“What? But you can’t have her party on Saturday – that’s your birthday!” said my incredulous coffee companion.
She was referring to the upcoming party for my middle-child, who turns six on Monday, two days after I turn a far less significant age. And because you can’t have birthday parties on Mondays, her party is on Saturday – on my birthday.
And that’s fine. Because of course, when you become a parent, you put your kids first (excuse me while I polish my halo.)
And anyway, when you’re turning a quite grown-up and not terribly significant age, you don’t need to celebrate your birthday. I’m totally fine with that. Totally.
Well, it would be nice to have a little lie-in on my birthday… Instead, I’ll be getting up early to blow up balloons and hang bunting and wrap pass-the-parcel presents and get 32 (yep, 32) unicorn horns filled with jelly-beans. And sure it’s grand, I can have a lie-in any time (I know, that’s not even true, but humour me.)
And even though I’m a grown-up now, I do still like cake. It would be nice to have a birthday cake. And I will – one that I make myself admittedly, and it’ll be in the shape of a “6” and I won’t get to blow out candles. But still, it’s my birthday, and there will be cake. Box ticked.
It’d be nice to do something with the kids for my birthday, like go out for lunch maybe. What’s nearly as good as going out for lunch, is hosting a party for 32 five- and six-year-olds. For a start, there will be food, albeit food I make myself, and also, there will be games – you don’t get games when you go to a restaurant, right? It might not be as relaxing as my imaginary restaurant lunch, but I’m OK with that. I’m a grown-up. I don’t need to celebrate my birthday anymore. Honest.
Sob. I can’t do it. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.
Except of course, it’s not my party.