Budday pahty post

The brat had a birthday party to attend over the weekend. As is wont, he spent the entire day in a frenzied agony of waiting for the budday pahty. And agonised over his ensemble. His shoes. His hairstyle. Took out many mismatched combinations of clothes as options and finally decided to present himself as Batman to the unsuspecting non paying public at said party. The vision included a black nightsuit. A black scarf as a cape. Pappa's old fingerless driving gloves with two fingers mercilessly chopped off and made into a mask. And a blue undie worn over the nightsuit to complete the look. With a belt. Did anyone notice Batman has a belt to hold up his underwear worn externally. I sure didnt. The brat did. And he's seen the movie just once. Given Mamma is paranoid about Harvey Dent Two Faced's visage inflicting nightmares on the fruit of her womb, never mind that she herself screaming must play a starring role in his nightly nightmares.
Mamma, of course, vetoed the suggestion with a promptness and firmness of decisiveness that could she implement when it comes to meeting her deadlines and pursuing payments owed to her would have stood her in better stead.
Compromise was called for and reached amicably with the sound threat of not being taken for said birthday party. We reluctantly settled on a denim decalled jacket, matching decalled denim jeans with more pockets than any sane person would have things to keep in, and a rugby red and grey striped Benetton Tshirt which had mamma's jaw drop open when she saw the price tag. And for finishing touch to the dandyish appearance, a pair of "Drink Horlicks, Be Cool, Ishaan Awashti Sunglasses", perched on the nose. This for an appearance at an evening party. On a day that was so rainy, we needed a flashlight to find our feet.
The party, like every other party held at Pizza place, was full of games conducted by enthusiastic inhouse host. A cartoon character making an appearance and being gheroed by the kids who proceed to assault it in their glee leading to said cartoon character fleeing in horror and terror and complaining bitterly to manager on the next level that salary will have to be increased pronto should he be assigned cartoon character duty again.
Mamma was too tired and flu-ish to be bothered with dressing up and wore black head to toe, and her glasses much to brat's horror and dismay. "You not putting your eyes, Mamma," he shrieked, in angst. "Go put your eyes inside. You not look nice wid chasma."
After a bit, he noticed Mamma shuffling her tired feet in her everyday moccasins and threw a right out rolling on the floor tantrum. "Donch come likedis Mamma. Look nice na. Everybody wear high hills. You not putting your eyes also."
I snarled in reply that he could like it or lump it. And he went reluctantly, holding my hand, with a slight, as I saw it, sense of embarassment at this villager escorting him. I have managed to become an embarassment to my child before he hits primary school. By the time he reaches college, he will probably duck and run if I am anywhere in the vicinity in a public situation rather than bear the ignonimity of being seen with self by friends and thus being perceived totally uncool or whatever the damn phrase will be by then.
With such a morale booster Mamma smeared on her lipstick in much the manner of transvestites and sat primly in a corner. And watched the brat, hold your breath, behaving himself impeccably through the evening. Following instructions. Not damaging property or inflicting harm on smaller defenceless children. Dancing. Waiting his turn. Eating on his own. And zero pushing and shoving. This is what the Children of God must have felt like when they spotted the Chosen Land. I almost went down on my knees in gratitude but wondered if I would be able to make it back up on my own without collapsing and breaking a couple of floor tiles, so desisted and muttered my gratitude in internal monologue.
Smelling salts were called for. Other mothers pumped her hand in congratulatory fashion. "What is the secret? How did he sober down so much?" One meanie even dared ask if Mamma had put the brat on tranquilisers, Mamma had just chopped her nails down or blood would have been drawn.
The highlight of the evening. Brat wins a prize. For best dancer. He answers his name correctly loud and clear as a bell into the mike when asked, shakes hands and comes skipping to me with his prize. And the entire room erupted in applause. I think it was a day he shocked the pants off everyone. It was all I could do to prop a fork under my chin to keep my mouth shut.
And how was your weekend?