MUM-UPMANSHIP

There is never, it seems, an inappropriate time for mum-upmanship: the act of getting one over on your fellow parents. According to a recent survey undertaken by www.mumpoll.com, somewhere in the morning routine maelstrom some mothers still have time to think about their public image. The school gate, far from being a portal you merely pass through twice daily, is in fact a prime location for shameless self-publicity. And it’s not just about the kids, although little Suzy’s grade 8 piano distinction is sure to be shoehorned into the idle chitchat. No, according to the survey some mums just can’t help showing off their flat tums, toned thighs, manicured nails and and SamCam style sense at 08.55. Crikey, my children are lucky if I actually remember to change out of my pyjamas before I leave the house. And the perfect parent persona is clearly working – the survey states that four in ten mums admit jealousy when others appear to be coping with motherhood better than them.

But if you think the school run is cutthroat, wait until party season starts. Five minutes of boasting at the school gate is a mere drop in the ocean compared with the torrent of stage-managed perfection that can be unleashed for at least a two hours when Suzy celebrates her 6^th birthday. This is where the mum-upmanshipometer goes off the scale.

Now, I have four-year-old twin boys who have thus far been satiated by a miniature train ride and a dodgy magician in a community centre. But the party I crashed at the weekend made my efforts look like a rained-off barbecue. I was in Brighton for my niece’s 7^th birthday – an unpretentious picnic-type affair in the local park. There was a gazebo hung with what looked suspiciously like home-made bunting, mind you, but the kids were happy running around screaming and the parents were happy sitting around drinking. A rounders game had been set up, but no-one was being coerced into picking up the bat so it remained reassuringly abandoned as the children deserted to the playground.

The following day my niece had been invited to her friend’s party, and we went along for the ride. This is where the mum-upmanship points began to notch up.

Point one: this party was not in the park, but in one of those exclusive gated gardens along the seafront, overlooked by expensive regency terraces.

Point two: there was not only a gazebo (with walls), but also a Cath Kidston tepee

Point three: games had been organised and were being played

Point four: the dad had brought his guitar and led a sing-along after the games were finished.

But, in the trees that separated this party from another, a toy Cheshire cat had been wedged, grinning inanely down on the soiree unfolding before its unseeing eyes. Welcome to Wonderland, where not only was joining in obligatory, but so too was the dressing up. For the parents as well. If I wasn’t mistaken, the outfit the mum was wearing looked suspiciously like a costume from the actual film, and no doubt by the end of the party to end all parties, her head would have been the same size as Helena Bonham Carter’s. Did they have a gazebo, I hear you ask? No, they had a marquee. And a table and chairs. Well the Mad Hatter didn’t sit on a plastic-backed rug on the floor now did he? I think I even spotted a portaloo hidden in some bushes. My mum-upmanshipometer was going completely crazy, and so was the mum of the party I was at. “It’s completely OTT!” she exclaimed. “They must have been planning it for years. It’s a shame it ‘s not raining!”

Was this just a Brighton thing, I asked myself, as Alice screamed at a child from our party to get out of her tree? My sister-in-law certainly seems to be notching up a compendium of south coast scrimmage. Take for example the hand-drawn invitation depicting a seven-year-old birthday girl’s caricature of each of her party guests – all seventeen of them. The girl’s art teacher mother was strongly suspected of hands-on involvement, or whip cracking at the very least. And let’s not forget the altruistic parents who very generously took the whole of little Johnny’s class to see Dancing on Ice.

But no, it seems parents up and down the country just can’t resist a bit of party point scoring – whether it’s a trip to a theme park for the boys, or a make-over and photo shoot for the girls. According to a recent survey by American Express, the average British family spends £450 per year on their children’s birthday celebrations, a good proportion of which goes on the take-home party bag. Having said that, I would strongly urge the good people of Birmingham to spend a little more on theirs, if the hypo-inducing sweets and breakable plastic toys with which my children usually return from parties are anything to go by. The mum who hand-made each and every party bag and contents for a party my friend’s daughter recently attended, probably had a little too much time on her hands for my liking, but something between a yellow stretchy man and an ipod shuffle usually impresses both kids and parents alike.

And speaking of making an impression, if you play it right your child’s party can actually be the perfect opportunity for winning over new friends. One North London mum told me that until she took a select group of children to the theatre for her son’s birthday, a classmate’s rather bourgeois mother had thought of her more as ‘Tottenham Trash’ than Haringey Highbrow. She has since been invited to all the book clubs.

So before you throw a party for your five-year old, think very carefully about which parents you would like to impress, and which you would like to alienate. Oh, and if it crosses your mind, ask little Suzy what she would like to do too!

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