THIS I KNOW

  

It’s kind of universally acknowledged that a children’s play centre is one of the biggest misnomers out there.   I mean, how much time do the kids spend actually playing as opposed to chucking tantrums or bleeding from an orifice?
  


We had the pleasure of children’s party number 1506 on the weekend for Jack, the four year old.   At the very same time, Maddison, 11, had also been invited to a party that started 30 minutes later, 30 minutes away.  At the very same time as this, Phil was up in Brisbane, helping my brother do stuff to his house.  So I was the parent who left her four year old at the party unattended and arrived back, 30 minutes before the party finished.  Daggers. Oh yeah, I saw a few aimed my way.  Luckily, one of his kindy teachers was there and was more than happy to keep an eye on him for me.  She also informed me she'd only call if there was blood or a concussion. 
  


I have written about kid’s parties and ants in my undies HERE.  I guess they say write what you know and this is what I know:




I know there will be at least one musical instrument planted inside a party bag that will make you want to shove said musical instrument so far  dispose of the mini piccolo/mini xylophone/ear piercing whistle the minute you get home.   Basically this is an inside parent joke that passive aggressively tells you, the attendees parent, to go and get fucked.  I am trying to source mini bagpipes for Jacks 5th.


I also know that more often than not your child will have their face painted in such a way that you will require sugar soap and a wire brush to remove it later on that night.  Exhibit A

Jack. Making some lovely music.  Binned 30 minutes later.

I know that at least one parent will tell you a not so funny anecdote about your own child.  Like how they found your son in the bushes at kindy comparing “doodle sizes” and how he may or may not have tackled their child to the ground when said child stole and ran off with the communal drumsticks.     


I know that one child will almost break a bone.  Or actually break one.  It’s a given. These kids are going freaking nuts.  They are hopped up on kiddie crack, aka, red slushies, terrorising old women and young babies and are one step for shitting in a hotel hallway Nate Myles style by the time the party comes to an end.  It’s a madhouse. 




Lastly, from my experience I know that ironically, nearly every child leaving the Play centre called Smileez will exit crying.  As my friend Sarah pointed out, this may well be because “they are obviously very distressed at the barstardisation of the English language”, and even though this is a good point, I reckon it’s because these gin joints aren’t play centres at all.  No, I think they are were cooked up by some sadist who likes seeing tiny children, a UFC smack down and too many tiny teddies combined in a confined space.


So that’s me on the Play centre topic.  Got a story to share?