I came back to work on Tuesday after a long weekend feeling physically and emotionally drained.
The reason? My now five-year-old son’s birthday party.
Last year, although he enjoyed the event itself, he showed absolutely no interest in the run-up to the big day.
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Fast forward 12 months and it was completely different, with the upcoming party being the sole topic of conversation for the last few weeks.
He’s quizzed us on the venue, the guest list and the menu ... and then, obviously not satisfied with our answers, repeated the questions almost ad nauseum.
If I thought the worst was over when we turned up at the party then I was sadly mistaken.
The force of 12 children running around must be akin to that of a hurricane and I was caught in the middle as I tried to maintain some sort of order.
Eventually I adopted the sensible approach and let them get on with hit. Yes there were a few bumps and bruises but everyone was in one piece at the end and, best of all, none of them belonged to me.
Afterwards, when Calum’s batteries had finally run out, I asked him if he enjoyed the day. ‘‘Yes,’’ he replied, ‘‘but I don’t want to be five.’’ Get used to it son, get used to it.