Happy Birthday, Michael

Occasionally, like David Byrne, I am forced to ask myself, "How did I get here?"
Today, for example.  I find myself at the dining room table holding a Meteor Mud encrusted Build-A-Bear gift card in one hand and a dozen or so wet Martians in the other.  It's a little surreal.  Come to think of it, I have to wonder whether something can be a little surreal.  I think that's like being a little pregnant.  Either it's surreal or it isn't.  In this case, it was.

You see, today is Michael's sixth birthday.  Traditionally, we have one of these around this time every year.  We opted to celebrate this auspicious occasion at Wacky Warehouse, which sounds about as Wacky as it actually is.  Wacky Warehouse is situated on the second floor of a rather seedy pub called Kiss Me Hardy, the origin of which name I have yet to establish.  The pub itself, and the attendant piggyback Wackiness, are located in a rather dismal shopping plaza, alongside a weed- and rubbish-choked watercourse which oozes alongside the main road.

The pub is also located next to a drive-thru Burger King.  This may seem an insignificant and superfluous detail to my American friends who are accustomed to such conveniences, but I assure you, it is neither insignificant nor taken for granted.  The drive-thru is quite a novelty here.  I am aware of only two drive-thru fast food restaurants - one on the A3 between here and Southampton, and the Burger King next to Wacky Warehouse.  Our neighbor says that he will occasionally drive his 5 year old daughter through the drive-thru several times of an evening because she's so enamoured of the whole thing.  I'm not sure what will happen to her when she grows up.  I hope she'll be OK.

Today was an absolutely gorgeous day, weather wise.  The sun hung in a cloudless turquoise sky, and a cool breeze and low humidity kept the temperature comfortably in the mid 20's (low 70's for the Fahrenheit users).  Just a perfect day to be outside.  Or it would have been, except Wacky Warehouse, as its name implies, does not shine its Wacky light on the great outdoors.  And of course, like most places here, it's not air conditioned, which meant it was hot as hell inside.  Add to this the surly staff and the fact that our party room, with its solid cinderblock walls and not a soft surface in sight, was reminiscent of a Cold War era fallout shelter, and you can imagine just how sweaty and sticky the two hours were.

I have concluded that I have but one job at my children's  birthdays - I am a punching bag for the 10 minutes or so between the end of the meal and the arrival of the cake and ice creams.  It always starts off so well.  The children, after playing on the climbing frame for an hour or so (one of our guests found herself hung upside down by her ankles in the 'protective' netting), make their way into the bomb shelter to enjoy their rations of processed reformed chicken or mealy, granular pizza.  They were relatively subdued, munching away, talking quietly.  Occasionally belching.  But then, there's always one.  Always one kid who, having finished their meal and becoming bored with wiping their leftover fries on the floor and dropping them into their neighbour's lunchbox, thinks it'll be a hoot to sneak up behind me, smack my bottom with all their little six-year-old might and then run back to their seat.

I actually don't mind this at all.  It's a fun little game.  The instigator leads off from her seat, I pretend that I don't know what's happening until she gets a few paces away from me and then I spin round, growling, and she runs squealing with delight back to her seat.  This advance, growl, squeal, retreat cycle continues until the 17 other children, emboldened by the fact that I haven't yet eaten the inventor of this game, decide that it's just not as much fun to watch and join in. This on its own wouldn't be so bad, but there's always that one kid who runs full tilt, head down and fist extended, directly into my crotch.  That's when things get ugly.  Because he doesn't just do this once.  Oh, no.  He does this again and again, backs up with his fist still stuck out like the big gun on a Panzer and takes another run.  I'm going to start wearing a cup to children's parties.

Last year we had a Batman party at home for Michael.  It was great fun.  I played the role of the Riddler.  I wore a mask and the greenest outfit I had (a green T-shirt and a pair of shorts which had once been brown but had faded to a neglected colorless nothingness that might have passed for green in the days of black and white television and booming sales of acid).  The kids threw water balloons at me (water balloons which, I might add, I myself had to make.  It's a good thing those kids are cute).  If you've never had a bunch of five-year-olds throwing water balloons at you, you really haven't lived.  The funny thing is that none of them had the arm to actually make those balloons break on me.  They all bounced off me and broke on the ground, ironically wetting the kids more than they did me.  Everyone agreed, though, that it was the best party ever.

And so it is that I find myself scraping off the table a puttlylike substance that Michael received from our soon-to-be-former friends.  This gloop is part of a Martian making kit, which features multiple canisters of this puttystuff, some sort of coloured gel and the need to time things so as to allow the gel to set.  This was not how I'd imagined my life turning out.  When we talked about moving to London in 1999 BC (Before Children), I envisioned myself living in a somewhat edgy yet fashionable part of the city.  Travelling to the Continent every weekend.  Wearing black.  I hadn't factored in children and the changes and responsibilities they bring.  But it's all good.  I don't really look good in black anyway, and who needs mussels in Belgium when you've got Wacky Pizza.

Happy sixth birthday, Michael.  You and your sister are everything to me.  I'm so proud of you, and I'm so fortunate that you're my son.  I hope that you feel loved and valued, because you are, more than you can comprehend.