A party, as I have now come to learn, starts about two to three days before the actual event with a range of questions – some more justified than others; Remember the party? What should I wear to the party? What are you going to wear to the party? When does the party start? Who’s coming to the party? Is the baby coming to the party? At which point the warning bells started ringing… Is the baby coming to the party? WTF? Whatever this party thing is Mommy, you can bet your big post-pregnancy *ss I’m coming to the party! So far, it’s been pretty much “where you go, I go” and I don’t see any reason to change a winning concept.
So, back to the party. Apparently it is of the utmost importance what you wear to one and in particular what shoes. If you don’t believe me, ask Daddy who was reminded of that when he suggested to wear his new hipster jeans, recently bought on a trip to Berlin, matched with what apparently can only be described as “glorified trekking boots, which should never have seen the light of day outside of the same hipster shop where those utterly unflattering jeans were purchased”. So much for trying something new, Daddy; clearly Mommy is also of the opinion that one should not change a winning concept. Said and done, within five minutes Daddy was back in his approved non-hipster jeans, dark grey shirt and black chelsea boots. As for me, I got to wear my new sneakers, which are basically just socks with laces. Mommy on the other hand, judging by what she opted for, must have been suffering from temporary insanity; 5 inch ankle boots, which given her recent lack of practice, made her look like a giraffe with a sprained ankle as she tried to channel her inner Kate Moss.
Anyways, suited and booted and after a last minute nappy change, we were out the door; the giraffe leading the way but now looking more like a packing mule in heels (having to carry not only her own clutch bag, but also my nappy bag, the party present and the mandatory bottle of wine). Daddy and I followed at a safe distance with the rest of my kit; travel bed, teddy, blankets, baby monitor, Babybjorn baby carrier, basically the whole nine yards… Anyone seeing me would have been excused for thinking I was going away for a week.
Once at the party, the idea was that I after the initial meet and greet should withdraw to a separate room to sleep whilst the others went about socialising. Well, let’s just say that Mommy and I had different plans and after much protesting on my part, I was allowed back to where the action was and took my rightful place in the spotlight. Carried by Daddy (Mommy busy doing her giraffe / Kate Moss impression), I was cooed over and admired by complete strangers who, as the evening wore on, got ever more close up and clumsy in their attempts to make me smile. Guys, trust me when I say that alcohol does nothing for your ability to tickle me, pinch my cheeks and/or pull funny faces. Hence, after a while I had had enough of this whole party thing and was happy to retire to the travel bed where my teddy and favourite blanket where waiting for me.
Now I can’t tell you for sure what happened after I dozed off (apparently this also happens to grown-ups in some cases) but the next day when I woke up, Mommy and Daddy were not their usual chirpy selves (or at least Daddy wasn’t - Mommy rarely is before 11am) and instead of spending the morning entertaining me, they kept passing me between them like a ping pong ball. Apparently, it is frowned upon to wake people up at 6.30am after a party and you can’t expect much action before noon on those days. Hence, thank God it’s Monday and things can go back to normal with full focus on ME…