Organising birthdays ain't no party

It's a Dad's Life: It's five years since the elder was born. Five years since I dived into my car, screamed across town through bus lanes and up one-way streets to gather the missus and slalom back to Holles Street Hospital. We were in a hurry but the elder, apparently, was not. Some 72 hours later she made an appearance and she has been keeping us waiting ever since.

Her birthday last year was chaos. It was the first time we invited more than immediate family and we hadn't really bothered to prepare. Ten adults and 15 kids screaming around a mid-terraced city cottage left nerves frayed and pieces of my own scalp under my fingernails. The elder, of course, loved it and grew increasingly animated as more and more bodies squeezed into the tight space.

One aunt, a veteran of many kids' parties, turned to us and asked what sort of entertainment we had lined up for them. In response to our vacant gazes, she got cracking on wrapping parcels and devising a playlist for musical statues. The missus filled the kitchen with pizzas and crisps and let the hordes descend like locusts.

Parents sat in the living-room, quaffing wine and hoovering the savouries. I kept trying to hide in the corner but the missus would spy me and drag me to the kitchen to keep the washing-up conveyor belt in motion. Our postage-stamp garden was dug up in an impromptu Irish dancing game of Riverdance proportions. The birthday cake worked as an experience, with serious elbowing done to get first blows in, but the cake itself did not meet with universal approval. It was just a jam sponge, no bells or whistles, and they were a tough crowd.

And then they left, in high spirits but with a number of anklebiters voicing disappointment at the standard of the departure goody-bags, to their parents' mortification and our shame.

It's a competitive market, this party thing. The elder waved them off before falling on her presents and declaring it the best day ever. We swore we would be better prepared for the next one.

We're not. The house is still small and kids, I'm pretty sure, are still loud. We have promised her a bike in the hope that she might decide to take off on weekend breaks, but have a sense that mightn't happen. The missus and I are fretting over how to entertain this band of junior maniacs when we both know exactly what to do. Let them at it.

In our house you can't go too far away. We have to lay down some basic guidelines (no food in the bedroom, no blood on the carpets) and attempt to direct the games in a non-confrontational direction (a Twister mat is at the ready). I pity the poor boys who will be at the mercy of the female majority, but nothing toughens you up quicker than being put in your place.

After that, it's anything goes.

This year the younger is mooching in on the action for the first time. Like Linus in the Peanuts cartoons, she trails around after the elder who occasionally lavishes her with attention. Often this attention involves convincing the child that eating golf balls is a good idea, or that, yes, she can fly. When there are other kids around the younger gets more press than the elder would strictly approve of. There is much cooing as the blonde younger scores high on the Cuteometer. The elder tolerates this but will, I'm sure, remind people why they are there. Remember, it's her birthday, focus everybody please.

They'll have fun, and so will we. Unfortunately, we still haven't managed to install a dishwasher, so it's back on with the clown face and kitchen gloves combination for me.