As a child birthdays were a monumental occasion, the anticipation for which began weeks, sometimes months before the big day as I would spend hours poring over the latest Argos catalogue picking the presents I’d like to mark the anniversary of my successful passing into existence. Admittedly most times I would not get the exact gift I’d asked for, but times were hard in the Weatherer household and we were grateful for whatever gift we received.
I remember only ever having one party, perhaps. It was tainted by the arrival of one such gift I defiantly did not ask for. Black, about 8 inches tall and loaded with batteries, that description alone is enough to chill most readers of this blog, but let me assure you that the makers insisted this particular model of Robo-Robbie (I forget its actual name) was intended for ages 3+.
I swear to god that thing was possessed. All glowing eyes and loud abrasive noises, hell it even produced smoke somehow! Truly this was a toy ejected from hell by Satan himself, and it left an indelible mark on my psyche, and remains my only (tearful) memory of a childhood party that was my own.
Today I’ve hit the age of 32. Birthdays have lost that somewhat magical aura as the years have rolled by. Gifts get less exciting, but thankfully on the whole less menacing too. More significantly, birthdays remind me of my own mortality, each year hammering home the message a little bit harder that I am not immortal, and live is preciously short.
Depressing a thought though that maybe, I take a great deal of comfort knowing my little angel is my mark on the world, and that life so far although challenging in parts, has been a hell of a lot of fun.
I look forward to the next 32 years (plus) and all of the times I will share with my beautiful family. Getting old may not be all that bad after all.