My my

According to my mum, I was nearly called “Nigel” because there was a single “Making Plans for Nigel” in the charts on the weeks approaching my birth. She changed her mind.

I wonder what it’s like, to hold a child of your own. A little being that grew inside you and it’s part of you. I always wanted a child to play with, build Lego house, play trains, build sandcastles with, to watch them grow and become their own person. I’ll write about that kind of thing another time.

I used to love my birthday, I could make it last all month. It drove my husband nuts. I was like Gollum “it’s my birthday, and we wantsss it!”.

I’ve had a few rubbish birthdays. Ones ruined because my husband was ill; I’m afraid that I wasn’t very sympathetic about him being ill at the best of times; “spoiling” my birthday (or Christmas) really upset me. I eventually learnt that I could have a perfectly fine birthday just me on my own. Same with Christmas. I needn’t resent him. I even learnt to be there with him in his darkness – resentment really being replaced by a more mature love.

I was unbearable when I turned thirty: I thought my life was over! Idiot! I didn’t want to celebrate it. My husband said “maybe other people want to celebrate it even if you don’t”, which made me think.

My fortieth was a fabulous day. I spent much of it with my mum. I wish I could remember what we did that day. It makes me feel really sad that that I cannot remember. My husband was at home putting together a surprise party for me – seventies theme. All my friends came in seventies fancy dress, and we all played Sing Star all night – the ABBA edition. That is my most favouritest birthday ever!

What really changed my feelings about my birthday was when somebody said that my birthday isn’t my day: it’s my mother’s (and father’s to a lesser extent). It was her special day because I wasn’t aware of it. she made it special every year because of her love for me and what the day meant to her.

When she died, so did my interest in my birthday. She took a lot with her.

This morning, as I last in bed, I listened to a video my mum had made a few months before she died. It wasn’t anything heavy, but it was her voice. I cried. I miss her so very much.

This year – this day – I’m fifty. I’m kind of excited, I suppose it’s a little residue of the month-long-birthdays of my youth. I don’t really know why. There’s nothing planned. After my husband’s birthday was lost amongst my chaotic and destructive coming out as non-binary and my burning need for castration, I don’t feel that I deserve to celebrate anyway.

I’m am fifty and I am only just discovering who I am! I find myself on the most marvelous adventure! I wanted to be in my right body before I was fifty, and in that I succeeded. What a journey!

I suppose we will watch the Eurovision and eat various European picky foods. I might even get a little squiffy, which will be a change because I don’t drink. I quite fancy getting a bit drunk.

Then it’ll be over.