Carol’s Column

Hamburgers still beat slow dancing when you’re a kid

DO YOU remember the old days when gob stoppers — huge, round, technicolour sweet balls — cost two for a cent and you could see a local movie for two or three cents?

Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t remember those days either — but I do recollect my parents talking about them.

And I do remember how birthday parties were simple afternoon affairs with cookies, sweets and games. Little girls wore party dresses and boys wore their Sunday best.

Times have changed.

I didn’t realise exactly how much until the Lazar household was placed in a state of siege.

Revolution was declared — and all because of a birthday party.

Over the years, we have celebrated children’s birthdays on 53 occasions — which is a lot of birthdaying for one little family.

And we’ve always prided ourselves on our birthdays. None of this sophisticated Johannesburg nonsense for mini people.

We’ve dragged parties into the bush, on picnics to the wildest spots imaginable.

There have been parties in the lion park — where we lost Adam Rosendorf, parties in the zoo — where Samantha Robinson fell into the flamingo pool, climbing parties at Retiefskloof, exploring parties at Sterkfontein caves, paddling parties up the Hennops River where we mislaid Warwick Dawes.

Perhaps we’ve misplaced a child or two — but the spirit of adventure has been loud and strong. Too loud.

We organised a mini Olympics — one of the greatest successes of all times when we sent the little guests off for a two-hour marathon around Zoo Lake. And peace and quiet reigned supreme.

Over the years I have concussed myself while jumping out of a tree as a flying clown, scared half the little guests to death when dressed as a pink panther.

And one of the most memorable parties of all times was when we put a dressing table on the stoep and let our little guests cover themselves from head to toe in war paint.

No matter that some parents took home the wrong children and five years later have discovered the difference. While others didn’t speak to me for years due to the fact that we’d allowed their precious offspring to dirty their designer clothes.

Over the years we scorned dancing parties, parties where the hosts resorted to home movies and live entertainers.

Until two weeks ago.

“Ma,” said my youngest son of 12, “Nicky and I have decided to hold a joint birthday party this year.”

“Great, great,” I muttered while pinning the dog’s tail back on to the ferocious hound. It had come off in an altercation with one of our neighbour’s Alsatians.

“We want to have a dancing party,” continued Jamie.

I nearly swallowed the pins.

“Whaddya mean a dancing party? You are 12.

“Nicky is turning 10. There is no way that we are holding a dancing party in this house. Over my dead body.”

They accepted with alacrity. It makes you think.

I was adamant. As long as I reigned as Supreme Commander in this household, we would never, never, ever hold a dancing party.

However, even Supreme Mothers can topple.

Day by day they wore me down.

“Everybody has dancing parties. All our friends have dancing parties. Do you want us to be the only two underprivileged children in the school who don’t have dancing parties?”

Even our two older sons, the girl haters, entered the fray.

“Ma, you are old-fashioned. Dancing parties are the IN thing.”

“Great, and I suppose you want me to get Sol Kerzner to cater and fly in the Lido dancers from Paris for the entertainment?”

I realised they were serious when they agreed enthusiastically.

A Supreme Mother can only take so much. When she is bombarded on all flanks, she begins to crumble.

“OK!” I yelled after they’d presented a petition to me at 3am in the morning. “Have a dancing party! But no slow dancing. No mixed dancing. Boys dance with boys and girls with girls. Lights must be on and I’m going to sit there like a man mountain watching everyone.”

Nicky and Jamie sighed in that irritating way kids do when they’re humouring their parents.

“Sure, Ma,” they said, “anything you say.”

They published the invitations without me seeing them.

“A dancing party from 5 to 10pm for 10- and 12-year-olds!” I wailed, tearing out my hair and beating my breast.

It sometimes pays to be demonstrative, you understand.

I was then presented with a list of guests — all 70 of them — in order that I would provide hamburgers and hot dogs for them lest they starve while dancing.

The day of the party dawned — as did 10 miniature guests who arrived round breakfast time. Complete with jeans and punk hairdos. Did I forget to mention it was a rock ’n’ roll party?

Prior to the festivities, Jamie called me aside for a private chat.

“Ma, there’s no need to call the Parkview Police to send us a bodyguard — it’s not necessary. I’ve already got Graham and Michael Hall, Simon Heuberger and Richard Stevens on guard. You mustn’t over-react.”

At 5pm, the majority of guests started arriving.

I had to admit, they looked great, all the tiny John Travoltas and Olivia Newton-Johns.

At 6pm I was unmasked when somebody playing hide-and-go-seek knocked off my camouflage.

Jamie called me aside again. “Ma, it is not necessary for you to dress up like a prickly pear and position yourself next to the playroom door. It’s all innocent fun.”

And indeed it was. They were all so busy demolishing anything and everything edible that they barely had time to dance.

At 8pm I called Jamie and Nicky aside. “Shall we play some games,” I suggested.

“Games!” They were horrified.

At 9pm I called them aside again. “Daddy and I are going to do a Punch and Judy show.”

They were mortified.

“Ma, restrain yourself.”

At 10pm the first father arrived to fetch his daughter. I’d always thought Vaughn Wiles an attractive man. I was so relieved to see him, I almost flung my arms around him.

By 11pm — the party was finished. So was I.

I kissed my two youngest offspring goodnight.

“Did you enjoy your dancing party?” I asked, fully relaxed for the first time in 24 hours.

“It was super,” they both muttered sleepily.

“So what was the best thing about the party?”

“The hamburgers!” Jamie said.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile tonight — you were totally neurotic,” said my husband as we tip-toed out of their room.

“Any 12-year-old who prefers a hamburger to a slow dance has his priorities right,” I said smugly to my husband.

Well, I guess things haven’t changed that much after all.

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