My son the party pooper

Hubby and I are invited to a proper grown-up party this weekend.
No. Children. Allowed.

Dan: “What sort of party bags will you have?”
Me: “There won’t be party bags. Party bags are for children” (why is that exactly? Really, why can’t we have a bag stuffed with cupcakes, smellies and chocolate? Or vodka miniatures).
Dan (wrinkling up his nose like he’s just been forced to eat a lemon): “That is so boring!”

Pause.

“How will you carry the cake home?”

“I don’t think there will be a cake either.”

Dan stares at me long and hard and horrified like I’ve just told him the world’s run out of chocolate or the Tooth Fairy is broke.
“I don’t ever want a party like that mummy. Promise me you will never let me have a party like that.”

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