On my kids’ birthdays I always give them a special hug (sometimes a present even!) and tell them the story of the day they were born…
It was a hot summer’s morning/snowy night and mummy got up for breakfast/turned over in bed and thought she’d wet herself.
At first my daughter mistook my crappy French pronunciation and confused lost waters with lost bones, poor child obviously imagined a very floppy mummy being pushed into the car, somewhat akin to Harry Potter’s deboned arm into his pyjamas.
When you were born I took you in my arms once they had undone the knot of umbilical cord around your neck/ I had fought daddy away with a big stick and told you how you were the most precious thing in my life baby number one/two, and how I’d always be there for you, no matter what – unless I was in the closing chapter of a very good book.
Kids’ birthdays are not just their special day, but the anniversary of a very special moment for us mums and tonight I am privately celebrating the day I became a mum.
Thirteen years ago today I joined the best, and hardest club in the world.
Today I’m celebrating still being a member.
I haven’t physically damaged either of them, the psychological scars don’t show yet and I am officially the mother of a teen.
I always used to look at mums with older kids in awe, they obviously knew the secrets, I don’t yet, but I’m assuming they’ll come tomorrow, in the post perhaps?