Today is My Boy’s birthday.
Every mum will know that, however old one’s off-spring may be, their birthdays are
always remembered with a poignant mixture of love, pride and wonder at how the years can have flown by so quickly. It’s no different for the Middle of the Darling Daughters, who is excitedly preparing for Young Faris’s First Ever Birthday
in four weeks time, except that she has one exhilarating year to look back upon while I have – well, too many to mention if I am not to incur the wrath of the Birthday Boy.
When My Boy was born, Mr B and I already, of course, had our three Darling Daughters. I was therefore as sure as sure can be that this fourth baby would be another Darling Daughter. We even had her name all ready for her – Natalie Joy. We
hadn’t thought of boys’ names at all.
So everyone was surprised when he turned up, just like that. Even our family doctor, arriving on the happy scene
a couple of hours after the birth, insisted on checking my baby boy's credentials before conceding that he was, indeed, “a handsome bloke.”
Our fourth baby was delivered by a student midwife (albeit under the eagle eye of a veteran of many years standing who had delivered the Middle of the Darling Daughters five years previously). It was her very first delivery,
her first home birth. She said that the joy of it would be something she would always remember and was surprised that a fourth baby could arrive to as much excitement as a first born.
I could have told her it makes no difference. I remember visiting the hospital where my second grand-daughter was born. In the bed opposite was a tired-looking mum, being hugged and kissed by her four older children all clearly delighted
with their new sister. Once they had all departed, with the promise of a celebratory tea at home, she lay back against the pillows, brand new babe in her arms and gazed upon her little one’s dear face with so much love that it seemed to shine out
of her. See what I mean?
My boy now has three boys of his own – known to you all as my Little Welsh Boys. I was in the middle of writing this
blog when he called me on FaceTime so that I could join in, albeit at a distance, the Great Cake Ceremony. I watched, courtesy of the Us-Pad, the Darling Daughter In Law light the candles and, attended by three excitable boys (make that four, My Boy
was arguably the most excitable of the lot – it’s all in the genes) and carry the cake to the birthday person for the Blowing Out of the Candles. We sang “Happy Birthday” across the miles, first in English, then in Welsh. I wasn’t
too good at the latter, having to resort to rather a lot of la-la-la-ing but I managed to stay more or less on tune, despite being rather full on emotion.
Darling Daughter in Law said she thought it was one of her best ever cakes. Her eldest son said he would give it 69 points out of 100 which seemed to me both (i) somewhat precise and (ii) a bit on the low side, bearing in mind all the love that went into
its baking, icing and decoration. All three Little Welsh Boys were devouring a Birthday Tea consisting of chicken, sausage rolls and, of course, cake. “Do you like cake?” I asked Young Morgan, who generally answers “No!” to every question
on a point of principle. “Yes!” he said, unexpectedly. But then Young Morgan knows how to please me; he has learnt my name and calls me, lovingly and incessantly, “Nanna! Nanna!” I never tire of hearing it.
How lovely it was to be part of My Boy’s celebration, despite the 200 miles between us. Thank you FaceTime for bringing us close together for a few precious moments. Happy,
happy, happy Birthday to My Boy. May you live well and prosper, as someone once said.
You were then, and still are now, “a handsome bloke.”
Handsome is, as handsome does.