My dear friend has had a beautiful baby boy – the cutest bundle of sleep-stealing, life-changing loveliness.

And it was all so exciting, because the wonders of modern technology meant she was on Facebook throughout much of her labour – right up until her last petrified post stating that if the baby didn’t turn in the next 15 minutes, she would have to have a c-section.

I tried to reassure her, and as her friends and family around the world did the same, I could barely tear myself away from the computer to go to bed. In fact, I actually got up in the night to check on her progress.

Happily, all went well – though she was naturally none too impressed that here in Dubai you’re given aspirin as pain relief afterwards, rather than the fabulous narcotics you get after a c-section in the States.

Of course the arrival of such a gorgeous baby boy takes me right back to the birth of my two, and so it was with utter amazement that today we celebrated the third birthday of my littlest boy.

Time flies, it really does – and as the years roll by, I think my memory might be taking flight too. Because, despite having learnt this lesson before, I thought it would be a good idea to hold a little birthday tea party for LB.

There’s clearly something about child rearing that makes you wake up in a tidy (and in the morning child-free) home and think, “Aw, LB’s turning three – wouldn’t it be lovely to have all his little friends over, sugar ‘em up and let them run wild?”

I’d planned to keep it on the small side, ie, just LB and his brother, but at about 10am I started inviting people, which, when you live in company accommodation, tends to snowball – plus BB took it upon himself to invite a couple of friends from his school bus.

I should also know by now that birthdays that start at 5.30am always end in tears – not from LB but from his more highly strung brother, who ate his body weight in chocolate, acted totally demented and will surely have a hangover tomorrow.

There was some confusion over whose birthday it was. More experienced in such matters, BB thought it was his and opened all the presents. (“I was just showing him how to open them, Mumm-eee”) – and so not surprisingly LB thought the pass-the-parcel I’d spent ages wrapping up was rightfully his.

Once wrestled off him, I tried to find a suitable children’s song on the iPod to accompany our game, but the kids (3,4 and 5 year olds) had a special request: Lady Gaga!!!

The balloons were a hit, though popped like a car backfiring one by one, then the older kids started chasing each other round the house and there was a scary moment when I thought I might have to take one girl home and tell her mother she’d knocked her front teeth out (thankfully, she was fine!).

The kids seemed to have a blast, though, and the adults in attendance were chatting happily, so perhaps it was just me who was stressed to high heaven and wishing I could lie down in a locked, darkened room.

But now that it’s wine o’clock and the house is quiet again, it all seems like good fun – see, that special form of child-induced amnesia is already setting in!

PICTURE CREDIT: www.school-clip-art.com; GraphicsHunt