363 days before his 4th birthday party, Devilboy decided on its theme. Vikings & Dragons. I figured that, like any other normal child, he’d change his mind a hundred times between then and his actual party. Foolish really, given that Devilboy and normal are two words very rarely used in the same sentence.
In fact as eachmonth passed, instead of changing his mind his resolve deepened. Dreading the thought of actually making a Viking Dragon party happen I even tried giving him subtle hints to send him in a simpler direction. Epic fail.
Over the next twelve very long months Devilboy regailed me with the details of his party. Where it would be, who would come, what they’d wear (it took quite some talking to convince him that fur, full beards and boots weren’t really appropriate attire for the beach!) and what they’d do.
There would be shield making and bubble swords for fighting (and blowing bubbles) on the beach. There would be pin-the-tail on the dragon and a treasure hunt to find dragon eggs and Viking treasure. There would be some swimming. Then we’d eat. Right. Clearly he’d thought this all through. At length.
What would we eat? I’m so glad I asked. “Chicken on bones and dragon flavoured sausages, because that’s what real Vikings eat, mama!” I decided not to spoil his fun by telling him they’d have been more likely to eat some pickled herring.
And then came the icing on the cake… literally. “A dragon cake, mama. It has to be green with spikes and red wings and fire coming out of its nose!”
Holy shit! “Do you want to actually fly as well?” I asked facetiously. “Yes, please, mama!”
Note to self: Sarcasm is lost on small boys. Avoid in future so as not to dig deeper holes.
Mummyfied 