The best laid plans and all...
We arrived at the football party and as the doors to the hall opened, every little boy that had been waiting eagerly outside grabbed a football and started running happily about. Every little boy that is, bar one. His eyes filled with tears and he looked balefully at me and said:
"Why have you brought me here?"
Erm, because you bloody asked me to?! Fortunately, most other mothers had dumped and run whilst their little darlings enjoyed the activity on offer but I felt really sorry for the mum-of-birthday-boy who I have never met before who was hovering helplessly nearby. If it hadn't been for her I probably would have booted him through the door and legged it out for lunch but instead I put on my best sympathetic face and coaxed my little anti-footballite into the hall.
A very well-meaning party leader immediately noticed the small sad face and tried to encourage Sebi to participate. I could have told him straight away that he was wasting his breath and there was no way Seb was going to engage with him, but instead I pasted on a concerned motherly gaze and acted surprised when Sebi didn't immediately spring up and participate once the man had asked. Once he was safely out of the way, I hissed at Sebi:
"Why don't you just go and kick a ball about - everybody else is?"
I received a withering glare that was like looking in a mirror whilst Sebi painstakingly explained to me that he didn't know WHICH ball he was meant to play with. Equally patiently I explained to Sebi that there were so many balls around he could just kick any one and then if somebody else kicked that one he could choose another one and run about with it.
"What's the fun in that?"
I'd lost the battle. I knew this now but felt I should show willing for another few minutes. Back comes the eager party man and suggests that Sebi might like to join in with the warm up that doesn't even involve any footballs, just running. Big, fat, awkward, three-way-stary silence, broken only by me saying that we were perfectly happy sitting and watching. The minute he turned his back we were up, coats on, apologising profusely to mum-of-birthday-boy and legging it for the exit.
I said my piece as soon as we got in the car and then we both fumed silently until we reached home.
"Change of plan", I yelled as we walked through the door, "we're going to Cafe Rouge, they sell champagne".
My husband began to remind me that I don't drink on Sundays but as he arrived in the hall and saw his youngest son who was meant to be at a party and the expression on both of our faces, he inwardly waved a fond farewell to his cheap greasy burger meal for three and resigned himself to a champagne lunch for four instead.
Later, as we had a moment alone, I informed Stu that I thought this proved Sebi was definitely floating somewhere near the autistic spectrum: unwillingness to participate in new activities, preferring to play on his own, resistance to change not to mention unable to look at anything from a non-literal perspective and his rather impressive OCD tendencies...
"Maybe he's just tired instead", (subtext 'and a little fucker that you have created by pandering to him for seven years'). suggested Stu, who then told me that I'd once again slept through the middle of the night nightmare situation. Somebody told Sebi a riddle in the week about a girl who was murdered in her bed and it has unsettled his sleep somewhat since. When I've been putting him to bed, I have comforted him and promised him that no murderer would ever make their way through Mummy and that I would lay down my life to protect him.
"What good is that if you have drunk a bottle of champagne and got your earplugs in; you won't even wake up", he replied. Good point, well made. I'll just leave Daddy to sort that one out too then.
(Loving the fact that he comes with a warning on him...😠)
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