Mickey Mouse Nuthouse

Naively I thought that the birthday party phenomenon was a couple of years away yet. Yet one month into nursery, an invitation appears to a birthday party.

Oh.
Dear.
It's started.

Sadly, the initial thought to go through my mind was "I hope this doesn't mean I have to do one".
First week of January: not a practical date for a party, for anyone.

Fancy dress, it said. Hurrah, thinks I, Darth Vader and Batman. Or, yes, perfect: Mario and Luigi. Super.
"would you like to be mario and luigi?"
"no"
"who would you like to be?"
"Mickey Mouse" (in stereo)

So. Look on Internet, £23 for a not-very-good costume.
Big sales pitch on Asda policeman outfit (£8), to no avail. Oversensitivity to pirates in this house, that would had been easy.

Red shorts. Perfect. Black tights. Sorted. Crocs? Grand for shoes.
Felt/foam accessories? Easy.
Black long sleeves T shirt for children?

Does Not Exist

Plan: buy black dye for existing T shirts.
Reality: shop that sells dye has every shade known to man, except black.
Find myself buying black fabric. Oh yes.

I don't sew. Nope. I have a sewing machine that was bought by my mother in an attempt to piqué my interest about ten years ago. Prior to last week I have sewn two hems with it. On curtains. Badly.

I used an existing t shirt as a pattern, cut it out of newspaper, cut out by fabric, and whizzed it up on the machine! With only the one complete dissection of the sewing machine. And they looked good!

The party was great, boys had a ball, their mother didn't die of fright and all was good. Other mothers are nice, I am possibly not a freak, my children seem normal. Happy happy.

Except...

Having reassembled the sewing machine, I am no longer scared of it. I made a humpty dumpty last night. I have a dress pattern. And fabric. I'm going to make a dress. Two in fact! Or, if the first turns out to be an unmitigated disaster, one dress and one pair of curtains.

I have proper dressmaking scissors. I went into the wee shop down the road and bought single bias tape. I know what to do with it.

And that puts the final nail in the coffin of the person I used to be.

The young person is dead, long live the mother.