HERDING CATS. OR HOW TO THROW A KID’S PARTY – PART 3. THE GAMES.

probably not for a 2 year old's party.
OK, this will be my last one on parties I promise. Anyway, I’ve done the planning of the party and the all-important party cake, but I think it is necessary to cover the final essential bits of the party – namely the games. Oh, and I forgot the food – ok, maybe this is the second last.
Firstly, can I highly recommend you find a really dodgy game that involves something slightly humiliating for the compere to do? Say running around a garden holding up signs whilst wearing a train driver’s uniform trying to corral a large number of three year olds in a straight line behind them? And ensure that any husband who might not have been of huge assistance with arranging party becomes the aforementioned compere? Just a suggestion.
In other tips:
1. If they’re under 3, don’t bother, just load ‘em up on cake and watch them run round the garden hopped up on chocolate and juice.
Kate’s Genius Child-Rearing Inventions #1
I have often been described as a genius. By often, I mean I think I heard a teacher say it once. Possibly she said pest. No, definitely genius. Anyway, I present to you the first in my eagerly anticipated series – Kate’s Genius Child-Rearing Inventions. These are things that I have never seen in a shop – possibly as they may cause injury – but DEFINITELY should be in a shop. People would buy these things.
Pop-up remote controlled electric fence.

A little less violent
You know when you’re in a park. Or a coffee shop or a circus. And you have a small child running in the wrong direction. Or crawling away as fast as their little legs can move? And you really want to finish the end of JUST ONE sentence before interrupting your conversation to drag them back to the designated zone? This is where you whip out your remote control, press the buzzer and a child proof forcefield is erected. Nothing too violent – it wouldn’t give them an electric shock (that’s part of my invention #21) – would just keep them in a defined area, unable to disappear behind a faraway hedge, smear ice-cream on any one’s leather sofa or empty salt out of every salt shaker behind the waiter’s station.
Travelling with kids – part two, into the inferno.
So I think it would be fair to say that we have covered airplane travel relatively comprehensively (if by comprehensive you mean in a kind of crappy yet witty and insightful way here , here and here) but there is always the other bit – when you actually get there. Oh yes, the holiday itself. I’ve just been on one and although I know most things in the world, as I’ve mentioned before, a far cleverer friend than me says that every time you travel you learn a new thing about travelling with your children. I think she might be right. Plus, she’s a lot taller than me, and currently about 11 months pregnant, so I usually agree with most things she says, lest she clout me over the ear. Anyway – some tips….
- Most importantly – do it. Travel. Get out there. Most places can be done with kids. Unless it’s a twenty two star adults only resort. Don’t take kids there – unless you plan to hide them in your room the whole time. But that might be a bit boring. Even if they do like DVDs.
Björn it Up Baby
I’ll admit that I like Baby Björn branding. It’s not just the clever word play, it’s that it also makes me think of Björn Borg and I can’t help but think that a little bit of his retro cool might rub off on me if I buy something from Baby Björn*. It’s his general coolness I’m aspiring to you understand, not his wardrobe at the peak of his fame – I’m not going to start wearing tight white shorts, long socks and terri towelling headbands. Though I don’t doubt there are some very fashionable people that could carry that off. I just don’t have the legs for it. Or the hair.
But I drew the line at the 80 plus euro for a baby chair/baby sitter/bouncing cradle. I remembered the metal frame strung with some slightly flexible material that people used from my youth and it didn’t seem necessary to buy an expensive, branded version. There must be dozens of alternatives I assumed. They’re so simple. Well, actually not.
Sophie – baby’s first status symbol? And our very first giveaway.
I don’t know if it has hit other parts of the world yet, but here in Europe if you don’t own Sophie, you may as well stay home – or stay hidden underneath the sun protector in your buggy or other baby anti-humiliation techniques. There is no way you could face life in the sandpit without knowing that you had Sophie waiting for you at home. Yes my friends – it’s not about highchairs or cots or even your designer buggy – if you don’t own Sophie La Giraffe, you are nobody.
Furthermore, if you don’t buy your baby one immediately, you are probably sentencing your child to a lifetime of lunches alone and dodgy denim choices (I have no memories like this to relate to, only ever having been seen wearing cool, up to the minute, always in fashion jeans. Cough denim hotpants cough).
But why? Why this French phenomenon? There are fifty five million different squeezy toys for babies (I counted), what makes Soph different? I’ll hazard a few (dodgy) guesses….
- She is French. Probably Parisian. And female. All Parisian women are skinny, chic, classic and colour coordinated. So is Sophie.












