An Irish birthday party that changed my expectations

Our Ukrainian columnist, Viktoriia Kantseva, has an interesting comparison on children's birthday parties in Ireland and Ukraine...

When my daughter went to her first Irish birthday party, I was genuinely curious about how it would be done here. Partly out of cultural interest. Partly because I wanted to know how many dishes people usually prepare. We were invited to a children’s play centre. The plan was simple: an hour and a half of running, jumping and joyful chaos, followed by 30 minutes of singing 'Happy Birthday...!, eating nuggets, chips, sausages and cake — and that was it.

And after that… everyone went home. No second table. No “just stay for tea". No quiet migration to the kitchen to see what else might appear. They actually went home. I remember standing there thinking: Oh. So this is also an option.

And if you think I’m about to criticise Irish birthday parties — not at all. I loved it. Because growing up in Ukraine, a birthday usually meant something very different. A birthday meant a table. A big one. The kind that bends slightly under pressure. Five salads. Three hot dishes. Ten plates of snacks. The cooker rarely gets a break. It works harder than anyone else in the family.

Add to this the traditional deep clean — the kind where you suddenly find things you lost in 2009 and start washing places no guest has ever seen in their life. So there you are, exhausted from cooking and scrubbing, trying to pull yourself together, put on something nice, do your hair… to welcome the guests.

And then what happens? People sit. They eat. They eat very well. And in some strange way, that feels like the main event. Afterwards, there is so much food left that a family of five could survive on it for at least three days. Sometimes even the neighbours.

And it suddenly struck me that something is missing in this format. The actual celebration. Because this kind of birthday works for adults. But for children? Children don’t want tables. They want movement, noise, games, chaos, sticky fingers and stories to tell. Which is why, even back in Ukraine, many parents now choose play centres for children’s parties too. But even there, the same rule often applies: You must order food. A lot of food. Because what if someone isn’t full? What if someone thinks you didn’t try hard enough? What if, God forbid, there isn’t enough?

And I realised how much of this comes not from generosity, but from anxiety. From fear of judgement. From the belief that feeding people well equals being a good person. But is that really what a celebration is supposed to be about?

In Ireland, I saw something that felt surprisingly freeing. Children came to play, not to sit at a table negotiating whether they were “still hungry” or “just being polite". The food was there - simple and easy - and then it stepped aside. It didn’t try to become the centre of attention.

Later, we were invited to an adult Irish birthday too. And it carried the same feeling. No tables collapsing under plates. No marathon of dishes. No pressure to perform hospitality. People came to talk, to laugh, to mark the day. And somehow, miraculously, no one tried to force anyone to eat another spoon of salad “so it won’t go to waste".

And I realised that this part of Irish culture touches something in me very deeply. Because there is much less space for fear here. Less space for “what will people think". Less space for hosting as self-sacrifice. People don’t come to measure your table. They come to share your moment.

This year, on January 27, we celebrated my daughter Yeva’s birthday the Irish way. We had invitations for her little guests. A bouncy castle. Nuggets. Cake. And a room full of noise, crumbs and very serious conversations between seven-year-olds. There was no overcooking. No two-day cleaning marathon. No nervous checking of whether everyone had eaten enough. There was only joy.

And at some point, watching her run, laugh and open cards from her friends, I caught myself thinking: This feels like a birthday. Not an obligation. Not a performance. Not a test of endurance. Just a celebration. I didn’t feel tired. I didn’t feel anxious. I didn’t feel like I needed to recover from it. I was just happy. And slightly suspicious. Because happiness without exhaustion still feels unfamiliar.