The Best Niece’s Disco Party in the World

Loads of preparation went into this glamorous occasion. 

Michaela had spent weeks purchasing all sorts of disco paraphernalia online, including cake decorations, balloons, disco lights, and party bags.  She’d organised the invitations and stocked up the loot bags.  She’d bought all the snack food and found a pair of silver tights in Duane’s size.

All the stuff that could be prepped was prepped, and only the last minute stuff remained to be done. 

The day before the party, Michaela spent the day clearing the house of junk, blowing up balloons, and making and icing the birthday cake.   The day before the party, I spent hours pimping my ride and cruising the streets of South Auckland for single men.

The morning of the party I felt obliged to get up early and help with the last minute stuff, so I hauled my ass out of bed at 9am, made myself a coffee, and lounged around in the sun for a while.

Michaela spent the morning rearranging all the lounge furniture, setting up speakers, hanging mirror balls and transforming the lounge into a trendy discotechque the 80’s would be envious of.   I spent the morning drinking more coffee and looking on Tinder for single men.

An hour or so before kids were due to arrive, I thought I’d best help out and do something.    I was, after all, the Aunty of the Party Girl and some responsibility for the success of this occasion rested firmly on my shoulders.  Especially as I’d told Kayla I’d take care of all the food. 

I ever-so-lovingly took the pizzas out of their boxes and the sausage rolls out of their bags and threw them into a baking dish.

I’d forgotten just how hard it was preparing for parties.

There were only two food items that Taylah had actually requested:  Fairy Bread, and Pineapple and Cheese toothpicks. 

I refused to make an 80’s Hedgehog,  as I have traumatic childhood memories of having to eat the leftovers of my cheese/pineapple and cheese/pickled onion sticks for the next week and a half.  So that only left the Fairy Bread.

I was midst way through icing my 78^th mini cupcake when I realised I’d completely forgotten the Fairy Bread.

“Taylah… missy… um, so.  If you could pick just ONE thing, just one, from either Fairy Bread, or these delicious yummy cupcakes that I’m icing with this delicious chocolate frosting, which one would you pick?”

She looks at me for a brief second, then casts her eyes skyward with deep concentration on her face.

“Triangle.”

I picked up my glass of water and sniffed it.

“What?  Did you say “triangle?” “

“Yeah.  Triangle.”

Remembering that vodka is odourless, I picked up my glass of water and tasted it.

“Um, so, AFTER triangle…. what would you pick out of Fairy Bread and delicious chocolate cupcakes with this delicious creamy chocolate frosting?”

“Cupcakes, Karo.”

Sweet.  We’re done.  And feeling just slightly alarmed.

Michaela came in then to announce she was heading off to the shops to quickly grab some stuff she’d forgotten on her previous 17 trips that morning.

“Do you think I should get some drinks for the adults?  In case any are planning on staying?”

“What, you mean like, drink-drinks, or just coke and lemonade etc?”

“Yeah, or do you think just fizzy should be ok?”

“Nah, they should be OK aye, and if they do want to relax and have a wine I’m sure they’ll bring a bottle of something with them”

“What??” says Duane.  “Alcohol?  There’s not going to be any alcohol, this is a bloody kids party!”

“That’s exactly why there SHOULD be alcohol…” I mumble quietly.

“Nope.  No way.  If they can’t make it through a kid’s party without alcohol, there’s something wrong!”

I’m staring at my brother now wondering if I ever really knew him.

Or if he’s really ever BEEN to a kid’s party before.

Half an hour before kick-off,  I’d iced all the cupcakes, sliced all the pizza, baked all the sausage rolls, reheated all the pies, put all the cheerios in the pot, cooked all the chicken nuggets, and eyed up the cider.

Taylah was asking every 27 seconds when her friends would be arriving, so I started a countdown with her.

“It’s 12 o’clock now, and your friends will be here at half past 12, so that’s THIRTY minutes!  Lets have a countdown and I’ll let you know when it’s time!”

I ducked off to my room for a quick check of my appearance, because the potential for divorced weekend-Dads to be dropping in with their offspring was on the cards.  When I came back out, I saw Taylah glance at my chest, then up at my face, then down at my chest again.

“Whaaaaaaaat…?  It’s hot and this tight singlet was all I had that wasn’t in the wash…” My voice trails off and I wonder if it’s a sin to lie to a birthday girl.

“Ooooh Taylah, it’s ten past twelve!  That means there’s only 20 minutes to go until your friends will be here!!”

“Yaye, yaye Karo that’s in one minute aye?!”

Ten minutes later, and we’ve checked the balloons, checked the pies, checked the nuggets, avoided the topic of Fairy Bread, and I’m starting to warm up to the idea of having a room full of Mini Satans to entertain for the afternoon.

