Birthday Ramblings of a Me-Centred Adult...

Birth order research is always an interesting topic, innit? For my own birth position - eldest in the family* - there have been a long-held set of traits that are supposed to be symptomatic of that role. I'm apparently more likely to be conformist, high-achieving, and conscientious. Younger siblings are supposed to be more chilled out and liberal minded. It's all a bit simplistic to be factually accurate, even if I am some of the things it says I could be. Like horoscopes or the Pygmalion effect, being told you are something, might make you be that something without realising. Besides, there's recent research into birth order that has exploded the myth that it makes a scrap of difference to anything, anyway. What will my socially-engineered conformist, high-achieving self do now? Probably just crack on and not think about it too much.

There are a lot of people
 sitting on me, and
Number Seven wasn't
even born yet.

Birth order might not be a thing anymore, but I would still argue that being a member of a large family is hugely personality-forming. I'm sure it effects everyone differently, but I know I am independent, private to all but an inner circle, and desperate to be alone with my own company when I've spent a chunk of time being social. (I don't imagine that would be the same if I were an only child.) I am also extremely selfish. (That might be the same if I were an only child. I don't know.)

My untested hypothesis is that because I had to be selfless growing up, I am now happily selfish as an adult. Before there are whip rounds and crowdfunded plaques to mark my good natured youthful generosity, it wasn't by choice. I was not a kind, giving sort because it was within my nature. It was just what circumstance dictated. (Like everything tends to be when you're a kid.) For me, between my baby brother slicing through the hair on my cello bow because he got hold of some scissors for ten seconds, to revising for my A Levels in an empty room of the local Catholic Retreat Centre because the bursar could see it was tricky to study at home,** I worked around the bustle and chaos because there was no choice. The upshot is, I'm a happily selfish adult. I like being in control of my environment and keeping it bustle and chaos free. I've made choices that enable that to be the case for as long as I can see down the line, and I'm very happy with all of that. 

Putting up with chaos. As per.
Nine years old.

So why bring all this up now? What has triggered a reflection on upbringing and personality this week? Well, the most selfish day of the year - no, let's ditch the S word with its negative connotations and go for me-centred - the most me-centred day of the year is my birthday. I very much enjoy being the focus of attention for the day. Despite my younger siblings arguing to the contrary, it feels like it's the one time I get to be bossy. (I'm bossy lots of times but my birthday feels like the only day I can call the shots and expect to be listened to.) And readers, last week was my birthday. 

Debating the
issues of the day.
 Neither of us are on the toilet. 
Just so you know.

Hurrah, woohoo, tra-la-la I hear you sing! Sing on! But for the last three years, there's been a shadow over festivities. I've celebrated my recent birthdays in a haze. The one day I could demandingly claim as my own for my first thirty-seven years, stopped being such when I turned thirty-eight. The reason is simple. My nephew. DUH DUH DUHHHHH. 

Despite a due date of early March, the little blonde cutie chillaxed in utero, two weeks longer than scheduled, waiting till my birthday eve to kick off labour. He couldn't have timed his plan better. Slap bang, mid-morning, just as I just returned from a birthday brunch, I got the 'he is born' text. The absolute cheek of the birthday-stealing scamp.

Gamely facing the big 3 and 4-1

Obviously, I'm joking. Sort of. My nephew is a cool little guy. I enjoy FaceTiming him, often catching him in the middle of eating carrot sticks, or sitting on the toilet. (He always takes my call.) But the birthday thing has been a stumbling block. Because no matter how understanding my sister is (and she is), during a birthday get-together with the family, no one prioritises me. Of course they don't. I'm old news. There's a little kid who's only had two previous birthdays. Obviously they're going to make a fuss of him, and laugh at my annoyance at being usurped. All of which makes me more annoyed, and everyone else more amused. This year I decided to tackle the situation head on and be the bigger person. (Soooo hard.) I offered to take my nephew and my sister out for lunch a couple of days before. We ate chips, shared a birthday cake, and sang happy birthday to each other. It was good fun.

I won't lie, the tiaras felt right at the time.

On my/our actual birthday, it was less exciting. Sunday birthdays feel like a waste. I'm not working anyway, so there's no delicious thrill of a weekday skive. Plus, no one wants to party on a Sunday night. And the Saturday and previous Tuesday were more family birthdays. It's a conspiracy! In the end, come Sunday, I decided to ditch the Weight watchers plan and have a chippy tea. I do this never so it was fab. And on top of that, I drank a bottle of champagne. I like to think it looked effortlessly bohemian rather than demented and stomach gurgling. Who knows, who cares? Not me.

Perhaps I've grown up? Maybe forty-one is the year adulthood starts? The year I can happily accept I share my special day with a recent interloper, and not bitterly resent everyone's jokey comments about it. This could be it? Maybe. Hmmm, not sure yet. Let's calm down and not be too hasty. I'll see how the rest of the year goes before I work out if I'm ready for full acceptance of the situation. Obvs, I will keep you posted as and when that happens.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*AKA The Boss, Top Dog, Big Cheese, Head Honcho...

**That's got to be a niche experience even among fellow large-family members. I owe my A, C, and D to the Jesuits.

One last thing. After the final read through before posting this, I've spotted that both pictures that show me blowing out candles, appear to have involved the exact same cake. Thirty-two years apart.