It was the day before my daughter’s 5th birthday party, and we were in town getting some last-minute supplies. We had known for five years that her 5th birthday party would fall roughly around this date, but more specifically, we had known for at least four weeks that the party would be on this exact date. Yet there we were, on a busy Saturday morning, in the mayhem of town, panic-buying party supplies.
I had been told I couldn’t be trusted with any of the decision-making regarding what was needed, so really, I was only there to carry heavy things.
My wife, Mary, and my eldest Saorlaith (that’s pronounced SEAR-LA for anyone struggling) were the ones running the show. I was dragged from shop to shop for two hours and there weren’t even heavy things to carry, so my presence was very much unnecessary.
“Two more shops and we’re done,” Mary proudly announced. “A card, a balloon, and a few bits from the chemist.”
I’d had enough. I put my foot down and decided that we should split ways, I would get the card and balloon while the girls would do the chemist. I asked her if that was OK because that’s how I put my foot down in our house.
Mary was skeptical—I could see it in her body language—but I reassured her.
“I have a degree in aeronautical engineering,” I reminded her. “I think I can manage.”
“Yeah but it’s not a real degree,” she muttered, alluding to the fact that it was a foundation degree I’d completed not at university but in a tech college.
She was right, calling it a degree was, while technically true, an exaggeration of sorts. Still, for the job at hand, it was a massive overqualification.
She sent me off with three conditions. It had to be a thoughtful card and it shouldn’t be a cheap one, and the balloon had to be pink.
The brief was clear and off I went.
Within ten seconds of entering the shop, I had a large, pink, 5-shaped helium balloon.
I was off to a flyer.
I moved toward the birthday card section, and one card immediately stood out to me, a unicorn with a big purple 5 on it. This hadn’t taken me 20 seconds. I need to start putting my foot down more often! (If she will let me that is.)
I lifted it from the rack and it was lighter than it looked. On closer inspection, this was one the cheap ones I was warned about.
Dammit.
Not wanting to ruin the trust they had both put in me, I returned it to the rack and kept looking.
I don’t know how they price birthday cards around the world, but around here at least, they make a job of it. There will be a tiny letter, A-Z, on the back of the card somewhere. Not in a standard position, not in a standard font and not seeming to follow any sort of system. When you find the letter, you must then go look for the pricing chart and again, it could be anywhere. It’s sometimes not even in the same aisle. And when you find the chart, sometimes the letters with corresponding prices aren’t even in alphabetical order!
If my engineering degree was an over qualification for picking out a balloon, it didn’t quite cut the mustard when it came to deciphering the price of a birthday card.
Anyway, after many long minutes of head scratching it became evident I was looking for cards with the letter H on the price code, indicating they were in the £2.50–£2.99 price range. Obscene money for a birthday card but a price I was willing to pay to prove to my wife and daughter I was a capable adult and a man able to provide for his family if times got tough.
There were a handful in this range, but only one stood out as being obviously for a girl, so I lifted it. A ’Me to You’ teddy bear holding a unicorn hobby horse. At £3, I was confident this would pass quality control back home.
We met back at the car, where I got a smile of approval for the big balloon, and we headed home. A successful mission accomplished.
About 9 p.m. that evening, when we had gotten the kids to bed, I proudly showed Mary my card.
‘You absolute Moron’ she said, shaking her head.
‘It’s a great card” I argued, “What’s the problem?”
I was genuinely taken aback. I thought it was a wonderful card.
“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed. “It is a beautiful card.”
I stood confused.
“A beautiful card that would have been perfect for her last year!”
She held up the card, and the very large number four on the front cover proved she had every reason to doubt me earlier that day.
“I wouldn’t like to be flying one of your planes,” she quipped.
The nearest shop was only a few minutes away and when I arrived I discovered a scant inventory of birthday cards.
It was the kind of shop that Dads stop into on the way to the party, when they hadn’t bothered organising a gift and just wanted something to stick a tenner into.
There was only one type of card that had a five on it. It wasn’t ideal, but it had a five on it at least
I bought it, along with a Dairy Milk for the drive home. I put the Dairy Milk in my jacket pocket and forgot about it until the next day.
That’s probably why I’m three stone overweight—buying sweets just because I seen them at the till. When I discovered it the next day I told myself it should go straight into the bin as punishment, then changed my mind and ate it anyway.
I want to preface this final observation with the fact that I genuinely don’t care if people bring a gift to the party. Of course I don’t. Bringing Joy, Happiness and Love in your soul is better than any bracelet maker or cheap plastic toys. But the following observation did make me laugh.
Three of the girls were dropped off by their mothers, all with a beautiful card and a very thoughtful present.
Two of the girls were dropped off by their Dads.
I only had to look at the cards they handed to Grace to know that there was no thoughtfully wrapped gift to follow.
Grace was about to become £20 richer. . .
Thanks for this piece. Always a pleasure reading other dads.
This is gold. I just read this with my husband and had the best laugh. I could hardly get through some lines because of the laughter 🤣
Thank you!