It’s my birthday, which means ‘me’ time (with my family)

Turning 50 years ago was a bit of a shock and the fact my next big birthday will be 60, I have to admit, puts the old mortality into sharp focus. Last week, I turned 53. ‘Am I 53 or 54?’ I asked the husband, in a state of low-grade panic. ‘ 54,’ he said with great confidence. ‘I was born in 1964,’ I remind him, and me, ‘so I think that means I’m 53?’

Over the years I have grown into the habit of telling people I am my impending age to soften the blow when it comes.

I’m afraid I’ve been saying, ‘I’m 53’ since the beginning of the year so that now I think I’m a year older than I actually am.

My husband is ‘a few years’ younger than I am. For reasons of pride, I refuse to compute exactly how many and tend to underestimate.

He, however, is delighted to be younger than me — especially when it puts me in the decade ahead of him, as I am now, and tends to exaggerate.

Anyway, I told my forty-something toy boy I wanted perfume, specified the brand, and a cake. AND to make sure the teen had enough money to buy me something decent — not something from Penneys.

Actually, all I ever want on my birthday is time. As I get older, it is the most precious commodity. My dream birthday would involve taking a day off from my busy life to go and have manicures and pedicures and facials, and all those things I fantasise women capable of harnessing ‘me-time’ do.

I am not one of those women. When I am not in the physical company of my husband and kids I feel I need to use my time by writing books or digging the tunnel or going to Lidl or running errands in town.

I simply have to be doing something useful and working towards a given end. Having nice nails is not a good enough end game for me. I can’t even bring myself to get a blow-dry any more. My husband’s barber, Audrey, gives me a dry cut and I put in a few highlights myself at home.

But, on my birthday, I feel I would like to spend that one day a year, utterly to myself, getting pampered. That’s what I want to ask for my birthday. A day away from everyone, on my own, in a salon, somewhere.

However, I know it will never happen and it seems rude to ask. So, the day went like a version of every other day. Tommo woke me at seven-thirty, demanding the iPad.

It being my birthday, however, Niall leapt to the rescue, rounded them up and brought me tea in bed and my ‘bag’.

The men gathered and watched me open each present and card, all as ordered, although I also got a special surprise, a ‘Heart of Gold’ pendant from my favourite jewellery designer, Alan Ardiff.

I was beyond thrilled and had a little cry, as I always do, and they laughed at me, as they always do. However, the luxuriation lasted less than 20 minutes. By 8am I was downstairs making pancakes; by 9am I was on the road doing drop-offs; by 9.30am I was sitting in Ballina pool for Tom’s swim camp.

I dropped him off to his social club at 10.30am and, thinking, ‘sod this’ I made a few phone calls and managed to free up nearly my whole day! I called down to Mum. ‘You could go to the salon?’ she said. ‘I’ll treat you. Facial, manicure, whatever you want.’

So, I sat and had a good think about what I really, really wanted to do. For my birthday ‘me’ time. ‘Fancy a trip to the garden centre, Mam?’ ‘Yes please!’ she said.

We drove to Horkans in Castlebar where she treated me to a midweek fry and I splashed out on a couple of seriously fancy shrubs with my lovely Auntie Sheila’s birthday cheque.

I drove Mum up to Supervalu to get some bits, then we went back to her house where she made me eat a lump of fancy cream cake with my tea.

Then I went back to my boys and the hubby treated us all to the best fish and chips in Mayo at The Village Inn before heading home for cake-with-candles.

As my two sons stood beside me for my birthday Instagram photo, a shot of pure joy ran through me. This is ‘me’ time, I realised, being with them. My small family complete and together, happy in our new home. Sure, at 53 (or 54?) where else would I be going?