November is the month of birthdays in our house. We have three birthdays, each days apart, beginning with mine and ending with my third daughter’s birthday, the last for the year in this immediate family and in between we celebrate the youngest’s birthday.
We fuss about birthdays, a throw back to our childhood’s, my husband’s and mine, when birthdays were enjoyable enough but rarely fussed over.
To me it’s the one day of the year when you can claim a special place. Invariably, at least for me birthdays, my own birthdays are a disappointment.
Other peoples’ birthdays can be fun. You know the song:
‘It’s my party and I'll cry if I want to…’
That’s the feeling, though no one’s heart is breaking over a lost or unfaithful love, though at a symbolic level I suppose the grief is to do with being born, of being separated and out in the world.
I saw a you tube clip of twins who had just been born, only they did not know it not yet.
It looks as though they are being held together in the arms of a midwife. They are breathing independently but their eyes are shut. They cleave to one another as if they are still in the womb and their arm movements have the jerky feel of babies in utero.
I want to watch them wake up. I want to see the look in their eyes. I want to see them cry, even to greet the world, but the clip stops just as they are lifted out of their amniotic bath.
And so presumably their lives begin. Their birthday.