So my eldest, a few days ago, embraced his sixteenth year. Prior to the fateful day he had informed me he would now be old enough to get married (God help that girl!) with his parental consent (if anyone girl is barking enough to want him, she can have him!); he would be able to join the armed forces but not enter a war zone (oh so it is alright if his family live in one as he battles against us!); he could sell scrap metal ( no point we live in Essex that market is saturated!); drink wine or beer with a meal in a restaurant (Boy, if you're offering to take us out for a meal, your mother is not complaining!) or leave home with his parent's consent (Oh so tempting!) and so on and so on.
Well, the morning of his birthday began with a grunt from his pit of a bedroom as I scooted out to work with my youngest in tow. I had left his gifts on the kitchen table so he could open them as he arose victorious from his lair to claim his sixteenth year. I had also left a malteser cake aka Lorraine Pascale on the side ready for the midweek evening celebrations. Stupid, stupid me!
On returning home from work with youngest still in tow chatting merrily about his day at school, the house was deathly quiet. The twins were nowhere to be seen. Unusual. The lights were dim. Unusual. I marched upstairs to discover the birthday boy lying on his bed looking at the ceiling.
"Happy Birthday", I exclaimed. "How was school?"
"Ok,"he sighed.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied. Well clearly "nothing" meant everything.
"Did you like the gifts?" I enquired over the dulcet flat tones of my youngest singing "Happy Birthday to You!"
"Yeah, they were ok," he managed to sigh. Still there was no sign of the twins.
"Come on what is wrong?" I coaxed. Had his sixteenth year released a deep rooted depression?
"YOU DIDN'T MAKE ME A CAKE!" there was genuine emotion in his outcry.
"I flipping well did! A malteser ca...." before I could finish my sentence I realised what had happened. My pathetic attempt to contain the rising beast in his lair gave the twins enough time to grab their tennis kit and run for the door.
"Have a good game boys," I shouted hands splayed out on the chest of their elder brother attempting to race after them.
"Thanks Mum" they chorused dripping the remnants of their breakfast, lunch and tea behind them - those wonderful spherical chocolate balls of honeycomb centres!
Even though my sweet sixteen year old could leave home, marry, trade and drink in a restaurant, he was only really happy to embrace the fact that his mother, still in her coat, started to create yet another malteser cake to make everything better. My youngest sang throughout to cheer his older brother from his sixteen year old gloom. How many tears have been spent at a birthday when you could cry if you want to?
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