Wednesday 15 January, 2014
Where’s my birthday post?
I’m not blogging at the moment!
You don’t love me.
Spud turned eighteen while I was on a break. I didn’t write a happy birthday post – because I was on a break. I did take him tea in an eighteenth birthday mug, buy him banners and balloons and not say a word about the girl in his bed on a school day; but, no, all he can see is no birthday post.
Apparently, I didn’t write him a birthday post last year when he turned seventeen. I wrote one for his brother and his father, a hundred readers and even myself – but not one for him. My argument, ‘But you don’t read my blog!’ didn’t cut it, because, apparently, he does.
I have been ordered to write a make-up post and not to make this make-up post all about his brother, which is what I appeared to have done in last year’s make-up post, saying how great his brother was and how he spoiled Spud on his birthday blah blah blah.
I’m a terrible mother.
But I can’t say that, because this post is all about Spud.
Spud was the biggest baby in the hospital, the week he was born – about ten pounds. I have mentioned before that he looked like the V alien baby when he came out all blue and crinkly. And absolutely gorgeous – which is how he’s stayed:
Spud is now a man, and he has a learner’s driving licence to prove it. He has done a lot of thinking this past year about what he wants to do with his life; but the decision was really made in the summer, the moment a sweaty Macbeth spat on him during the performance at the Globe: Spud wants to act.
This past year he has played Greek tragedy, Shakespeare and farce. At the moment he’s rehearsing Judas in Godspell. He doesn’t want to be rich and famous; he wants to work in theatre. He is deadly serious: he wants to pretend to be other people for the rest of his life. I couldn’t be prouder; or more scared.
Happy birthday, my darling boy. Whatever you do in life, I know you’ll obsess about it until it’s right.
I love you.