Have your cake and eat it (Chicklit contest finalist)

Chapter six

When I worked for a living - sorry, I mean worked outside the home - I couldn't make weekends last long enough and savoured the precious time with my beautiful children and handsome husband, doing family things like trips to the beach in summer and ice skating in winter. Yes, we really were that sickeningly perfect family in the Boden catalogue. And so we should have been, given the amount of money we used to spend on clobber from its shiny pages in pursuit of the perfect middle class lifestyle. But now, most things in my wardrobe are at least two seasons out of date and I can't wait until Monday rolls round again so I can get some peace and quiet.

Today is shaping up to be a more hectic Saturday than usual as it’s Jessica’s birthday, which means that seven other excitable girls in party dresses will descend on the house like a swarm of bees at precisely 2pm.

The birthday girl is ripping open her birthday presents with an enthusiasm she only seems to muster up on occasions involving a large gift-wrapped parcel with her name on it. Steve and I had decided to not purchase the longed-for iPad, partly because of the hefty price tag and partly because, well, an eight-year-old doesn't really need one, we thought. Despite what Jessica said, we don't believe she will be ostracized by her peers for not having the latest gadget. We have instead opted for a course of riding lessons, which should work out cheaper providing she doesn’t put a horse on the Christmas list.

I watch indulgently as she opens the last parcel, which is my little present to her. I do feel a bit sick about the sparkly purple party dress I had rashly put on my credit card so soon after the anniversary jumper, but it is totally worth it to see her little face as she reverentially traces her fingers across the delicate silver beading and embroidered butterflies, looking at me with a huge grin and shining eyes before proceeding to model it for her captive audience. Of course, Tamsin immediately wants in on the action, as toddlers usually do. She seems to have an in-built radar that immediately alerts her to the presence of anything glittering and shiny. A bit like a magpie, I suppose.

“Look at Jessica’s present, isn’t it a pretty party dress?” I ask her.

“Mine present?” she asks hopefully. “Mine party dress?” she implores Jessica. “I two!” she squeals, turning to me.

“No, not yet sweetie,” I say, stroking her hair as her little face crumples and her blue eyes shimmer with tears. Blessedly Steve notices straight away and takes her and Joshua off to play, leaving me to tidy up all the discarded wrapping paper that is littering the living room carpet.

Tamsin and I had made Jessica’s birthday cake yesterday; a Cinderella cake decorated with silver balls, pink swirls, and ‘Jessica’ written in blue glitter writing. It’s currently hidden in the pantry, ready to be unveiled after a finger food tea for her and the girls that probably has a slightly too-high sugar content. But I mean, how much work can eight sweet and well mannered little girls be, even if they are out of their minds on E numbers?

The answer, it quickly transpires, is a lot. I’d initially observed silently from the sidelines in the kitchen as my daughter had held court among her friends, chastising Corinne for eating the last of the tuna sandwiches (crusts cut-off and cut in triangles as per her specific instructions) and ordering me to bring them more apple juice. I was relieved that everyone was behaving nicely and no disasters had occurred. Well, if you discount the bottle of pink lemonade that was upended all over the floor. But I mopped it up pretty quickly so my tiles should be fine. It was when they disappeared off upstairs, giggling, that things really started to unravel.

I’ve already been upstairs twice in the last hour, once to hoover up shards of glass from when Sarah - or was it Sasha? – broke Jessica’s glass lamp doing a cartwheel, and once to rescue my Mac lipsticks and Clinique foundation when I heard them in my bedroom arguing over who looked the prettiest. I’ve managed to remove all traces of make-up from their hands and faces using an entire pack of expensive make-up wipes, although I haven’t yet tackled the small stain on the bedroom carpet where a bottle of nail varnish was spilt. I decide to just cover it up with a rug so Steve doesn’t notice and worry about it in the morning.

An hour later and the last of the party guests have finally left, clutching their party bags stuffed with cake. The last to leave was Ellie, whose mother arrived to collect her 45 minutes late, spouting excuses about a ghastly traffic jam while touching her glossy, salon-fresh hair with freshly manicured nails. Traffic jam, my arse. She’s clearly spent the last four hours being primped, preened and pampered within an inch of her life. I, on the other hand, am utterly exhausted and just want to have a bath and crawl into bed. Unfortunately I can’t, because I’ve got to clear up the last of this mess, cook dinner for Steve and I and then get the kids into their pajamas and bribe them to brush their teeth and get into bed with promises of a bedtime story or five.