As society becomes increasingly weird, birthdays are a chance to build connection. Even if it means 300 attempts at conversation with other tired parents
W
hen my beautiful firstborn turned one, about 70 people came to the pub to celebrate. There were drinks, there were meals, there were balloons, there was singing. They were celebrating me. Since then his birthdays have become about him and his friends and the quality of the event has spiralled precipitously.
These days, with two kids out in society, kids’ birthday parties dominate our family’s schedule. Barely a weekend goes by without a scramble to find a gift that’s appropriate, I’m getting increasingly desperate for some form of wrapping apparatus, and I have long given up on cards.
When we arrive at a party, the gorging begins. I consider myself on the chill end of the spectrum yet even I can feel the teeth deterioration from across the room. The only thing worse than this is a “sugar-free” event, which should be a reportable offence.
