Ten years ago I was having a meltdown because I was the mother of an adult.
Two years ago we stayed in our own family bubble, ate cake and celebrated. We also sang because whatever anyone in the news says, singing was never illegal. (Going to choir practice was but you could sing in your own home or workplace).
Three years ago my adult was recovering from a nasty flu, had a miserable birthday and decided to apply for a job closer to home. The government had just stopped all but essential travel to Wuhan province in China, a few days before our first confirmed cases.
One year ago she got the keys to her own house.
Seventeen years ago she had a dinner party party. I remember it because my homemade soup had real tomatoes in, which caused a puffy face reaction in one of her guests.
Twenty five years ago we celebrated on the sofa in pyjamas because she had flu.
Twenty eight years ago I was sitting in bed, dropping biscuit crumbs on the hairy head of my newborn.
Birthdays are so much more than remembering one day. We are so lucky, as parents, to be able to reflect on all of the birthdays that have got us to this point.
Happy birthday
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