Daddy Gaga: when you organize your child's birthday party

To properly educate your offspring, there are excellent methods developed by educators and scientists. Otherwise, there is Daddy Gaga.

“I invite you to my 4th birthday on Wednesday, June 12. You have done your homework well: about thirty missives written by you sit enthroned on the living room table. On each of them, your offspring has written a first name with misshapen and absolutely misaligned letters, and drawn silhouettes which evoke a tank in full offensive but which, according to the artist, are in reality a cake topped of candles. No doubt you've made the ugliest birthday invitations in birthday history. Well done champions. The hardest thing is done ? Nay: if the little being of light celebrates another year, celebrating it will cost you at least three, in terms of life expectancy.

The guests

Your offspring first orchestrates the distribution of invitations to school: "Irene, I'm inviting you to my birthday party!" " Perfect. But the party promoter quickly loses sight of his objective: “Solveig, I invite you to… Hey you have a Frozen headband!!! Oh so beautiful, dad, have you seen the Frozen headband?? Can I have one? Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes, SAY YES, please dad of love that I love to the stars of the universe! The child is strong in negotiations. “Yes my star, but don't forget your mission. Alas: he has already been caught up in the horde, and launched into a game of rock-paper-scissors-well-chainsaw-jumping toad, a variant of shifumi. You distribute your invitations to the few children you know, but very quickly come to the end of your knowledge of the trombinoscope. Here you are completely lost in the middle of the class, without knowing who Sacha, Mathieu and Marguerite are. No choice: you distribute randomly. You pass on your latest flyers to brats you meet in the street, as well as to Alphonse, who does traffic every morning in front of the kindergarten and who is super nice.

Daddy Gaga, the book! 30 adventures in this hostile territory called fatherhood

The longest day

“Here London. Dads talk to dads. The carrot cakes are cooked. I repeat: the carrot cakes are done…” You wake up with a start. 6 a.m.: more than nine hours before disembarkation. You must prepare a cake, buy party favors, plastic glasses, paper plates, candles, small toys to distribute, fruit juices, sweets, Sopalin (a lot), garbage bags (a lot) , detergents (considerably), and prepare a magnificent scenography in your living room… After five hours of shopping, during which you also checked the real estate agencies to see if there were apartments nearby that were not too expensive since yours would soon be in ruins, you come home with 30 kilos of gear. In a fit of fever, you bought a piñata in the shape of a unicorn, telling yourself that these globalized brats should worship the Mexican-American tradition and smash the object in joy and celebration of the post-capitalist apocalypse that s 'announcement. You stuff it with yo-yos, mini-dinosaurs, slime monsters, little dolls and other crap. You then decorate your living room with scientific care, which after two hours looks like Disneyland. But no time to brag: it sounds. The first guest. Surely Sasha. Or the one to whom you gave Sacha's invitation...

The landing

Disneyland is no more. Your enchanted park lasted about three minutes and twelve seconds. Yet there are ONLY three parties: Sacha, Marguerite and Alphonse, the king of the crossroads. The bells are linked, you are already totally overwhelmed. At 3:30 p.m., two 18-year-olds in tracksuits show up: “We're coming for the birthday, sir. We are class buddies. To prove their good faith, they brandish one of your invitations. You may have distributed a little too much… “Guys, you read: it's his 4th birthday. “Yeah, but we repeated a lot. » You close the door, just long enough to hear: « Come on bro, let us in, we have hash and Pepitos! » You return to the living room. Number of children: 15. Felt: 83. It screams, it laughs, it cries, it runs, it cuddles, it fights, it runs from the nose, it breaks everything in its path, and it significantly lowers the price per square meter of your apartment… It's more of a 4-year-old child's birthday, it's a teknival not declared in the prefecture. The gift packages have been ripped open, your descendants are bathed in colored paper, plastic packaging and Playmobil of all kinds. This sudden wealth clearly goes to his head: “I want more, gifts!! Where are the gifts??! The gifts are mine!! she yells, nervously shaking her new toys, her pupils dilated and her lips drooling. Here is your charming toddler transformed into a supercharged macronist ready to reign over the start-up nation. You take out your (failed) cake to calm things down. Apart from the start of fire in the hair of a little girl when lighting the candles, you have mastered this step quite well.

The apocalypse

You pull out the piñata and say, “Kids, there are lots of toys in there! To get them, you have to destroy it with your magpies…” You don't have time to finish your sentence. The unicorn is violently beaten up, the brats tear out its entrails. You are dizzy, the last image that imprints on your retinas is a ruddy, bloated monster with dozens of little arms and little legs. When you come to your senses, the apartment is deserted. Alphonse made traffic and guided all the speeders to the exit. But the apocalypse took place, right there, in your living room. Looks like a set from The Walking Dead. In the middle, a zombie: your mini-you. Haggard, exhausted, shuffling. But a broad smile on his face. "That was so good, daddy!" Can we turn 5 tomorrow? No doubt: you are a perfect (zombie) dad.

TO READ

• Daddy Gaga: When your kid has a cold and becomes a snot factory

• Daddy Gaga: When you take your child to the park

• TEST – What is your mental age?