“Ooooh Tay, I can’t WAIT to dance with your friends!  Oooh la la, they’re gonna think you’ve got SUCH a cool Aunty, I’m gonna dance like this!”

She wasn’t as impressed with the moves I busted as I expected she should be.  In fact, I was at that point banned from dancing at all.

Just then, music blared from the Party Room, and off she ran to see what was going on.  Duane had managed to connect everything up properly without the need to pretend the equipment was faulty and ‘troubleshoot’ with the instruction manual.  Pink blared from the speakers and I thought she was having an off-day, until I realised it wasn’t Pink.  And the next Rihanna song wasn’t Rihanna. 

Turns out the album that was legally filed-shared by friends from all around the world was actually an album full of covers by some obsure band of people from all around the world.  Pleased that now my singing was going to sound even better, I clapped my hands and said “Taylah!  It’s half past twelve!  Your friends will be arriving, whoop!”

Ten minutes later, no friends had arrived.

I stopped the updates and suddenly found several things in my room that needed doing.

Ten minutes later, after mentally calculating how many sausage rolls we were each going to have to eat, I ventured back out to the kitchen to check on them and start packing away the 79 beautifully iced cupcakes.

“So, lol…” said Michaela.  “Um, the invite actually says 1pm… not 12.30!!  I remember thinking that three hours was far too long to have that many kids here, so I changed it to 1pm!”

Feeling like I can look Taylah in the eye again, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I really don’t like chicken nuggets that much.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rings and the first guest arrives.  As the kid (boy, girl… I don’t know – it was just short) rushes after Taylah into the Party Room, Michaela asked the Mum if she was going to stay and chill for a while.

“Are you kidding me?  There’s no alcohol, this is not the kind of party I’m interested in staying at!  I’ll see you in two and a half hours!”

I swear I heard a sonic boom as she rushed out the front door, and I glanced over at Duane.  Yeah, that’s right, you heard her.  Alcohol…

The next ten minutes were a blur of pink, squeals, tiaras, wrapping paper and Barbie dolls.  I calmed down a wee bit by the time the last parents arrived.

“Are you guys staying at least?” Michaela asks Emma.  Emma is a close friend and has been known to drink alcohol with us at more inappropriate times and places than a six year old’s party.

Emma looks at her husband, he looks at her, she looks back at Michaela and then glances guiltily in my direction.

“Are you kidding me?!  We’ve got no kids for two and a half hours, we’re off back home!”

Fuck you Emma.

Figuring, if you can’t beat’ em, join ‘em; and then thinking they might not be open to that; I encouragingly sent them on their way. 

“Go, go forth and enjoy, lucky bastards…” as I once again mentally yell at Duane for his no-alcohol rule.

With a squeal of tires and the smell of burning rubber, they were off. 

And that was that.  We were alone with about 170 six year olds.

Until we noticed The Dad. 

The Dad had somehow snuck in without us noticing, and had been hovering around in the background, hidden from view by all the pink and tiaras, wrapping paper and Barbie dolls.

“Hi, hi, I’m Billy Bob.  I’m Mary-Sue’s dad.”

“Hey mate, Duane, Taylah’s dad.  This is my sister Karo.”

“Hi, hi.  Hey is it OK if I hang around for a bit?  I don’t really get to meet any of my daughter’s friends, and I don’t really get to see her in this kind of environment at all, so thought it would be nice to watch her for a while?”

I smile and wait for Duane to say “no, mate, sorry… we don’t really know you at all, and you look kind of a bit dodgy… and it will be really awkward for us all to sit here and make small talk with you for the next two and a half hours.”

“Yeah mate, of course you can.”

I curse the no-alcohol rule again and wonder if I can inject vodka into sausage rolls.

“Thanks.  I’m separated from her Mum, you see, so I only see her on alternate weekends and really treasure my time with her.”

I am such a bitch.

“Oh, that’s lovely that you’ve brought her then!” I say.   “Especially as it cuts into your time with her, how nice.  She’ll be having fun with all her friends too!”

“Yeah.  Although I should be home helping my missus plan for our wedding.”

I reach for a sausage roll and a syringe.

Pretending to be interested, I heard all about the new missus, the old missus, and the upcoming wedding plans.

When The Dad was finished talking about the love of his life, he asked Duane if he could look around the house.

After an awkward silence, he clarified by saying he was a builder, and looking to build something big enough for his new family.  I still mentally calculated how many pair of undies were in my drawer and wondered if I’d hidden my Easter Eggs well enough.

While they did the grand tour, I busied myself with dishing out all the hot food, ready to take through to the Party Room.  When they’d finished, they came back to the kitchen and Duane offered The Dad a coffee.  While he was making it, The Dad said “are you guys twins?!”  and because Duane is two years older than me, I mentally punched him right in the mouth.

