Yet another child, and yet another party ... but disaster is not too far away for Steve Canavan

‘Can you feel anything yet?” I asked, nervously, as myself and an 18-year-old blonde-haired girl sat in the ball pool together.
Ball pitBall pit
Ball pit

Now before I go any further - and because I’m a respectable pillar of the community with a wife, two children and a gerbil called Ian - let me clarify something.

There was nothing untoward about this encounter. Chance would be a fine thing.

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The girl worked at a children’s soft play centre, where I had, 20 minutes earlier, been attending a toddler’s party.

It is about the 16th birthday party I have attended in the last month.

This is because while she was pregnant and attending antenatal classes, Mrs Canavan made friends with a shed-load of other women and during her maternity leave (or mat leave as women seem to call it these days, as if having to pronounce the ‘ernity’ is too much of an effort) they all hung around and did all the things new mums do during their mat-ERNITY leave – which is essentially go to cafes and drink cappuccinos, then later complain when their husbands arrive home from a long tiring shift at work that having to look after a baby all day is ‘sooo tough’.

The problem is that all these women obviously gave birth around the same time - February and March - so at this time of year we now have to attend a stream of never-ending parties.

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As a result my last five weekends – and three more to come – have been spent going to different do’s.

Our average Friday evening will consist of Mrs Canavan idly commenting over dinner, ‘don’t forget it’s Spencer’s party tomorrow’.

“Who’s Spencer?’ I’ll ask.

‘You know, S-p-e-n-c-e-r,’ Mrs Canavan will reply, as if saying it slightly slower will help clear up the matter.

“I don’t know a Spencer,” I’ll respond.

‘You do,’ sighs Mrs Canavan. ‘It’s Sharon’s boy. You know we met her and her partner David at that trampoline centre in late June. He’s the one who lost his eye in the archery accident. You must remember?’

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“No I don’t. And I’ve never heard of them or their child,” I’ll reply.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mrs C will say firmly. ‘The party is at 2pm and you’re coming’.

It’s an incredibly depressing state of affairs, but, shamefully, I meekly follow her orders and go along in the faint hope that perhaps one day, in about 18 years, there’ll be no more parties and I can once again, possibly, find happiness and fulfilment.

Anyway back to the start of this waffle.

The party I attended on Saturday was at a soft play centre, so I spent two long hours crawling around a variety of inflatables with my child, watched as we cut the cake for whoever’s birthday it was (they all blend into one after a bit), then said our goodbyes and offered fake platitudes (‘what a wonderful party, thanks for inviting us’, etc) and went outside to the car … only to find I had no keys.

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I checked every pocket. We checked the bag in which Mrs Canavan keeps the nappies and all the things we carry with us to keep the children quiet - like crisps, cuddly toys, chocolate buttons, tranquilliser darts. But the keys were not there.

“I just don’t understand this,” I said, perplexed.

I got on my stomach and peered under the car in case I’d earlier dropped them. They weren’t there.

“Have you got them?” I said accusingly in Mrs Canavan’s direction.

‘No I haven’t,’ she responded and naturally we began having a row. Other couples from the party walked by, slowing as they passed to eavesdrop and later saying to each other, ‘did you see that? Their marriage is on the rocks. I give it six months tops.’ Which in my book is optimistic, but I digress.

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‘Maybe they dropped out of your pocket while you were on the soft play,’ said Mrs C.

This was a distinct possibility, for I reckon I’ve lost about 50 quid at various soft play centres over the last year or two. I’ve learned to my cost – quite literally – that coins and notes slip out of your pockets remarkably easily when you’re whizzing down a slide. The staff in these places must make a fortune when they tidy up afterwards, though in fairness given they spend their days in an enclosed area overflowing with hyperactive screaming children they deserve every penny they get.

I went back inside.

There were three young girls cleaning up.

I felt for them. There were bits of pizza and crisps and chicken nuggets and orange juice strewn all over the place. The girls, each of them a hoover in hand, looked shattered.

I told them, in embarrassed fashion, that I thought I’d lost my car keys somewhere.

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The four of us spent the next 20 minutes scouring the entire area.

I had the whole place to myself and suddenly realised I quite enjoyed soft play when there weren’t any children there. Indeed at one point I almost forgot I was meant to be searching for my keys (I think what gave the game away was when one of the staff caught me going headfirst down a slide shouting ‘weeeeee’).

But I couldn’t find the keys and, after profusely apologising to the kindly girl who’d removed every single ball from the ball pool in a bid to locate them, I went outside to tell Mrs Canavan the bad news. She was stood in the car park in a steady drizzle with two crying children, next to a car she couldn’t get into. It’s fair to say she’s been in better spirits.

As we stood wondering what to do, I happened to glance at my three-year-old daughter and noticed a slight bulge in her coat pocket.

“What’s in your pocket Mary?” I asked.

She pulled my keys out and replied, ‘your keys daddy’.

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“Why did you put them there,” I enquired, voice quivering slightly, attempting to stay calm.

‘To keep them safe,’ she answered matter-of-factly.

I didn’t know whether to swing for her or kiss her.

Kids. Who’d have ‘em?

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