Twelve

My first born decided he wanted to celebrate his twelfth birthday last Saturday with just me and his dad. I understood, last year he ended up feeling cheesed off as 10 friends took over the show at his dad's. Several litres of Coke; a pile of junk food, a hot tub, water bombs, trampoline - you can imagine the consequences.
"I want to go quad biking in the morning with dad, and out for a meal with you and dad in the afternoon".  I agreed to it straight away, though didn't relish the idea of making small-talk, eating a gluten-laden meal and waltzing around Cardiff Bay with a man I have nothing to say to. I did, however, perfectly understand the request and found it quite sweet that something so simple was all my son wanted.
On the Friday, there were  reports of dad's man-flu threatening to jeopardize the whole celebration, I felt sorry and hoped he'd 'get over it'.
The quad biking took place, but lunch was cancelled last-minute; "too ill, I'm dying, need to sleep".
We went for a meal, just the two of us, to 'Frankie and Benny's'. It's very dark, loud, busy, over-priced, soul-crushingly mediocre there. I whine about prices straight away and then remind myself that this is a birthday, a rare chance for just me and my eldest to spend time together. The heavy, yet fine rain didn't stop, in the weeks before I'd envisioned bright blue skies, sunglasses and al fresco dining. We huddled around a very small table, constantly kicking each others' feet.
My bag housed a very small birthday cake, I foolishly handed it to the waitress. I scanned for the cheapest meal, but it was hardly worth trying to save money now, I ordered a burger with blue cheese, he wanted scampi and chips. The family on the next table, a young couple with two girls, seemed to be celebrating something. An elderly man was with them, his collapsible zimmer frame was propped up by his side - he was there in body but not spirit. Another family comprising 3 couples of various ages and one spare part in the form of a bored and uncomfortable looking young man, were celebrating something too.
I'm not very good at sitting and waiting, I started behaving like a child, grabbed a balloon and sucked the helium from it to (irresponsibly) entertain myself, and managed to get the first belly-laugh from my 12 year old I'd heard in ages. A glamorous couple entered, both over-tanned, his over-trained muscles and her over-dieted frame were a good match. They 'stormed' out after hearing there would a 15 minute wait for a table.
Our meals arrived and my first thought was how pointless the mint green-coloured limp teaspoon of rocket was. Surely rocket is meant to be dark green, robust and fill about a third of the plate if it's to have any effect? The scampi was the colour of rusty iron, obviously either deep-fried in filthy oil, or for too long. I was about to complain, but my 'starving son objected, said it looked just how he wanted it. The scampi was too spicy -  the batter was full of cracked peppercorns and took your breath away. I forgot about the blue cheese until I gulped down a sizeable wedge of it, leaving me feeling as though I'd eaten a lump of congealed vomit.
After the meal, we sat feeling rather disappointed and said we wouldn't come here again. The waitress took the plates and didn't look surprised that we didn't want dessert or drinks. The music went off, out came the small cake, twelve candles flickering, all eyes on us. I felt sick from the cheese and sick at the spectacle about to take place. "Happy Birthday" song kicks in, too loud, too cheesy and completely ridiculous. The bemused waitress mouths the words sheepishly, wondering where the hell the rest of the family and my son's friends are, no doubt. Cliff Richards' 'Congratulations' next, more embarrassment, "make it stop!" I scream silently. My cheeks burn with the glare of puzzled diners before me, "poor kid" they must have been thinking. Mortified, my son blows out the candles before hanging his head and waiting for the cake to disappear, A knife is presented to me, along with two napkins, we decide to eat a slice each and run.
Walking towards the door,  a sense of relief washes over us, laughter erupts, we can't stop laughing. I tell my son that 12 years ago it was a boiling hot day. I tell him about lying on the bed with him in my arms, and stuffing my face. I ate 2 baguettes, a whole box of Roses chocolates and 3 packets of crisps (I blame the shock). "Where was daddy" he asks, I tell him; "at the pub".
Just me and my boy, we walk to the car, it always was just the two of us and I always knew everything would be OK in the end, (even 12 years ago when everything wasn't OK). We smiled and decided in another 12 years, on his 24th birthday we will sit together, eat like pigs and share a cake again. In the car, he said "I've had a lovely day". I had a lovely day too, just as I had 12 years ago, sitting up in bed holding my newborn son and feeling exceptionally proud. Everything, yet nothing has changed.