As soon as the coffee was made, Duane excused himself to go upstairs and wrap the layers for Pass the Parcel.  Michaela was through in the Party Room, and my older niece and nephews had made themselves scarce.

I turned back to the bench to furtively search in my mind for a conversation topic.  I needn’t have panicked.

“I’m thinking about taking my jet ski out this afternoon.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.  Lucky you.  I bet that’s fun.”

“Have you been on a jet ski before…?”

“Yes, yes I have, loads of times.”

Once.  But we’re not splitting hairs.

“Why don’t you come out with me this afternoon then?  Come and join me…”

“Um, well actually, *cough* believe it or NOT, I’ve actually got a broken foot.  Four bones.  All broken.  So I can’t really be doing any strenuous activity and risk hurting it again.

“That’s OK.  You don’t have to do ANYTHING.  Just sit there and enjoy the ride…”

“Um, thank you anyway, but it’s far too cold for me, brrrr.”  He looks at my singlet.  “I don’t want to get wet, I’m such a wous, haha!”

“You won’t get wet, you can just sit there and enjoy it. You won’t get wet unless you WANT to…”

Fuck.

I turn my singlet away from him, come out from behind the pantry door, and start throwing more sausage rolls into a dish.

“Those pants look REEEEALLY good…”

Fuck.

“My jeans?  *cough* Well, thanks.  I like them...”

“They look REALLY nice… they look like real classy designer jeans…”

I curse the no-alcohol rule.

“Nope.  Nope they’re not.  They’re cheap, cheap warehouse jeans, $15, cheap as.”

“Well they look REALLY gooood….”

Fuck. 

Tossing up between “oh, well if you like I can tell your fiancé where I got them?” and “fuck up and piss off out of my house you creepy cheating pevert” I also became acutely aware that I was stuck.

The ass inside the pants in question was facing him, and did not want to be.  But the boobs inside the singlet were even less inclined to be pointing in his direction, and I ended up executing a move that seasoned line-dancers would be envious of.

“Excuse me while I just go and get a dish from the other room….” I trail off and moonwalk sideways out of the room.  As I turned the corner, Michaela was coming out of the Party Room.  Grabbing her by the arm, I turned her around and pulled her back into the Party Room she had just left.

“Do NOT leave me alone with that guy for another second.”

Her mouth dropped open and she got the sparkle in her eye like paparazzi would stumbling across Victoria Posh Beckham sunbathing naked.

“What?!!  What happened?!!” 

Giving her a very brief rundown, she walked out to the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t masturbating over any of our party food.

Appearing a brief second later, she told  me he’d gone.  “Took off, as soon as I walked in.  Said he had to leave and left in a real hurry!”

“Yeah, that’s right, cheating sleazeball!!” I yell at him.  In my mind.  “Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.  Except to get your daughter at 3.30pm.  But then don’t come back after that.”

Wait.  I run to my room and do a quick undies count.

“Yep, you’re all good.  Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back!”

As soon as we saw him jump in his truck and drive off, we raced upstairs to tell Duane.  He was a little less than impressed and agreed that The Dad wouldn’t be setting a foot back inside the house again.

“See why your alcohol rule is stupid…?”  I mumble quietly.

When I came back downstairs, I saw a Little Larger Kid in the kitchen with a cupcake wrapper in her hand and chocolate all over her face.

“Hey missy, how many of those have you had?”

“Um, three.  And four”

“Oh-kaaaaaaaaaaaaay then, how about we don’t have any more of those, and we’ll eat something healthy.  Here, have a sausage roll.”

I follow her out to the Party Room and there’s a great song on.  Well, there’s a cover of a great song on.

“Hey, Taylah, whoop, I love this song, lets..”

“Nope.”

OK then.

Back out to the kitchen, I know my place.  I bring through all the plates of hot food, and Little Larger Kid is standing there with another cupcake wrapper watching all the kids dance.

“Why don’t you dance missy?  Look how much fun they’re all having!”

“Because I can’t.  I can’t dance.”

“Well stop eating so much shit, get off your arse, and give it a go” nearly accidentally slipped out, but I caught it in time and managed a more positive “you can do anything if you just try!!”

After shooing her away from me, because I don’t really like other people’s children, I gazed wistfully at the moshpit in front of the fairy tent.

Suddenly, I remembered that I’m experiencing a new lease on life now.  I have to grab every moment with both hands, and run like the wind.  I must seize the day and along with it every opportunity to be footloose and fancy free.

I eyed up the nearest boy, yelled “fuck it” and threw myself onto the dance floor.  Once the kids picked themselves back up, and I quickly relocated a collar bone, I grabbed my niece and threw her high into the air.

