Birthday party

Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of my older brother. Big family party. Thirty-five people: mostly first cousins, their spouses and children, and a few family friends. Sunny day. Outside on the lawn, chairs or rugs, depending on age and agility. Food and drink.

Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.

Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.

"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.

My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.

I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.

Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?

I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.

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Life isn't fair: the result

OK, so the winner of the "Not Fair" competition is...

Tattie Weasle.

I empathised with all the ones about children getting out of bed at inappropriate times, and their lack of domestic abilities, and anything to do with the weather, or time off work, but ultimately, Tattie won the day, because hers involved the separation of a woman from her chocolate, and we all know that Hell hath no fury like a woman dealing with chocolate separation. I also particularly liked the fact that the secret chocolate stash shouldn't have been there in the first place, as Tattie had given it up for Lent. But what's the point of moral indignation, if you have to be logical at the same time? No point at all, is the answer to that one.

So Tattie, you can choose what I write about next: Guns, Religion, The Garage Sale, or how I teach my kids that life isn't fair (yes, I have chocolate bars locked in perspex boxes all round the house, and I keep the keys hanging round my neck, even when I sleep). Or any other burning topic, really. If you've always wondered something about life in America, life as an expat, or life as me in any of my other guises, then here's your chance to ask. I would send you a bar of chocolate as a prize, but I fear that (a) you fall on the Cadbury's side of the Hershey's vs Cadbury's debate, I just sense that about you, so I would only disappoint, and (b) it wouldn't be very nice after it had been mailed all the way from here.

And while we wait for Tattie to make her choice, tum-ti-tum, I'll just burble on about things that have happened in 5-yo's life here recently.

First, 5-yo asked me out of the blue yesterday "Are all burglars boys, or can you be a burglar if you're a girl?" They're only in Kindergarten for five minutes, and already they're worrying about career choice. It's tough growing up these days.

Then, we were at a friend's house, and the mom was explaining that she'd shut the dog outside, as he's a herding dog by breed, and likes to try and herd children, and that can be a little alarming for children who aren't used to it. I saw 5-yo's eyes getting wider and wider. She's already nervous of dogs, and I could see she was struggling with the idea of a dog who sets out to hurt children, and the existence of breeds of hurting dogs. That's what comes of learning your English from parents with a strange accent. Luckily I read her mind, and was able to explain.

But then there was the time I over-explained. We were headed for the doctor's office, to have what I was saying would be her last immunisation until she was at least 12 or 13. We had the usual routine in place: breathe out, breathe out (ah, the usefulness of NCT classes), and then when it's over here's a lolly for being brave. I was reassuring her that it wouldn't hurt very much at all, just a little prick as the needle went in. She did that eyes-getting-wider thing that she does, and her voice wavered "There's a needle?" Drat...

Onto happier things, and 5-yo is deep in the midst of planning her birthday party. She is so excited that it is March - finally. My mother has recently got connected with email (yay, Mum), and 5-yo was dictating a message to her. As she dictated, I typed the following:

"Remember it is the month of my birthday. It really is, isn't it? I am going to have an Arts and Crafts party at home. I'm inviting 7 people. 12-yo and 9-yo are going to be helpers. Daddy is going to take the photos. Mummy is going to watch. The boys are helpers again."

Yup, too right. Because I'm the slacker who'll do nothing at all in advance, and then just sit around watching as the party runs itself...

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