As I was born of a Welsh mother, the myth has it that my dad drove my mother over bumpy roads to try and secure a March the 1st arrival date – on St David’s Day, the patron saint of Wales. It was not to be and I undiplomatically made my presence into the world 17 days later on the rival St Patrick’s Day instead! It is also a matter of some mirth in our family that I am perpetually 38. Erin left this world knowing she has a 38-year-old mother, and once again today I celebrate my 38th year. Erin and I shared the number 17 of our birth dates and so my birthday reminds me that Erin would be 8 years and 2 months old.
My children are both January babies and there was always a flurry after the Christmas rush to prepare for 2 birthdays within 8 days of each other. Michael is the family birthday manager and at the beginning of December both children had prepared their party lists and party wish lists. Cameron invited a large number of his friends to his baseball party while Erin had wanted a quiet affair. Her preference was once again a party at home with arts and crafts with a few select girl friends. She and Mike had chosen the invitations and planned each of the craft station activities. So what were we to do with the carefully orchestrated birthday plans with our child no longer there as the birthday girl? We wanted to honour Erin’s special day as she wished and planned so proceeded knowing that at least her spirit might be there.
Michael has a ritual of making the children’s birthday cakes himself and over the years has crafted Thomas the Tank Engine, Mario, Castles, and Princesses; this year it was a mermaid. Usually the birthday child helps poke smarties, liquorice or sparkles and helps stir the colours into the icing but this year Mike was left alone with his tears. My contribution guiding the guests in the creation of Origami paper cranes for one of the stations. My distracted mind found it impossible to follow the U-Tube complex instructions and the girls’ twists and turns were all topsy-turvy. It was with immense relief that a work colleague’s daugther who graciously came to do the pre-ordained face-painting miraculously did paper crane making as a hobby. She was able to transform the coloured pieces of paper chosen from one of Erin’s now defunct art sets in to beautiful cranes.
We sang to the missing birthday girl, blew her candles out for her and hoped that she was celebrating grandly in her new abode. And as the party ended we all went out on to Furry Creek golf course to let off helium balloons with her life lessons appended to the string. We had visions of strangers’ lives being transformed by her messages. It was not to be and the wind lifted the balloons and they bobbed just a few meters above the ground or ascended and were trapped by the surrounding trees. The messages remain still suspended high above the ground, a nostalgic reminder of a birthday celebration for a daughter much loved but now gone.
A colleague once rather macabrely observed that every year we commemorate our date of birth but equally as our lives pass through each day of the calendar, we silently tiptoe past our death date, too. Last night I mused why it was that an elderly relative was able to reach her 90s while Erin did not make her 8th birthday. Cameron’s wisdom transforms what will otherwise be a very melancholic post – ‘It’s quality not quantity that counts’.
I raise a toast to another year – and yes, for grace and mercies of a new year of life.