Every now and then, as I hand over my driver’s licence to check into a motel, register for a PCR test or call my bank to confirm that yes, the activity flagged as fraud was in fact my own embarrassing purchase, I disclose personal information that elicits a familiar tone of sympathy and amusement from perfect strangers.
I was born on the 25 December, a statistically uncommon cross I bear alongside Dido, Humphrey Bogart, the Veronicas and, according to Christian tradition, some guy called Jesus of Nazareth.
I often heard my own personal nativity story growing up. Mum went into labour on Christmas morning, but at first she and Dad delayed the hospital run. My older brother was three at the time and, conscious that his blissful life as an only child was about to come crashing down, they let him shake out his stocking first – after all, why ruin the poor kid’s Christmas too?
Mum ended up on the maternity ward around midday. The obstetrician delivering me asked her, politely but firmly, to please hurry the hell up – he had a family lunch of his own to get back to. Then, in the chaos of dropping her at the hospital and palming the three-year-old off to my grandparents, Dad crashed the family Camry when another car pulled out suddenly in front of him (there was a “give way” sign, he insists).
Far from traumatised, my brother remembers it being a pretty good day: he got to play in the living room of some random family’s house, just a few hundred metres from the hospital, while our ropable Dad swapped insurance details outside. Shepherds quaked at the sight!
The novelty of being born on Christmas Day surfaced in funny little ways. Like at my local church, when Christmas Eve mass would end with the cutting of a birthday fruitcake and a singalong of Happy Birthday (they did Catholicism differently in 1990s Adelaide). Every time, Mum would turn to me with a twinkle in her eye and quietly sing my name instead of “dear Jesus”.
All the while, people would console me for my rotten luck in the birthday stakes. But beyond the dreaded prospect of combined presents (which isn’t so bad, really), I never quite understood why.
Each year, as jacarandas blossomed and shops filled with festive tat, it felt like the whole world was counting down to one special day. And for all the commercialisation of the holiday, I never lost sight of the true meaning of Christmas: my arrival on Earth.
Best of all, the countdown seemed to start earlier every year.
Come Christmas Day, my brother and I were often the only small children in a large extended family of grandparents, kindly great-uncles and aunts, and grown-up cousins. My childhood memories are a blur of wrapping paper and red-cheeked adults in paper hats; uncles’ girlfriends who never made it to a second Christmas; and being allowed to eat pudding and birthday cake in one afternoon. And, of course, the comical sight of my great-uncle David sneaking a post-lunch nap above the covers on my child-sized bed.
Why, I wondered, would anyone mind being the centre of attention on this merriest day of the year?
As I grew up, I came to appreciate it differently. It’s nice that I’ve never had to go to school or work on my birthday, but as an adult, I don’t mind taking a backseat to the main event. My partner’s sister, born on Christmas Eve, knows the drill, and in recent years we’ve both given up any attempt to mark significant birthdays beyond gazing joyfully at her kids, surrounded by wrapping paper and adults like me who love them to bits.
With my own family, I cherish being surrounded by my parents, my brother’s young family and a smaller recurring cast of relatives. I fondly remember the older generation who once animated my Christmases but have mostly passed away. Now in tribute to my late uncle David, I fall asleep before 3pm in whatever quiet corner I can find.
One of the last times I had to provide my date of birth was about 18 months ago while lying on an operating table about to have my wisdom teeth extracted. As I started to go under, the surgeon and nurse ran through the standard questions to confirm my identity before the drilling and yanking began.
“And when is your birthday?” they asked. When I responded with “25 December”, the nurse gave a familiar sigh, and added, “What’s that like?”
Usually I laugh off this kind of polite small talk with some rote patter – “oh, it’s fine” – but this time, with the utter sincerity that only hospital-grade drugs can inspire, I told them my unguarded truth: “Actually, it’s wonderful,” I said, tearing up a little from the drugs, or the memories. “Because I’ve always got family around me.”
