Celine Dion & The Profusely Sweating DJ

Outrage! (&) Insult! at the (children's) disco

Welcome to Baby Brain, a space where I - Charlotte, hi! - write about family life with three small children - Poppet (m, 5 years), Pickle (m, 3 years) and Peach (f, 1 year.) Those are not their real names. These are real stories from our days.

Raise your hand if you've ever felt personally victimised by a children's disco DJ.

Me too.

More than once.

The first incident occurred last year. We were at Center Parcs, a haven for children hidden in woodland, and had stayed up past bedtime to attend a children’s disco - something I had, against my better judgment, insisted was a good idea. “This is going to be fun,” I said as my husband side eyed me on his way to play badminton, “we can’t miss the disco!” My MIL, a kitchen dancer, agreed and, determined, the two of us marched three exhausted children to the entertainment complex, ready for a night of fun. It was carnage. Pickle, bored within three songs, started eating his own bogeys. Peach got overwhelmed and immediately fell to sleep. And Poppet - his eyes locked on the profusely sweating DJ - became consumed by the thought of winning a keyring, giving it his absolute all as said DJ handed out prizes for ‘best dancer’ to all but the children that actually made any effort. Poppet spent an entire hour doing exactly as the slimy bastard DJ asked before, exhausted, sitting down for a break. He looked sad. I was livid. A parent’s dance was announced for the last prize, and we - Poppet, myself, and Peach in her carrier - set about dancing our hearts out.

The DJ, clocking Peach in her nest against my chest, made eye contact with me. He looked at her again. He nodded slightly. ‘We’re getting that keyring,’ I thought, as Poppet continued dancing so feverishly he began to resemble a Hocus Pocus parent enchanted by the Sanderson Sisters. The song ended, and the DJ walked toward us. Nodding again as he mopped his forehead with a towel, he extended the keyring. Poppet’s eyes lit up as he started to lift his little hand and then, walking right up to us, the DJ abruptly turned and awarded his piece of trash prize to a woman sat with her back to the crowd, having a glass of wine.

Similar intensity, very different outfit.

Poppet was crushed. I was on the verge of destruction. We went back to the cabin to slag off ‘the bad man’ and my grudge against kid’s entertainment DJs began.

For a while, the ill feelings lay dormant. Last weekend, they were awakened.

We were at a birthday party. Poppet's school friend was having a disco, and my husband had volunteered me as tribute/designated party going chaperone. I was thrilled. As the parent that can't drive (I KNOW, leave me ALONE) I don't usually get to attend the events that require personal transport unless all three sprogs are involved, and so the idea of alone time with my oldest boy was exciting, as was - I will be hand on heart honest with you now - the idea of not being the one in charge of the two younger ferals on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

This was Poppet’s second disco of the week - the first being a school affair, at which he once again did not win a prize - and so, with his hair gel in and his jumper showcasing whichever character was his favourite that week, he knew exactly what he was doing as he made a beeline for his bestie, leaving me for dust as I made myself a cup of tea and settled around the sides with my mum mates. Watching our younglings, we discussed the following: name regret, whether it was still acceptable to fancy a man in his 20s when we are very much not in our 20s, whether or not the kid at the table had just eaten the paper that encased his cupcake. We were just remarking on the songs our sons and daughters were playing games to when, like a knife to the gut, the DJ made a comment.

Pressing play on whatever they have in place of a CD player these days, she announced that ‘a really fun song!’ was incoming. The first bars of Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ reverberated around the hall. She pressed pause. “Who put this BATH TIME song on?” she said, laughing loudly, “nobody wants to listen to THAT!”

Having found myself instinctively primed to belt out a tribute to Jack and Rose, I paused. Taking stock of the songs I'd been singing along to as they were used for party fodder, I stiffened. This music - these songs I used to sing by choice at karaoke and dance to in ‘da club’ - had been relegated to playlists only suitable for musical statues, to background noise when those parachute things emerge with - I’m convinced - the sole purpose of hurting my arms, and to public mockery. ‘Was this what adults felt like in the 90s when us kids danced to the Macarena?’ I thought in horror. ‘Did seeing us jive to Agadoo make their crow’s feet throb, too?’

I turned to my friend. “I feel old,” I said, “I’ve seen this band live.” She laughed. Trying to get over myself and somewhat failing, I went to dance with Poppet to another absolute banger and then, once he’d had his photo taken with a man in a terrifying Sonic the Hedgehog suit, we headed out. Thanking the host for an excellent event (because it had been) we waited for my husband to pick us up as Poppet beamed into his party bag. Watching him, I came to three conclusions: 1/ Getting older is a privilege but what a gut punch of a privilege it can be 2/ children’s discos are better without prizes and 3/ there are songs I’d be less thrilled to encounter in a setting designed for kids than the ones we’d just made shapes to - Wet Ass Pussy once blasted at the toddler play centre, for example, so things could be much worse.

Until next time 🪩