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Today we’re celebrating the birthday of my first- born boy, the apple of my maternal eye, the fruit of my womb who turned 7.  Ok I’ll be truthful, Louis’s 27 but then who’s counting

He was named after my late grandpa Lewis and my husband’s late grandpa Louis part of a Jewish tradition of naming children after family members and every year, in early February I search high and low to unearth a new way to celebrate with their now fully grown, great grandson.

Sadly, Louis has an aversion to birthdays and, to be fair, we have had more than our share of unfortunate birthday episodes

When he was 8 years old I was talked into hosting a dance party – unfortunately not by Louis.  After watching the older boys roll their eyes in disdain and before being saved by a massive, bagel tea, I suggested party games instead.

Aged 18 louis had dinner for friends where no one remembered to limit the cocktails.

And for his 21st our supper in the alcove of our local restaurant was so exclusive that the waiters totally forgot us.

The traditional Jewish birthday greeting is ‘may you live until 120’.  Moses lived to be 120 as, apparently and improbably, did the esteemed Rabbis Hillel, Yohanan Ben Zakkai,  and Akiva.  The number in itself is not important, which is lucky, but the idea of counting and cherishing, sharing and savouring each and every year and recognising its significance, certainly is.

Judaism tells us that the age of 5 we study torah, at 13 we take on the commandments; 18 for marriage; 50 for giving advice (I started that one early) 70 for grey hair (that one too), and 80 for special strength – I can’t wait.

It doesn’t specifically mention 27, which just might be worth savouring in its own right.

Whilst I’m determined to avoid chaos, in Yiddish a birthday balagan, Louis remains understandably and exceptionally wary.  I’m simply dropping a ceremonial chocolate caterpillar cake onto his doorstep, and with the blessing of full social distancing, surely nothing this year can possibly go wrong.