Mummy goes... Pop

I am officially an embarrassing mum.

Here's the background. It was Mini-RM's 8th birthday this weekend and she wanted a pop-star party. So the back end of last week was spent creating a confectionery masterpiece AKA the birthday cake. By Saturday morning, I had something reasonably resembling the figure eight, decorated in  a pop-stylesque fashion, complete with sparkling candles and some funky toppers (thanks Auntie Beans).

The time since party pick-up has been spent either cringing in a way that exacerbates the ache in my pregnancy-damaged back, or belly laughing.

I don't know how many of my fellow mummies have ever considered hosting a pop party.

I would totally recommend it - I haven't laughed out loud that much since I heard a child run, jump and bounce off a glass window last summer. I didn't see it, but the noise - a low-level boing and clatter of limbs - has left an indelible audio image that still makes me snigger uncontrollably.

At this point, I must introduce Chris, who runs Pop Parties at Home and is one of the bravest men I've met. He took all the pain out of the main event for us - he got a dozen demi-divas down from the ceiling and gathered round microphones in short order, recording the songs, supporting soloists and giving them plenty of direction (not just One). Then while the girls ate and inexplicably hit each other over the head with balloons, he worked some amazing magic and every guest went home with her own USB bracelet album. I know the mums and dads of Mini-RM's friends will have been grateful for the music on their journeys home.

True, some of the more retro elements of the music-themed party passed the children by. Food was segmented according to genre:

• wrap, and rock 'n' roll for the wraps and rolls and the cheese and cold meat fillings for the girls to make their own
• pop - for popcorn. I couldn't get more creative than that - this was a middle class party and middle-class children only drink bubbles when it's sparkling water
• Mootown - not a misspell, it was the diary station: tubs of Haagen Dazs mini-tubs (middle-class clientele at Sainsbury's) with a suitably high-sugar content array of decorations and sauces, to send them sky high before sending them home
• And the masterpiece of this Masterplan - Oasis - where the not-from-concentrate and individual bottles of aforementioned water waited to refresh the guests.

My idea of pop was probably never very cool - I'm not a follower, I'm a leader. It's just where I lead, only my husband and occupants of my car will ever be reluctant acolytes. My childhood was brimful of uncompromising Lycra and leg-warmers (either neon or homemade, and usually odd), and bopping along with a hairbrush in front of Madonna singing about virgins and their first sexual experience.

Of course we had no idea what we were singing. We were just trying to imitate these beautiful, famous and rich women. We'd have been bootylicious if such a thing had been invented then. Body popping and break dancing were the only other viable alternatives so instead we hopped from foot to foot and swished our hair a lot.

So, it doesn't surprise me that I hadn't quite realised how explicit the lyrics were for the party: by the time I did, I was already committed to the song choice. Not by Chris, but by my daughter who would not budge. I'm grateful that the innocence of children is universal and that lyrics such as "you whisper, Baby I'm yours" and Firework (which lists every emotion children can imitate to be considered depressed thereby fooling figures of authority) have been sung without understanding.

The bizarre thing is, the three songs she chose were completely out of her normal taste. She's been brought up on a core diet of Noel and Liam, together and apart; Billie-Joe and sometimes GaGa. In fact both girls will inevitably ask for Masterplan and I Fought The Law on any and every journey at some point. My husband and I sing alternatives loudly where necessary - fun replaces the most frequently included naughty word.

Dance music was another genre I grew through - some great tunes actually. These days, I can't wave my hands in any air as they're holding my bust in place while I'm busting a move or two - to try anything else is to guarantee a whole new routine to House of Pain.

There was a time when I could last Whigfield's Saturday Night, something by 2Unlimited and at least half "Midnight Madness" (our local club's extremely popular play list every Saturday featuring REM's Shiny Happy People, Dexy's Come on Eileen and the original Time Warp. NOT the Damian version. Or anything by Gareth Gates). Now, I'm lucky to make it to the first chorus.

In my mind's eye, as the music begins, I'm going to channel my inner Strictly and dance in a way never before seen by an amateur with no formal training in street dance. In fact, I'm thinking that, if I can execute this in the way I've planned, I might form my own dance group, and certainly offer to step in when the Zumba lady is next poorly.

The reality of course is that I'll start with a strong first foot and then look, frankly, idiotic.

But back to my status as mortifying mother - it would appear I am no longer cool enough for school. I wasn't allowed to dance or to sing, and my ironic bopping in the corner with another mum has been judged by a primary prima donna who looked me up and down and tossed her head, disdain oozing from every pre-pre-prepubscent pore. Thanks darling, and to think I carried you for 39 weeks.

I would like to issue a statement - the party list may be on my Spotify account, but it is actually theirs. Just so we get that straight.