Two weeks later

My sister's birthday is thirteen days before mine. I don't know what my parents were doing, frankly; organising it like that. In fact, they had aimed for both of us to be born on the same day - two years apart - but she was pigheaded even as a foetus, and decided to show up before they had even fully explained to me that I was no longer going to be the centre of attention anymore: that there would be someone smaller, cuter and - unfortunately - prettier to distract everyone from what I saw (at two years old, but - let's be honest - much longer than that) as The Point Of It All. That being: me.

I quite liked my little sister, what with her being tiny and fat tummied and quite capable of fitting neatly into all of my teddy bear's clothes; a fact that immediately rendered every single of one of them utterly naked (and my sister rather jaunty in a navy sailor outfit and Paddington's hat). She was pretty cool, as it happened, and I carried her around with me as if I was Christopher Robin and she was my very own Pooh. In fact, the only thing that stopped me dragging her down the stairs by one foot was that my mum rather insensitively wouldn't let me.

What I was not happy about, however, was being forced to share my birthday. And it was a shared birthday, no matter how much my parents tried to separate it back out again (too late, mum and dad: too late). The month run-up to my birthday had been cruelly taken away from me - the month that should have been all mine was snatched out from under my eyes - and I was not impressed. If I wanted a present, she could ask for it first and get it before I did; if I wanted to go somewhere, she could - two weeks before the Big Day - hear about it and decide she quite fancied it too. And - I was utterly convinced - all the best Birthday wishes were given out to her and never quite reached me. Because - and I knew this in my heart of hearts - everyone knows that there are only a certain amount of genuine cheers when the candles get blown out, and mine always sounded a little lacklustre.

So I took it back. I took my birthday back, and I stole my sister's with it.
"It's my birthday in seventeen days!" she would shout, jumping up and down on the bed.
"It's my birthday in thirty days!" I would shout, jumping next to her.
"It's my birthday in five days!" she would remind mum and dad from the back of the car.
"Mine in eighteen, remember?" I would inform them immediately afterwards.

And then, when the big day came, my sister would run into mum and dad's bedroom, screaming "it's my biiiiirttthhdaayyy!" and I would run behind her, yelling "and it's neearrrrlly miiinnnnee!!"

Eventually - after four or five or six or maybe seventeen years of this - my little sister burst into tears and asked me to keep my grubby hands off her birthday so she could have one day for herself, and my mum and dad repeated what they repeated every year: which was, more or less, "stop it, Holly Smale, or we're cancelling your birthday altogether."

Now, I'm left to wonder if this is exactly what happens with my grandma and grandad when we're not looking, who have all but shared a birthday for the last 50 years of their marriage. A marriage that has lasted even though I'm certain that - when the rest of the family go home and they're sitting down with the rest of my grandad's birthday cake - is filled with my grandma's cries of "it's my birthday in twelve days!"

Twelve days, and I wonder sometimes if my grandma also feels as if all the best Birthday wishes get used up two weeks earlier; as if all the best singing and hugs and cards and blog posts get sent to my grandad instead. So it is a sign of her utter dignity and composure, I think, that she doesn't kick my grandad's birthday cake off the table on the 3rd of May, and demand that everyone begin a twelve day countdown to the 15th of May immediately. An utter dignity and composure that my grandma is famed for, because if my grandad is the greatest of all wizards, and - let's be honest, we all know it's true - behind every great man is an even greater woman, you can only imagine the woman he goes home to when he has finished saving the world. A lady with a mixture of fire and serenity, determination and kindness, thoughtfulness and sheer gumption that most women aim for and frequently fail to combine as perfectly. A grandma with honesty and warmth and humour; who quietly and firmly holds the family together, and singlehandedly cooks - at the age of over 80 - a full Christmas meal for fifteen people every year without once telling us to do it ourselves; who - every single week - takes a slice out of her homemade apple pie before she heats it up because my dad prefers it cold; who keeps track, in minute detail, of exactly what each of her six granddaughters is doing at any stage - who they are dating, how they are feeling, what mood they are in - because she knows that is what a loving grandma does. Who cooks the world's most amazing roast potatoes, who has the world's most incredible, lineless, translucent skin (I'm keeping my fingers crossed for genetic inheritance) and smells just like a grandma should. Who has dedicated an entire life to caring for other people more than for herself, every single day, in every single action, and who never, ever thinks to mention it to anybody. And whose wit, candid sharpness (when I was five I told her that "one day I would be bigger than her" - which was true by a good seven inches - to which she replied - with similar accuracy - "yes, but you will never be wiser") - kindness and wisdom I have tried to replicate since I was old enough to realise how precious they are, and what a rare combination.

So, grandma, this is my birthday gift to you: a birthday gift that is no less heartfelt, and no less meant, just becomes it comes rather close to grandad's (and I wanted to get you flowers too but they would die in the post; roses aren't very good at travelling 10,000 miles in the air apparently). I miss you and I wish I was there to help you celebrate properly, because the cheers will never be lacklustre for you: not from any of us. Not from the family you hold so perfectly together.

Today in particular - and, in fact, most days - for all of us you are most certainly The Point Of It All. x