Somebody went to hospital twenty-five years ago and all they brought back was this lousy mountain man.
Happy birthday, Hairy Boy.
Love you xx
Spud is nineteen today. Happy birthday, my little potato cake.
He got there despite all the roasting I’ve given him, half-baked parent that I am. To be fair, though, I never beet him; and I yam a loving mother to my sweet potato.
He’s a chip off the old block because he’s a Golden Wonder to me, and never grates my nerves, fries my beans or sets me boiling. I’ve done my best to raise a good crop and he hasn’t given me any hasselback, despite the many downright hash browns I’ve made. We’ve had a lot of fun and latke, that’s for sure; though I sometimes leave him steaming, but that’s no skin off my nose. Still, I don’t want to be peeling him off the walls. He is my King Edward, after all; and he who pays the Maris Piper calls the tune.
Well, I’d better go – I hear him gnocching but he can’t come in because I’m typing this. I don’t want him stewing; that will leave me having to sauté him out and it is his birthday.
Happy birthday, my darling little tater tot. Here’s a birthday mashup for you:
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.
The Hub is 49 today. As he is no longer two years younger than me (which he is for ten days every year, and you can bet he makes the most of it…), he is no longer my Toy Boy (you can’t have it both ways, Hub).
As it’s his birthday, I intend to spoil him: I will refrain from snarky comments; and give him the biggest portion of dinner.
Happy birthday, my darling.
Here’s what you have to look forward to:
My beloved eldest child is 23 today. From 12:41 p.m., Wednesday 18th April 1990, Tory Boy was my ylem. The moment I saw him, I loved.
I might even have cried a little (probably thinking about the pregnancy fat I was never going to shake off).
‘Bonding’ had come into fashion when I was carrying TB; I asked my gynea if I would be able to hold the baby as soon as it was born. He told me that bonding takes a life time, not a moment. He was right.
What he failed to mention, however, is that as soon as you’ve bonded, you have to start preparing yourself to let go of them. Tory Boy works; he has a lovely girlfriend; he lives away from home; he calls and visits (occasionally; usually when he needs something); he sends me poems that make me laugh and weep. I did my job. His father helped, when I let him.
But how I miss those moments, early in the morning, when it was just him and me. When I would soothe and feed him and he would fall asleep in my arms.
Our bonding began on the Saturday after he was born, when the Hub was given permission not to visit until the evening (after the match). I fed Tory Boy; he fell asleep; and I simply could not bear to let go of him. I sat in a chair with my beautiful baby in my arms and we stayed there for many hours. My demanding body, which needs a toilet break every hour and a food break every half hour, knew not to mess with me that day.
I looked at my baby and I loved him; and that has never changed.
The Laughing Housewife Goes To Tellyland is taking a short season break and will be back tomorrow.
In the meantime, it’s somebody’s birthday…you may remember this banner:
Aquatom created it for me; now it’s my turn to create something for him.
His birthday poem has chops and changes in the rhythm: that’s my homage to his ever-changing blog look and not an indication that I might have struggled writing this one.
Well, here goes:
For You!You!You! youyou!
His name is Tom with the prefix ‘Aqua’
Read his blog; you’ll enjoy some laughter
You won’t need gin or wine or vodka
He’s a really nice bloke
And he likes to make a joke
But he also does bespoke
Christmas headers for this Tilly
In return I give this silly
Rhyme from a grateful filly
His name is Aqua with the suffix ‘Tom’
If you’d like to give him a birthday balm
Happy Birthday, Tom!
If you would like a nonsense birthday poem, leave your details in the comments section or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
I feel terrible.* Janet’s birthday was on 12/12/12. She mentioned it on her blog and in my comments but I didn’t read either in time to respond.
I am quite literal: because Janet is too polite to say, Oi! I want a poem! I didn’t write a poem for her birthday. Remember, if you want a nonsense birthday poem, you must tell me in the comments or via email. Maybe I need to set up a separate page.
Fortunately, Janet got over her politeness to demand, Oi! Where’s my poem?
I first met Janet when she emailed me out of the blue to tell me that my gravatar was not linked to my blog. We’ve been firm friends ever since.
Janet’s first language is Chinese but you’d think it was English. She has a lovely, clever son of twelve, called Ben, who has his own rather impressive blog. He could teach us all a thing or two about history. Janet is sweet and kind and well worth a visit.
A Birthday Apology To Janet Williams
On her birthday that’s not good
I’d time travel if I could
I know she’d understood
Battling with my tenses
This poem is nonsens-
ical’s my consensus
The kindest girl on the planet
is my dear, sweet Janet
whose name rhymes with ‘pomegranate’
Umm, one more thing, chum:
you are a great mum
I mean it, by gum!
Happy birthday, Janet. You have the honour of receiving my most nonsensical poem yet. :D
*Don’t worry: I can assure you that Janet will assure me that I have nothing to feel terrible about. She’s that kind of person: kind.
Where is the heart of Stockport?
notices and reflections in ministry
The adventures of little read writing Hood
An Overlooked British Evacuation
Welcome to the Great White North....