It’s birthday season in Mary-jane Duncan’s house - starting with hers!

W e have reached the time of year where the birthdays roll round again in quick succession and plans need to be hatched. The kids might be at an age where a surprise is no longer necessary, but I’m a great believer in celebrating them.

These glorious, bright, kind souls, who are possibly the best people I’ll ever have the joy of meeting. When they’re in a good mood, naturally.

They’ve reached an age where birthday requests are usually for new tech or cash. Eh, no, I think not, not on my birthday watch.

There will be balloons. There will be cake. There will be wrapped presents. There will be family time.

I shall recount their births, not in any horror story details, I mean, Call The Midwife is enough for me these days, but the joy they brought and the instant love everyone felt for them.

Funny moments involving the birthday girl will be recounted round the table and photos shared to remind us. Let’s face it, I did the majority of the work here, so surely there should be some small acknowledgment of my efforts in this celebratory moment?

Middle kid especially likes it when I remind her midwives threatened to get her a satchel and send her straight to school when she was born.

At 59cm long from birth, she was never going to be a short stack and at the ripe old age of almost 15, she towers over me and is eye to eye with her dad.

Which one of the kids insisted on living as a dog called Bob and refused to answer to their own name for a week?

Who was it that refused to take off their wellies for a whole month, even to go to bed? When is the culprit going to admit they wrote about their sister being a jobby on one of the bedroom doors?

I absolutely love stories beginning “remember when...”, especially now they’ve decided the statute of limitations has passed and can now grass each other up for exploits the mister and I had no knowledge of!

Once they move out and ditch me to lead their own lives (when did that become part of the deal?), I’ll be left blowing up balloons for me, myself and I on their birthdays.

Will I still bother? Absolutely! They’ll need to move far, far away to stop me tracking them down and resorting to a rendition of Happy Birthday over a Zoom call.

Birthday house rules include not being allowed to talk about your birthday until the previous person’s birthday has passed.

It works out quite well, they all have relatively the same time in between birthdays, you’d think we planned it but not a chance. The mister and I have never been known for our “organisational” skills.

So whose birthday is first? That would be mine. I am first in line for the balloons, wrapped gifts, cake and fuss. I’m laughing as I type.

I’ve ordered myself a new pair of gutties (plimsolls, for the posh) and handed them to himself to wrap so the kids have something to give to me on the day.

My “surprised” look now perfected, a skill honed in my 45 years.

As a Star Wars geek, you’d think he might remember but apparently being a May the Fourth be with you baby isn’t hint enough, and the sneaky date pops up annually out of nowhere!

Not a problem, I’m not a complicated person as I know what I like. I’m quite adept at the old internet shopping and have memorised his credit card number too…

I’ll spend a lovely evening with the gang and resign myself to a year of increased numbers of days walking round muttering things like: What was I going to say? Did I take my pills already? Why did I come in here? Has anyone seen Mum’s keys? What did I do with my phone?

Right in the middle of my middle-aged mess, I will refuse to forget how blessed I am.

Cake and balloons are an essential part of any birthday.