Well, it was actually JJ's party, who was five a few days before, but Christine graciously let Pete share the bill. The mouse mascot (and his epony-mouse restaurant) was the brainchild of Nolan Bushnell who founded Atari in 1972 thus spearheading the arcade and home computer revolutions and being the first man to employ Steve Jobs. Bushnell realised that if he locked families into arcades they'd probably drop more quarters into his machines, so created restaurants filled with game cabinets, basically daring parents "You want peace and quiet? Give your kids money to give to me." The man was undeniably a genius.
The place is, of course, Pete's favourite in the whole world. I quite liked it too because, on previous visits, he's never realised that the machines do more stuff if you actually put coins into them. It's basically free indoor entertainment, but that wasn't going to wash when you're the only toddler at a party of knowledgeable five-year-olds. So after his lunch of pizza, chocolate cake and ice cream, during which a giant mouse danced in front of a TV screen showing cartoons, Pete grabbed his cup of tokens and disappeared into the pandemonium.
In Somerset, where I grew up, "chuck ee cheese" is what someone says if they want you to pass the cheddar. Or, if phrased as a question, they might be asking "have you just been sick?" The latter of these is the most appropriate, given the mix of fatty sugary food, fizzy drinks, running around, disorientating lights and music, and the occasional sighting of a huge rodent with unblinking eyes. A doorman stamps you with an ultraviolet number when you arrive claiming it's to stop anyone stealing a kid they didn't come with but really it's to prevent adults escaping. Some parents had been inside too long and had surrendered, running and shouting with their kids to grab as many tickets as they could - spat out by the machines after each play and exchangeable for amazing things, like chewing gum, and bits of coloured plastic.
I staggered, lost, through the giant electric labyrinth, desperately chasing my coin-clutching baby. The huge mouse appeared again and threw tickets like confetti, dancing and making us all dance with him by the power of his will. A billion lights blinked together, the room tilted, the air full of jangling melodies and heady fried aromas, the lone salad bar picked and sneezed over by countless infants, the mouse, the dance...but as the blackness encroached Christine appeared, grabbed my hand and said: "We're going. Would you like a coffee at our house?"
The bracing Virginia air brought me vaguely back to my senses, as did Pete's complaints about having to leave. Unfortunately he still has a fistful of tokens left so I have no doubt we'll be back. Thank goodness whoever invented birthdays saw fit to leave twelve months between each one.
Today was actually the culmination of four days of partying. Here's the young man on Friday with his birthday donut.
Presents didn't stop arriving, although I have to wait for Pete to go to bed to get to play with most of them.
Pete asked for marzipan cupcakes for his birthday. And in this house, when someone asks for marzipan cupcakes, someone delivers marzipan cupcakes.
Birthday tea with the Murnanes. Civilised, which is quite surprising given the Murnanes.
"So Pete, Mummy and Daddy got you a really special present for your birthday..."
Yes, here is the mouse. And JJ.
I enjoyed a healthy lunch of pizza and chocolate cake. At the same time.
Like father like son.
No TV at dinnertime! Oh, wait...
Chaos reigns.
"What do you mean, you don't want to join the US army when you grow up? It's the best decision I ever made!" Vince convinces.
Ticket madness with Claire and JJ in the wind tunnel.
Pete decides a better way to win is on the one-armed bandit. Because now he's three he can legally gamble in the USA. I guess.
