Skip to main content

Birthdays in Gotham Are Recession Proof

Why are kid's birthday parties so damn expensive in New York? Every way I slice it, it comes up beaucoup bucks.

Is this because I live in a concrete box where I have to bring the entertainment INSIDE (no jungle gym to let them run around on for moi!) and also a winter birthday rabbit (hence no scavenger hunt in the neighborhood, lest the 92-year woman across the hall beats them with her walker...)?

Sigh. Don't get me wrong. I'm a birthday party queen. Love them. Love them madly. Don't love having to explain the costs to The Prince when all I really dream of is a party for The Rabbit with a pinata tied to a tree in a backyard filled with streamers, balloons, some room for a three-legged race, and those Baskin Robbins ice cream clowns instead of cake.

No matter. Clever mama will come up with a clever solution I am sure. And The Rabbit is bound to love her party no matter what we craft.

That's the beauty of The Rabbit: She's disappointment-proof.

Comments

Anonymous said…
What's a pinata? I want one.
How old is your Rabbit? Disappointment-proof! Give it time.
Manhattan Mama said…
She's a lovely 5, turning 6, er perhaps 16.
A pinata? The most wonderful thing -- a paper mache hollow creation that you fill with sweets and treats and then bash open with a bat. A lovely diversion for children and frustrated mamas -- depending on the treats of course!
Kate B. said…
I love pinatas, too. but even they are expensive in London! The only solution is to ban class birthdays and invite a handful of friends home for a traditional tea party instead. It ticks all the boxes - exclusivity, delightfully retro and probably saves the planet too (anti-consumerist etc). Announce it's the latest thing in suitably strident tones and all the (s)mothers will be vying with each other over their home baked (vegan, no doubt) scone recipes in no time.

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...