On Saturday, my cousin by my grandparents’ daughter and my father’s sister, (otherwise known as my aunty Lisa), had her six birthday.
My little cousin, that is. Not my aunty.
So that we’re on the same page.
If you’ve ever attended a birthday celebration with thirteen or so six-year-old girls, you’d know what it’s like.
There was dancing.
There was squealing.
There was chalk drawing.
There was chasing.
There was hop scotch.
There was chip eating.
There was more dancing.
There was more squealing.
There was also several re-enactments of The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf.
I bet you haven’t heard the extended version. The one where the Big Bad Wolf goes to the doctor with his burnt tail.
Munchkin the Magician performed his famous ‘Cut String’ act.
If chooks could sing.
We even added berrrrkkking noises for authenticity. To say the least, we were a smash hit with a bunch of giggling six-year-olds.
This is my grandma.
She sat out in the back yard and hid away from the mayhem.
She’s very wise, my grandma.
Present time arrived and never finished.
Do you know how long it takes to open thirteen or so presents when you’re six?
Thirteen presents somehow turned into thirteen hundred with every six-year-old guest vying to have her present open next.
Cousin Maizi very politely read every card and thanked every present giver.
She’s like that, my cousin.
He mysteriously disappeared for as much of the party craziness as he could.
I caught his guilt on camera.
Of course, the only reason I manned the dukebox, snapped the photos, organised games, sang like a chook, and listened to the abnormally high-pitched screams of thirteen excited, sugar-hyped girls…
Now that’s my kind of payment.
xx Trouser Girl