It's a Dad's Life:In the 1980s you trekked to Slane for whichever band was performing that summer's live music extravaganza; now you hire a minibus for three nights at Electric Picnic, snack on falafel, Mediterranean olives, couscous and Chablis and occasionally stumble across an internationally celebrated act strutting in an adjacent field, writes Adam Brophy

In the 1980s we had birthday parties that involved blind-man's buff and the occasional foray for some exotic fare in a local restaurant known as McDonalds; now we have birthday festival weekends. The child adopts a pre-meltdown Britney persona and spends a couple of days in the glare of flashbulbs while nonchalantly ripping her way through parcel after parcel, pausing only to refuel on confectionery and fizz.

It sounds like the child should emerge as an affected nightmare, but generally they behave much as usual - it is our behaviour as parents that borders on the obscene. Having just emerged from one such weekend, I am exhausted and in possession of a house full of wrapping paper, plastics and presents.

This year we moved the elder's party from our indoors for the first time. After a couple of years of letting a posse run rampant through the manor, bent on destruction, we took what felt like the soul-selling step of heading to one of those barn-like adventure structures in the suburbs. There, kids can hurtle from heights and bounce off walls and each other in a fully padded environment.

Afterwards they are refuelled on the less-than-imaginative menu of nuggets, sausages, fish bites and chips. Then they go home, not to your home. They love it. I loved it. But of course, even though the party ended there, our celebrations couldn't. We adjourned to the in-laws, where each present could be appraised in the presence of discerning cousins. Way past bedtime we dragged ourselves home.

Day two (the actual birthday itself) opened with a fashion parade of freshly garnered new lines before a decision was made on an outfit to wear to the party of a neighbour who had the temerity to be born on the same day.

That was a distinguished effort, designed in part, I'm sure, to embarrass us for farming our entertainment out. There was a kiddie clown and sauvignon blanc, the barbie fired up for a last hurrah and, amazingly, no children were hurt, bar a minor anaphylactic peanut reaction scare.

Two parties in two days: not since the hedonistic days of the late 1990s had that been attempted, and this time without even a minor ache in the head to suffer as consequence. The whole thing was rounded off with another birthday cake in an indulgent granny's house, a couple more gifts and a further batch of sugar.

Thankfully these only come round once a year. The younger eyeballed the whole feeding frenzy in a surprisingly aloof manner. We had worried she would be put out at the fuss being made of her sister, but no, she calmly clocked up proceedings and regularly advised us that her birthday was not far away. Always one with an eye for an opportunity, she knows she has us in the palm of her hand for another 18 years.

So, having emerged, blinking, back into the light of normality, we feel we have survived the bonanza reasonably well. It was even enjoyable: no major tantrums, no prima-donna behaviour, no outlandish demands. Not from the child either. The elder revelled in it, no bother to her, as if she was born to be celebrated on a regular basis. The truth is, the gifts, the setting, the food were all secondary. What she enjoyed was the attention, the giving of time to say that this is an important day because it's the day she arrived. While that day stretched on either side, watching her enjoy it was worth the dented wallet and the emotional drain. Any day.