rate and the handsomest plate of biscuits shall win the prize. Loyalty counts for nothing in the face of M&S’s chocolate biscuit selection box. Christmas Day – the calm before the babysitting storm At least when the big day dawns, there are no babysitting dilemmas to be overcome. Roast potato rows – how many is enough? – yes. Present palavers – yes. But no baby-sitting bust-ups. But after a few days of Quality Street-induced inertia, we seek to rise again, like the social phoenix from the ashes. For it is time to see in the New Year. It is time to nail down the prize. The most elusive of all things – the New Years’ Eve babysitter This is someone whom I’ve yet to meet. Every NYE since I’ve had children has been spent in with a curry, my husband and, occasionally, other parents who’ve put the kids to bed upstairs. Which has been lovely. Good job, as the cost and gamesmanship of obtaining a NYE sitter is pretty much beyond me. I have semi-secured one on a couple of occasions, only to be let down with some spurious flu or family-related excuse and 12 hours’ notice. But by that time, I am battle-weary. I’m quite happy to give up the chase and stay in for the next eleven months. Happy Christmas Countdown!
“Not tonight, love, I’m folding my laundry.” This was on the tip of my tongue the other night, when a friend asked me to the pub. I kid you not. Do you ever feel you have to choose between seeing your friends and getting on top of the housework? Enter the Chore Date.
Our children get playdates; we get to squeeze in a coffee while ticking through in our worried little minds the unfolded laundry, the unmopped floor, the unsewn nametapes waiting for us at home. OK, maybe sewing nametapes is going a bit far (laundry pens people!), but the point is: there’s crochet groups, book groups, quilt-making groups, Zumba groups – so why not a housework group?
Obviously this only applies to fairly close friends: I wouldn’t invite a new acquaintance round to watch me scrub the loo. And it requires a mutual despair at the state of your house, to the point where taking your laundry mountain to a friend’s to fold seems like a sane thing to do.
I have three young children: I am never on top of my housework. I am already at the stage of life where I compare notes with my friends on things like the pros and cons of the various mop-heads on the market, and how best to clear up couscous (answer: leave to dry and then hoover up – otherwise the little devils stick to your brush.)
So why should the twain not meet?
It’s not exactly washing clothes together on the stones of a fast-flowing river, but as far as solidarity goes, a group ironing session would be pretty awesome. We could even have wine!
In case you’re wondering / worrying – I did go to the pub that night. But the spectre of my laundry mountain haunted me all night.
The Romantic Chore Date
Your husband needn’t miss out! What could be more pleasing than an evening spent mutually doing chores? The day we spent clearing out (half of) the garage was the best time we’ve had together in ages. Who knows where a chore date could lead?
Do you manage to make time for everything, or could you do with a chore date?
Kids’ parties: love ’em or loathe ’em, you’ve got to do ’em. Here’s how.
You’d think I’d be a dab hand by now, having organised 16 children’s parties. But it turns out you can still surprise yourself with your own ineptitude. Whether it’s your first or your 50th, here’s a handy checklist to stop you pooping the party.
Decide on a date: If you have it on your child’s actual birthday, make sure you don’t spend the whole time meeting and greeting so you fail to actually interact with your little angel on his big day. Whenever you decide, give plenty of notice (6 weeks or more), or you find yourself up against rival parties.
Decide on a venue: Soft play, football parties, Frozen in the church hall, at home…so much choice. Personally I go for the one that will run the whole party with no other intervention from me than turning up. Having tried to run Grandmother’s Footsteps for twelve toddlers, I’ve had to admit, I’m not a natural leader of children Go by what you think your child will enjoy the most; if that’s too expensive try and find a nearby birthday in their class and split it.
Don’t tell your child. Too soon, anyway. “How many days is it till my party, mummy?” “61.” “How many hours is that?” [Pause.] “1464.” “How many seconds is that?” “Um.” Start your countdown a more manageable distance from the party to save your brain and your patience.
Use Paperless Post, or similar. Paper invites are cute and all, but I find it a nightmare to track who is coming to what. I used Paperless Post for the first time this year and it was much easier to keep track of who was coming – and it’s free! Of course, I managed to send it out without the RSVP request the first time. So I guess what I should say, is use an online invite company – correctly.
Don’t rest on your laurels. I was so chuffed with myself for booking the boys’ parties two months in advance, I relaxed too soon. Then this happened:
Don’t forget the party bags. I mentioned that I like to just turn up to parties these days, but my casual approach went awry this year when I forgot that neither of the venues I’d booked for my sons’ parties (on consecutive Sundays) offered a party bag service. This I did not realise till the morning of the party. You’d think having done the crazy whirl of whatever shops were open at 10.30am on a Sunday once, that I’d prepare ahead for the next party. Not so! There I was again, a bit quicker this time having memorised the sub-£1 offering of the local proprietors, but still a little more fraught than is ideal pre-party.
