Don’t get me wrong, I actually enjoy having birthdays now, there’s just something else bothering me about the whole ordeal.
When I turned 31 (I refused to accept that being 30 meant I was IN my 30s. It was, after all, my 30th year), I dreaded the descent into ancientism. ‘Arse, I’m getting decrepit. Birthdays are cool until you realise you’re getting older.’ It was my demise–or so I thought. Not to sound all Oprah-esque, but I definitely feel much more comfortable in my own skin. I feel like I know who I am, and what I want from life. I know what I like, what I don’t like; what to sweat and what to let go, what makes me happy and what is a complete waste of my time or energy. Or both.
Despite all the new fondness for life in the 30s – and I know many in the same predicament will agree with me on that point – there’s nothing like a birthday to make you miss your old Mum. Growing up for the majority of my impressionable years with a single-parent mother and my older brother, I clung to and relied upon her so much. Thinking back to how she raised us, I can’t help but feel prideful that she was my Mum, and a great one too. She taught me so many skills and talents–mainly from her quiet example. She passed on her perfectionism and fear of huge lorries (trucks) to me and I can also boast to having her sick, nay perverted(!) sense of humour. There’s nothing like a hug from your mother on your birthday and I’ll definitely be missing that.
Moving on 2 days to the 8th, that was the day I left Scotland, reassuring my tearful mum that she’d see me again in 3 months. Three years later, I arrived on her doorstep with my husband in tow. Oh, and by the way mum, this is my husband that I’ve been married to for 18 months that you’ve never met. Pleased to meet you. So where’s the Jaffa Cakes, Tikka Masala and Cornish Pasties?
Christmas is my most favourite of holidays. I love the lights, the music, the decorations, the smiles on kids’ faces and the smell of great home-cooked food. And yet another opportunity to bring your mind back to your family. I have my own family now and we’re making our own traditions and memories, but there’s something to be said about popping round to your wee mum’s for a visit at this
commercialised family-orientated time of year.
*sigh* Being eight weeks early, I suppose I could have chosen ANY day… Why couldn’t my birthday be the 8th of December? All the cool people were born on that day. I know, I’m messed up.