Happy Birthday To Me!

On Turning 37

"In three years you'll be forty and you'll have three half-grown boys by then. Then you can start to enjoy yourself again." Not quite the uplifting talk I was expecting when I was at the end of my tether with my young children recently. 

Tomorrow is my birthday and I will turn 37. While looking back over past birthdays the other day, I found that I remember the sevens the best.

For my 7th birthday my dad brought me out for lunch, bought me a bunch of daffodils and, most exciting of all, a Twinkle magazine. I felt very much the grown up little lady that day.

My 17th birthday was eventful, but made memorable by some horrible reasons. My mother was taken into hospital the day before and, to make matters worse, all of my school friends forgot my birthday. I visited the Turner watercolours in the National Gallery in Dublin alone and went out that night to someone else's 18th birthday party. 

The good times returned for my 27th birthday. The night before my birthday The Bavarian and I got engaged. You can't get much better than waking up on your birthday knowing that very exciting times are beginning. 

So what lies in wait for me tomorrow, I wonder? With the buzz of engangement, marriage and childbirth behind me now, I don't reckon with anything spectacular. And I would rather that no-one gets sick or forgets me. 

I'd be happy with a grown-up version of my 7th birthday, swapping the Twinkle magazing for something else twinkly. 

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

...or at least he might as well. "Batman buns" is the answer I got when I asked what Number Two would like for his birthday breakfast. It is my own fault for asking. I suppose I should have phrased the question better, "If you could choose something from our usual breakfast portfolio for breakfast on your birthday, what would it be?". 

The thing is, he so rarely asks for anything that I hate to disappoint him. He must have picked up on my anything-to-please-the-middle-child vibes because once he knew he was getting something special he went into incredible detail. The buns should have white chocolate flavour. No wait, they should be brownies in the shape of muffins. But white not brown. No, actually they should be stripy and have layers of dark brown and white. The icing should be brown with a black bat. Can you make yellow icing Mammy? I want yellow icing with a black bat. 

So here I am on another terribly humid evening trying to make something resembling the Batman logo out of fondant icing that is melting before my eyes. I'm trying to ignore that I have to make 12 of these bats, one for each of the dozen fairy cakes cakes that are in the oven at the moment. The white chocolate was as soft as the fondant as I tried to cut it into chunks (he specified chunks rather than just white chocolate flavour at some stage earlier today).

But this is what you do, isn't it? Never mind that I should be packing for the holidays and organising a thank you card and present for Number One's teacher. [Tomorrow is the last day of his first year at school]. Never mind that I am going out for a drink tonight for the first time this year and would like to shower beforehand. Never mind the heat or the fact that someone is calling to test drive our old car in half an hour. My middle child birthday boy wants Batman buns and that is more important. 

This is Motherhood #3

Forgetting that you said you'd call to your neighbour on his 50th birthday, you end up having to rush to the supermarket shortly before closing time to buy a bottle of wine. Baby, of course, is not impressed with suddenly being flung into the car seat and decides to scream at the top of his lungs as you power walk through the aisles to find a decent bottle of Spanish wine (the neighbour's preferred country of origin - naturally, you want it to look like you put a lot of thought into this gift). Wine safely stowed in the trolly, you speed walk in the direction of the check-out before coming to an abrupt stop. Gordon's Gin is on special offer and hubby loves it. Add to trolly, proceed to check-out. Lift baby out to console him. Breath sigh of relief. Notice the smiles of the woman in front of you when she catches the baby's (teary) eye then notice how her gaze sinks to the contents of your trolley...two bottles of alcohol and nothing else. Turn on heel and power walk, steering trolley with one hand and carrying baby in the other, to the wine aisle and search desperately for wine bottle gift bags. Grab the nicest looking one (preferably with something like "A Gift For You" in large gold writing so it is clear to everyone that at least one of these bottles is not for your own consumption) and head back to the now even longer queues for the check out. Wait and wait and wait then pay and head home with your screaming baby. Get the older children to bed and ask hubby to call to the neighbour before it is too late. Hear the garden gate clink as he leaves. Hear the garden gate clink again a minute later. No-one home. Seems they forgot too that you said you'd call over. Sit down and open the gin.