On Saturday we took the girls for a slightly belated birthday treat. We have left behind the days of big village hall parties, moving instead into the territory of cinema trips, bowling excursions and lunches with a few select friends. It’s not much easier on the pocket, but it’s a hundred times less stressful, and avoids the need to entertain parents as well as children: lately parties have become dual affairs, with the kids watching a magic show at one end of the hall, while mums drink 3-for-2 wine at the other. It’s all a bit too much like hard work.
The girls had opted to have their birthday at Build-A-Bear, a workshop where you put together your very own cuddly toy, and they had been eagerly awaiting the trip. Build-A-Bear is not a place for the faint-hearted. Imagine the God of commercialism swallowed a rainbow, and then threw up in a shopping centre: Build-A-Bear would be the result. Lurid nylon bear skins are laid out in trays, like roadkill with price tags, and despite my attempts to steer my daughters towards one of the more appealing options, they both went for something revolting.
‘Really?’ I said, eyeing the green and brown monstrosity Georgie had chosen.
‘It’s an Army bear,’ she said mutinously.
‘It’s their birthday…’ my husband reminded me.
I sighed. ‘Come on, then.’
Army Bear joined Evie’s Unidentified Furry Object (‘It’s a raccoon,’ ‘no, it’s a red panda’, ‘no, it’s a fox’…) in the queue to be stuffed. The stuffing machine was an enormous Willy Wonka style affair, with a hollow tube which was unceremoniously inserted into Army Bear’s bottom. Georgie was given control of the foot pedal, and Army Bear given his fill of fluff. Before the bears were sewn up, the children were invited to pick a heart from a box, ‘make it beat’, give it a kiss and pop it inside their new BFF. I have to confess that the sight of the girls squeezing their eyes tightly closed as they made a wish gave me a lump in my throat. It didn’t last long.
‘I wished for us to come back to Build-A-Bear again and again and again!’ Georgie whispered to me.
Fortunately, everyone knows you have to keep wishes to yourself if you want them to come true.
Finally we were onto the final leg of our ‘experience’: the dressing up. Hundreds of costumes lined the walls, complete with shoes, hair (fur) accessories, hand-bags and dog beds. Every item of clothing was adorned with plastic ‘crystals’, from the gold jeans to the fluorescent yellow crop tops.
‘Everything’s so beautiful!’ gasped Evie.
I nearly wept. But my husband’s words rang in my ears: this was a present for them, not me. They should choose what they wanted. These horrible clothes were just outfits for teddies, after all, not for the children themselves. And so I turned a blind eye to the suit Georgie chose for Army Bear. She teamed it with a pair of baseball boots and the sort of narrow, shiny tie worn by court defendants and double-glazing salesmen. I wondered if the clothing was specific to the region: perhaps this was what counted as fashion in Milton Keynes. There isn’t a Build-A-Bear in Chipping Norton, but if there were, would it be filled with tweed jackets and brightly coloured wellies; the girl-bears in striped tops and scarves, and the boy-bears in red trousers?
In the car on the way home Evie cradled her raccoon/red panda/fox lovingly in her arms. If she had been aiming for the transvestite look, I’d say she’d successfully pulled it off: dressed in hot pants, a crop top and knee-length silver boots, it was a startling outfit.
‘I had the best day today, Mummy,’ she said sleepily.
‘I’m so glad, darling.’
‘And I already know what I’d like for my birthday next year.’
‘What’s that, honey?’
She stroked the satin fabric of the racoon’s/red panda’s/fox’s boots reverently. ‘I want an outfit just like this one.’