Planning a party for a control freak…

This year my mum had a ‘big’ birthday and as a result we decided to throw her a party to show her how much we appreciate everything she does for us.

It was initially planned as a surprise until my Nan innocently asked my Mum what she was doing for her birthday and she replied, “I guess I’ll have to plan my own party as these lot haven’t done anything”. Cover blown, I had to reveal that we are in fact not the world’s worst, uncaring children and that we had begun preparations for a birthday BBQ (always risky with British weather but what can I say, we live life on the edge).

From that point onward, Mother became a Barbe-zilla. Like a Bride-zilla but without the attitude leeway from family members and more BBQ meat.

My Mum, my dear, military clean Mum, then started:

“When are you going to clean the banisters?”

“When are you going to sweep grass?”

“Will you have relaid the patio by Saturday?”

As a result of her constant interference – the above was not at all exaggerated – she was due to be shipped off to my Nan’s house Friday night.

The Thursday before the party the cleaning regime had to begin. This was when my Dad decided to drop a gigantic wooden beam on his foot and spend three hours in A&E. Long story short, the head BBQ-er was now on crutches and Mum was insisting she couldn’t stay away Friday night as she needed to look after him.

You can imagine my response.

Grumpy Cat

She went. And called us to monitor progress.

As President, Vice-President, Treasurer, Head Decorator and Head of Catering within the Party Committee, I was just a tiny bit stressed. It isn’t easy organizing chairs, decorations, food for 60 people and making sure all the balloon ribbons looked nice. But someone has to do it and that person was me.

For some reason, and I have no idea why, a handful of people say that I have borderline OCD tendencies such as wanting everything to be perfect and therefore being unrealistic with what can be achieved in a back garden with a BBQ. Consequently, I may become a massive pain in the backside for everyone involved. Except myself because I was loving life sorting out sweet jars and so on, whilst George hoovered the curtains and swept the ceilings.

Among the chaos of last minute cleaning, food assembly and the transportation of 70 burgers, 90 sausages and about 80 pieces of chicken, Barbe-zilla arrived back at the house only to be exiled to her bedroom whilst we finished setting up.

However, it was impossible to forget she was there as she reminded us of her presence every five minutes.

“Can I come down yet?”

“When can I come downstairs?”

“It’s my party and I’m not even there”. 

Luckily there was alcohol involved so Mum is still alive and I am not a convicted criminal.

All joking and personality critiquing aside, Mum had a good time, I think, and woke up the next day with a delightful hangover. Bonus points for Mum as despite this she had tidied the majority of things up before I had woken up. This allows me to forgive her crazy ways. Until next time.

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