Returns of the Day

This weekend it was my birthday.

As predicted in an earlier post, I don’t really like them so much anymore. I’m a bit sad about that. It’s like Christmas gradually losing its shine. I have this terrible, sinking feeling that birthdays are losing their allure in direct proportion to me losing mine.
Husband loyally assures me that this isn’t so (the part about my allure, at least), but he’s stuck with me, isn’t he? So he’d have to believe that for both of our sakes’.

This was my day:

6.30am
Awoken by newest member of family.

Traditionally, of course, this would be a newborn baby and an early waking would be understandable due to terrible pangs of tiny-stomached hunger.  As you may or may not know, our latest addition is the rotund, orange and reasonably mature Bagpurrito (Felis catus) who apparently feels so confident and at home after three days that he took it upon himself to play ‘mouse’ with my nose until I grudgingly woke up.

He wasn’t hungry. There was food in his bowl. He just wanted to hang out.
I pushed him away and went back to sleep.

8.15
Woke up later than I meant to due to being allowed an unexpected lie-in.

On any day other than a Saturday this would be welcome, and I would be hugely grateful, but as I religiously go to hip-hop class at 9am, this was cutting it a bit fine, especially as Four and One hurtled into the room just as I was sitting up and rubbing my eyes, shouting at me to open my presents, I had to do it NOW, even before I had had a chance to have a cup of tea. They were quite serious.

Brutal.

I stumbled into the sitting room and the arguments ensued, Four sulking and One having a tantrum over who got to hand over loot first.
Coaxed them out of it (still no tea) and was presented with gifts.

From Four: A cup and saucer commemorating the birth of HRH Prince William c.1982.
She chose it herself.
How she managed to find a piece of Royalist chintz to clutter my shelves with here in Southern California is beyond me. My girl is nothing, if not resourceful.
I wonder if she is going to move on to those dancing shepherdesses in later years and pray not. It could get very awkward. (Note to self: Do not disclose existence of Franklin Mint)

From One: A glass snow globe containing a black and white cat.
He had, apparently, been most definite in his selection and once it was unwrapped refused to let me have it. Spent the next 15 minutes anxiously following him around for fear he’d drop and break it. (STILL NO TEA)

I did not want to open my gift from Husband before I went to class because I had literally five minutes before I had to leave and it appeared to be my last present of the day. Felt it both unfair and sad that I only had three things to open, all under duress and without tea.
I really wanted to do this all later on when I was ready to be older.
However I allowed myself to be pressured into it. 
Mistake.

From Husband: A traditional Chinese silk painting featuring two birds and six peonies. Very beautiful and full of symbolism about marriage, growing old together, new growth in relationships, fortuitous numbers etc. Accompanied by moving tale of how he’d tracked down and had tea with the elderly Chinese artist, trained in Peking in the traditional style, now living with her son in California who served as their interpreter – she only speaks Mandarin, and he had taken great pains to select the right piece for me, etc. etc.
All of this romantic elegy he relayed at high speed while One tried to add personal touches to the canvas with strawberry jam and Four interrupted with competitive comments about her own artistic skills. I tried to edge out the door so that I would not be late to dance, but still look interested and grateful and was clung to by One, wailing and protesting as I attempted to disengage him from my leg.
STILL NO TEA! STILL NO TEA!
Eventually I got away and into the car and was then immediately pursued by telephone calls by certain members of my faraway family which was very nice, but I didn’t dare answer them because I knew I would not be able to get off the phone within the allotted seven minutes it takes to drive to the studio.

Is it supposed to be this stressful?

9.15
Shake my groove thang. Sweat like pig. Am wished happy birthday by several people who then, rudely, ask my age. I avoid truthful answer with witty rejoinder, naturally. 

A pox on Facebook.

10.30
Get home. Husband in kitchen, ambitiously assembling ingredients for his first Sachertorte.  Children on patio, whining.

I cannot make any tea because nobody is allowed in kitchen until cake is finished.
I am promised a cup but I know in my heart it will fall by the wayside.

In my absence, fresh baguette and orange juice has been purchased for family birthday breakfast but Husband, virgin baker, too frazzled by cake attempt to be able to do more than place in bags on table and return, brow knitted, to kitchen. I opt to pretend I have not seen any of this, take shower instead and prepare for hair appointment at 11.30. Greatly look forward to leaving house again and spending blissful hour having follicular dignity restored and reading gobshite celebrity mags.

11.30
I only went in for a haircut, but hairdresser tells me that I need to consider a different approach to colour.

“As we age, our hair gets darker and more mousy. You’re not the blonde you were 10 years ago”

Have brief fantasy about strangling her with blowdryer cord,  but I have to concede she’s right.

Ten years ago I was young, single, fabulous and my long blonde hair looked completely great all the time (or at least in my head it did).
It was, ahem, assisted slightly, but I did it myself (bargain!) and even if it wasn’t quite a colour found in nature I seemed to be able to pull it off. Now I spend a lot of money on stupid highlights where I go in and let them make me look like a tinsel hedgehog every 8 weeks and come out looking so boring that I give myself narcolepsy. Husband, charmingly, likes this ‘natural’ look, but to me, and apparently now to my hairdresser, it just looks like I paid good money to be a middle aged Honda Odyssey driver with bad roots all the time.  Leave with nice haircut, appointment for very expensive colour session later in the week and loss of any remaining self-esteem.

Need a cup of tea. Something, somewhere, has gone very wrong.

1pm
Arrive home.
One is napping, Four and Husband now attempting to make chocolate glaze for Sachertorte. Once again, I am banned from kitchen and not allowed to make tea. Want to cry, but trying to be sporting in the face of such obvious heartfelt effort by family.

This would have been a perfect time to retire to bedroom and ring back my family for reassurances of eternal youth in their eyes, but due to time difference they are all asleep. Feel lonely. Seek out Bagpurrito who gives unconditionally of himself.
Send out pathetic, tremulous request for tea. It is promised. It does not arrive.

Fall asleep.

3.30pm
Wake up.
House is empty. Note on table:

“Gone to beach to give children a run outside. Back at 4 for tea and cake!
Love, Husband”

Very touched.  Decide to wait for them for tea as it’s only half an hour.

4pm
Not home

4.15
Not home

4.30
Phone to ask where they are. They are on the way back, just a minute

5pm
Finally get here. Giant de-sanding project (ugh!), cushions put on chairs outside, table set, kettle boiled (the hope! Too much!) Hiccough while candles are located (“Mummy, how many do you need?” “Four billion, three hundred and ninety five, by now”) Neighbors who are going to take children for the night arrive.

FINALLY cake and, most importantly, TEA is served. Ahhh. Beginning to feel like a birthday.

After this, things improve markedly.

The children happily disappear with the neighbours and Husband and I go out for the evening. He helps me spend that gift certificate that I had not managed to dent with Four – he has a great eye for what will suit me- and we catch dinner and a movie. Then we stay up late (gasp, shock, horror!) and, even better, sleep in the next day because children not there.
This has only occurred twice in the last five years, and was possibly my best present of all.  It  made me extremely happy to be able to laze around in bed with my Beloved until noon (yes, I do mean Husband, not the cat) instead of bartering over who was going to jump out and appease the terrorists.

It made it so easy to remember why I love him, he who buys me unusual, original artwork, slaves to make me delicious, complicated cakes, willingly sits outside changing rooms with endless patience, and tells me I look more and more beautiful as the years pass by. 

Really. What more could a girl ask? Almost worth enduring a birthday for.

‘A mug of tea, a loaf around, and thou’