When do we lose our love of birthdays?

There is high excitement in our house this weekend, or at least in one particular quarter. On Monday, it is my daughter’s birthday, her last as a pre-teen. We have heard about little else for at least a month.

I’m sorry to admit that there have been moments when the daily – sometimes hourly – countdown to the big day has made me feel irritable. A week or so ago I told my daughter that if she told me it was nearly her birthday one more time, I would cancel it. I said it jokingly (OF COURSE!), but the prospect delighted my son, who at half his sister’s age can be perfectly horrid. Now, every time there is a mention of the fêted date, my son chants: “Cancel! Cancel! Cancel!” I’d like to mute them both sometimes.

Given how longed for our daughter was, and how unlikely her arrival seemed for such an age, I should really celebrate the anniversary of her birth with as much relish as she does. And I’m sure when Monday comes, I’ll be feeling the joy that comes with seeing one of the kids so happy.

Still, my inability to share the intense sense of anticipation my daughter clearly feels quite viscerally has made me wonder whether I ever had it in relation to my own birthday.

I suppose there must have been a few occasions when I obsessed over it for weeks in advance, usually when there was a particular present I hoped for. There was definitely a period when my brother and I decided that our birthdays would be improved if our presents were hidden around the house in a kind of treasure hunt. With hindsight, I presume it drove our parents up the wall.

That went on for two or three years, but by the time I went to secondary school everything had become much more muted. I still had a lovely day – presents and my favourite tea (usually lasagne) – but I don’t recall being at all preoccupied about it. There was a certain frisson when my 18th came along, but that was a last hurrah.

When I was 20, away at university, I forgot it was my birthday altogether until lunchtime, when I discovered a card had arrived from my parents. In adulthood, I think I have once used my birthday as an excuse for getting friends together for a party, but otherwise I give it no advance thought, except occasionally to despair at the passing of time. Frankly, that’s how it should be: I’m afraid I regard adults who perennially get over-excited about their “big day” with a degree of suspicion.

One particular friend would, in her early- to mid-twenties, arrange at least three events to celebrate her birthday each year, and woe betide anyone who failed to turn up to all of them. It was exhausting. Then again, she did tend to host a good bash, so all was usually forgiven.

I realise this modest antipathy towards birthdays may appear a mite ungrateful. I should be clear that I am not in the least unappreciative of the efforts that my nearest and dearest go to when my anniversary rolls around. For example, the small plastic box which my daughter filled with a variety of red things (including a feather, some coloured-in scraps of paper and a bead) has proved immensely useful in the years it has adorned a bookshelf in my bedroom. Red is my favourite colour, and it’s the thought that counts.

No doubt my daughter will be up at the crack of dawn on Monday: she likes to mark the moment of her birth at 5.30am. I’m not so keen, so I trust she will keep her promise not to wake the rest of the house. Unfortunately, the come down on Tuesday may be as palpable as the excitement we’ve seen in the lead-up. At least Christmas is round the corner.

As for me, perhaps I just need to change my grumpy attitude. In case you’re wondering, my big day is in May, so there’s plenty of time to gear up for it. And if you’d like to make next year’s birthday my best ever, please send gifts care of The Independent. I’ll send you a piece of cake by return.