February is a very Irish month. It is, according to some, the first month of Spring. The 14th of the month tries to fool us into thinking we are all great romantics as we buy the last bunch of roses from the local petrol station.

The 1st of Feb is Saint Bridget’s day and my stash of straws is hijacked by eager Newstalkers who want to make crosses. No tea for me on those days then. But today, the 12th, is a very special day in Daunt Castle. Bridget, my mother, is 90 today.

Did I sing Happy Birthday at  7. 30am as I handed her her birthday card? Of course I did.

There is a nine year gap between my next brother and I. This meant that throughout the years i was growing up, I got to know my mother’s life as she told me stories. Hers is a remarkable life. She grew up in Kerry during the years following revolution and civil war. She had uncles who were Blueshirts. She was nearly shipped off to the States to become a nun but war intervened. (Thank god for that.)

She then moved to Cork and met my Father. Children came fast. My eldest brother Gordon was 4 when a small rash appeared. He was taken away. A telegraph arrived 24 hours later. Meningitis had robbed her of him.  She got on with it but the hole was never filled in. The hole is never filled in.

There were more kids. There was world travel. Malta, Malahide and then Swords.

And then Christmas 1966. I made my entrance. My physical frailness was balanced out by her mental and spiritual strength. I have no doubt her love has got me to where I am today.

There was fun. God there was fun.

Trips to Canada. 

Deciding to go into the Virgin megastore on its very first day.

Her fascination with long course speed skating ("I could do that")

A 75th birthday trip to the Roundhouse for the midnight performance of Michael Moore.

Her fierce independence.

Her love.
The sayings. ("He’s as empty as a strainer")

Her selflessness.

I am the luckiest son alive.

Happy Birthday Mum.