As the years go by, birthdays become less about childish excitement and more about a blend of nostalgia, forced fun, and a dash of introspection. My recent birthday weekend was a good example, taking me from childhood memories to the present day, all while grappling with my inner aversion to “my” birthday celebrations.

I’m still not good with birthdays. After 52 of them they have turned from an exciting day with wonderful birthday parties organised by my mother and Aunty Colette helping out, with a homemade and home decorated cake, various bottles of pop, and hula-hoop crisps. This was the 1970’s after all.

In the 1980’s this evolved into being asked what kind of cake I wanted by Matron, choice of fruit or chocolate, that would be shared amongst all the boys at school, and receiving Thornton’s toffees sent in a parcel by my grandmother, to going out to the cinema with a friend, and getting run over crossing the street, but thankfully not injured, to preparing a dinner for friends.

Everything changed when I moved to France in the 1990’s. Birthday celebrations evolved from lively parties to intimate gatherings amongst friends, where the focus shifted from just cake to the simplicity of shared meals and conversation.

The 2000s and 2010s saw a familiar rhythm to my birthday celebrations, with the occasional variation in cake flavours and dining arrangements. Then my own children came along, and now they eagerly take on the role of party planners, injecting their own energy and enthusiasm into my special day.

My most recent birthday weekend was a fair blend of forced fun and begrudging acceptance. Friday night found me in my favorite pub, sharing stories and laughter with my son, an attempt to appease his desire to celebrate. Saturday was a day of family bonding, as I took my daughter and her boyfriend into town, dropped them off, went through two rolls of film, and then enjoyed a quiet evening at home cooking with my son.

In between, I indulged in my passion for photography, capturing fleeting moments of joy amidst the forced festivities. I also sought a moment of reflection during confession, seeking a bit of solace amidst all the attention. The night ended with a hearty meal prepared with my son, a small act of rebellion against the excessive birthday fanfare.

Sunday dawned early, as I set off to Saint Nazaire for an early 6am start and a performance at the Folles Journées, a celebration of classical music. The day concluded with a heartfelt moment at mass, surrounded by the love of my family.

As Monday morning approached, I carried a mix of emotions – the warmth of cherished memories, the exhaustion of forced celebrations, and a growing appreciation for the love and attention from my children. I was ready to face the working week, armed with the knowledge that birthdays, despite their uncomfortable nature, could be occasions for reflection, connection, and a touch of forced fun.

Do I feel older and wiser? Definitely the former, and to some small extent, the latter. Children, and especially older children, have this uncanny way of reminding you that you are evolving, despite loving every bit of you. It’s a humbling experience, and at the same time a display of love. I am veritably lucky to have them.

As I write this, a part of me still cringes at the thought of birthdays, but another part cherishes the memories they create and the love they represent. So while I may never fully embrace the birthday craze, I’ll continue to participate, albeit with a touch of begrudging acceptance and a sprinkle of nostalgic fondness.

Happy “Not Dead Yet” day to me! Still there to annoy the shit out of you, be really foul mouthed, and be completely inappropriate with everyone…
But I do love you all! Some of you I even like!

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