My daughter turned three this week.
We hosted a children's party for squillions of little people in a windowless back room of a pub on one of the hottest days this year.
I'd totally underestimated;
a) the number of children who were coming
b) the amount of games you need to do to fill up 2 hours
And c) the heat that can be generated by 20 up to three year olds running aimlessly around a room.
It was only half way into the do, as every parent, bar none, was dripping with sweat, that I realised the unplugged dehumidifier in the corner of the room was actually an air-con unit.
We'd exhausted all our party games half an hour into the event. Who knew musical statues only takes 5 minutes? I'd planned it as the 'main event.' Now, I'm no mathematician but that doesn't make that much of a dent into a two-hour party.
My memories of childhood parties are one of calm and organisation.
I don't remember my mum panicking her face off, manically scrunching crap plastic prizes into used bits of wrapping paper to give to the kid who missed out on opening a layer of pass the parcel because mum had been up until 1am the previous night wrapping the parcel up and, delirious with tiredness, had totally forgotten how many layers she'd done.
But my daughter had a blinder.
I mean, who wouldn't, given the opportunity to run around a boiling hall in a non-breathable fabric princess outfit and have cake for lunch and tea?
And I now have an opinionated, excitable, loving, inquisitive three year old. Bloody hell.