High by their standards, anyway.  I managed to get her to about hip level, then told her to hang on. 

We danced around the room, bustin’ our moves, spinning round in circles (collar bones are easier to relocate once you’ve tried one before, I discovered.  And really, he’s six – he needs to man up a bit), doing my own interpretation of a tango crossed with hip-hop with a little bit of modern jazz thrown in.

After about 30 seconds, I simultaneously couldn’t breathe and remembered I had a broken foot.  I put Taylah down, thinking once again that I probably should have stopped spinning her before lowering her, and stepped back to catch my breath.

“That’s my Aunty!!” squealed Taylah and all her friends looked at me with big smiles; I gave them the raised-eyebrow-chur-bro look, and sauntered out of the room.

Back in the kitchen, poking the food  wondering what I’m going to eat next, Duane and Kayla both walk in at the same time.

“What’s the time?” asked Duane.  “Surely it’s nearly time for them all to go home?”

“It’s five to two”.

“Fuck me.”

Ten minutes later, they’ve played Pass the Parcel and the Birthday Girl cried.  Two boys had a fist-fight and one of them cried.  Little Larger Kid dropped her cupcake and cried.   Someone popped a balloon and someone else cried.

I sat in the kitchen giggling behind my hand, and Michaela walked in.

“Do you think we should have a drink…?” she asks, then immediately looks guilty.

We look round furtively for any sign of No-Alcohol Man.

“I think we most probably should.” 

Pouring two ciders, we got them down our throats faster than anything Monica Lewinsky ever attempted.

Glancing sideways at each other, then down at the floor, then at our glasses, we both felt it was probably most appropriate to leave it at that.  We were, after all, responsible for eleven other children.

So I topped our glasses up and hid the bottle at the back of the fridge.

Several songs, a few games, one more fist fight, and 8 popped balloons later, Duane came back out to the kitchen, followed by a gaggle of girls.

“That food was yummy, really yummy!” said one of them.

“I know” I said.  “It was so yummy it must have been made by someone really pretty, aye?!”

Looking at me like I was the Mona Lisa, she said breathlessly “you ARE really pretty Karo.”

I tried to keep her, but turns out her parents couldn’t shag ALL day, and they eventually turned up looking for her.

Trying to get them all back to the party room, I resorted to bribes.

“Do you girls all want some of my pretty perfume on?!!”  I yell, grabbing my $5 Postie Plus ‘Similar To Opium’ perfume.

“yeah”, “yaye”, “I do, I do”, “yep, yep” rang out in chorus.

After pushing Duane out of the way, I told the girls to all get in a line and put their necks up so I could spray them.

I forgot for a brief moment I was dealing with six year olds.

Instead of forming a line like, say, the military would have you in – side by side – they lined up one behind the other.  But not down the length of the hallway.  Across it.

“Not like that girls, good line, but stand here side by side, in a big row, and I’ll run along and spray everyone at once!”

Gradually getting the idea, a few of the girls move down the length of the passage/walkway and a small line forms.  And they turn 90 degrees.

Looking around for my cider, I tried one more time.

“Stand like this girls!  Look at me, and stand beside someone!  Someone on one side, someone on another!  That’s it!  Yeeyah, you got it!” and I was so excited they were in a line, that as I whipped down one-by-one spraying their wee necks, I failed to notice that one of them was a little shorter. 

I don’t feel so bad, she recognised her Mum when she turned up (even though she had bed hair) so I didn’t feel the need to suggest any follow-up medical treatment.

After they all ran (well, most of them ran, one stumbled) back into the party room, I went back to the kitchen to eat more food and eye up my cider.

Another ten minutes passed and Duane came back in, looking less composed than he did two hours before.

“Jesus Christ” he said.  “Little kids are cunts.”

I stroked my cider glass.

With only 30 minutes to go until freedom, we decided it was time to do the cake.  Into the darkened Party Room we marched, singing our hearts out to Taylah, while looking around to make sure blind girl wasn’t stuck up against a wall somewhere.

While Michaela was cutting the cake, I noticed Little Large Kid was nursing her third bottle of fizzy.

“How many of those have you had missy?”

“Two and three.”

“Okay… maybe we’ll leave it at that aye?  No more fizzy now, I’ll get you a water if you want.  Would you like a little piece of cake?”

“No… I don’t want cake.  I’m a bit full.”

Back in the kitchen, I was internally debating whether to open the next bottle of cider or go straight for the wine; or whether I really should make an effort to obey the no-alcohol rule just a little bit.  Just as I reached for a wine glass, Duane walked in.

“What’s the time, is it time for them to all be picked up yet??”

“It’s only ten past three, twenty minutes to go sorry bro.”

“Jesus Christ.  Pour me a fucking cider.”