It was the little guy's 7th birthday yesterday. A house full of kids, poor little old me sweating & slaving over a hot BBQ, after an afternoon spent baking all the goodies, catering to the needs of lots of hungry little boys, and trying to look cheerful at the same time - not an easy task, folks! But I managed to survive.
He wanted a picnic by the river, but I put my foot down. Imagining all worst-case scenarios, there was no way I would even consider the responsability of watching over a horde of kids in such a treacherous place (ok, a little exaggeration here). So we settled on a picnic & BBQ in our own backyard. He'd always begged me to get a picnic table for the garden, after hearing so many of my childhood stories. So grandpa built him one just like the one he had built for me many years before. When I saw it, for a split second there, I was seven years old myself.
The little guys had a blast! Big guy and I decided to have dinner inside and leave them to their own thing, except for when they'd be shouting "Will you bring us some more coke! We're running out of fries! Where's the ketchup? What's taking so long?!?" So, basically, we were running in and out of the house the whole time, as good servants do.
Cutting away from the traditional birthday cake, it was chocolate fudge cake, covered in smarties, with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on the side. A beautiful picture-perfect moment with chocolate-covered toothless smiles. Then it was lining them up one by one to wash those filthy hands & mouths before they had a chance to add a fingerprint motif to my lovely white walls.
As I said, I lived to tell. It was a hell of a lot of work but worth every drip of sweat. Moments like these were what my deams were made of. There was no way I was going to miss out on the fun.