Don’t forget the food. Whatever you do, don’t, at 12.30pm on the day of a party starting at 2pm, suddenly remember, with prickling armpits of fear, that you never did quite send the food request form to your venue of choice. Bearing in mind you’ve only just recovered from the forgotten party bags blow, this is quite a double whammy. If this does happen to you, and God forfend it doesn’t, there’s always Domino’s pizza. Cheap(ish), popular and a lot less faffy than sandwiches and cucumber sticks.
Don’t forget the cake. The birthday cake IS the birthday, as far as my children are concerned anyway. In my defence, I didn’t forget to make the cake. I just left icing it to the last minute. By which I mean, 1.15pm on the day of the party. I don’t know if you’ve ever triple iced a cake, but if that’s what it takes to stick mini R2D2s to a sponge, then you just do it, don’t you?
Don’t make your children cry just before the party. You’d think this would be so obvious I wouldn’t need to mention it. But I feel I should do public penance for the fact I made both the birthday boy and his big brother cry just as we were leaving the house for the party. All I did was turn off the TV in the middle of their programme and ask them quite loudly to get their shoes on. But I felt like I’d shot the dog.
Don’t forget to tell your husband where the party is. “Hello? Where are you?” “Where are YOU? Have you got the drinks?” (You’ll recall I hadn’t ordered any party tea so he’d gone to Tesco on the way for Fruit Shoots to dilute the salt-attack pizzas). “What do you mean you’re at the other place?” I’ll leave you to imagine the rest of that particular phone call.
Don’t be cripplingly hungover. When all of the above is going wrong, and even if it’s not, being hungover for your child’s party is a recipe for pain. (You might think it a large explanation for many of the mistakes, especially the last one; but in my case, all this could easily have happened even if I’d not touched a drop.) All those shrill voices screaming with joy, for a start. Then all their parents you may never have met, standing round awkwardly looking to you to maintain the social flow, when all you want to do is gibber quietly on the sofa with a family pack of pickled onion Monster Munch. Last time we did it, we swore we’d never go out the night before one of their parties again, yet here we were, responsible for everyone’s fun and barely in control of our innards.
The moral of the story? It is not give up booze or don’t do children’s parties – just don’t combine the two. But most of all:
ENJOY!
Disclaimer: This post is not sponsored by Paperless Post, Domino’s, Tesco or anything but my own stupidity.
July 25, 2020
'Tis the Season For Babysitting Bingo – Wry Mummy
maximios Blog
We don’t get out much, us mums. But when we do, it’s in December. Cards at the ready – you’re about to play babysitting bingo! Christmas throws upon us the heady mix of more social occasions than the rest of the year put together, and the organisational nightmare of arranging childcare so we can attend. You are pitted against the other parents in the town in pursuit of a babysitter not only for one night, but potentially several. School occasions see you competing for sitters against your own classmates, from a pool of often common childcarers. Your fourth favourite girl at your child’s old nursery now seems like a golden option. Throw into the mix your work / husband’s work parties and you’re in Diary-Gate. Whose occasion is more worthy? If you’re the one expected to babysit that night, is your event eligible for engaging a sitter? Like most people, we end up negotiating madly and in the end our social scene in December is dictated by babysitter availability, not personal preference. I’d rather disclose my bra size than my babysitter’s number If there’s a secret you keep closer to your chest, I should like to know it. It’s all very well in, say, March, to succumb to another mum’s plight and give out a reliable babysitter’s number. But come December and you’re both going to the same class drinks, you will rue that day, mark my words. Rue it. I’d rather offer to babysit myself than give up my premium sitter, whom I have wooed over months and bamboozled into somehow liking my children enough to enter the evening with enthusiasm. If I were to help a friend in need by sharing a top sitter’s number, I would have to privately enforce an embargo, whereby I should always get first refusal. All this is laughable, of course. Market forces are at work here as in every other sphere, and she with the most generous hourly rate and the handsomest plate of biscuits shall win the prize. Loyalty counts for nothing in the face of M&S’s chocolate biscuit selection box. Christmas Day – the calm before the babysitting storm At least when the big day dawns, there are no babysitting dilemmas to be overcome. Roast potato rows – how many is enough? – yes. Present palavers – yes. But no baby-sitting bust-ups. But after a few days of Quality Street-induced inertia, we seek to rise again, like the social phoenix from the ashes. For it is time to see in the New Year. It is time to nail down the prize. The most elusive of all things – the New Years’ Eve babysitter This is someone whom I’ve yet to meet. Every NYE since I’ve had children has been spent in with a curry, my husband and, occasionally, other parents who’ve put the kids to bed upstairs. Which has been lovely. Good job, as the cost and gamesmanship of obtaining a NYE sitter is pretty much beyond me. I have semi-secured one on a couple of occasions, only to be let down with some spurious flu or family-related excuse and 12 hours’ notice. But by that time, I am battle-weary. I’m quite happy to give up the chase and stay in for the next eleven months. Happy Christmas Countdown!