(because there are moments that seem small until we realise that one day we might not be there)
I have so many memories of my birthday parties when I was a little girl. My mother always made a point of making those days special. There was no elaborate decoration, like we so often see today. There was no theme. There were no perfect tables, or parties planned down to the smallest detail. There was none of that. But there was family. Lots of friends. Plenty of space to run around. And lots of games to play.
I have vague memories of my mother, in the days leading up to them, cooking late into the night. Making brigadeiros. Carrot cakes. Everything. And decorating each one with love and dedication. Her and a friend who always treated me like her own daughter.
I remember the days themselves. The water games. The balloons. The games that ended with everyone covered in flour. I remember the chaos. The laughter. The children running from one side to the other. And I remember the smile on my mother’s face when the day was over.
If you ask some of my friends from back then, they all remember my birthdays. They all wanted to come to my birthday parties. And damn… Sometimes I think I waited all year for that day. I don’t remember the cakes I had. I don’t remember the presents I received. I don’t remember the decorations, although there certainly were some. But I remember the feelings. The happiness. The smiles everywhere. The full hearts. And maybe that is what a child remembers. Not what cost money. Not what looked beautiful in photographs. But what made them feel important.
Today I am a mother. And I have always wanted to give my children a little bit of what my mother gave me. I can’t throw those kinds of parties. I live in an apartment. I don’t have the space my parents had. I don’t have family nearby. And I don’t have enough people around me to do everything that would be needed without someone looking at it and thinking it was excessive or unnecessary. And they weren’t expensive things. They weren’t fancy. They were simple things. But they took work. And they were made by someone who believed that day was worth the effort.
Over the last few years, we have invited my eldest son’s little friends and gone to a park to celebrate his birthday. We take a table. A few balloons. The children play. We sing Happy Birthday. And he is happy. That is enough for me. But there is one thing I have done since they were born.
When they wake up on their birthday, I want them to immediately realise that it is not just any other day. And so, the night before, I make a cake. I put it on the table. I choose some presents I know they will love. I blow up some balloons. I get some toys. I hang up whatever I have around the house. And that is the decoration done. Then I wake them up with music, kisses and cuddles. And when they walk into the room and look at the table… There they are. Those eyes. Those shining eyes. And my heart fills up. Because in that moment they know. They know they are important. They know that day is special. They know that the day they were born is a day worth celebrating. And, to me, there will never be anything more important to celebrate than the day they were born.
This year was different. It was the first birthday after the separation. I arranged with their father to go and have lunch with our son at school. I still asked him if he wanted to come over early in the morning. To give him a kiss when he woke up. For us to sing Happy Birthday together. Like we had done every year. He didn’t want to. He said we were all going to be together at school anyway. I was sad. Because, to me, that was one of those moments when, regardless of everything that was happening between us, we could have been together. We could have put everything aside for half an hour. We could simply have been his parents. We could have celebrated together the day our son was born. But we weren’t.
Even so, I did what I do every year. The cake was orange. The presents were a World Cup football and some Toy Story figures. There were balloons. There were some decorative banners left over from Children’s Day. There were superheroes holding on to them. And the Panda Happy Birthday song playing in the background.
His brother was the first to wake up. He woke me with a little kiss. And I whispered to him: “It’s your brother’s birthday today. Do you want to go and see his surprise?” He said yes. And smiled. I showed him the living room. He was so excited. Then I asked him if he wanted to go and wake his brother up with me. He said yes. We went to the bedroom. We lay down next to him and covered him in kisses. He woke up. His brother immediately pointed towards the door. “Look.” And then: “Come on.” And he took his hand. They both went into the living room. And started dancing. A little while later, my eldest asked me if Dad was coming to the house that morning. I told him Dad couldn’t come, but that he would be with him at school. He accepted the answer. And kept dancing. Then we sang Happy Birthday. The three of us. Me. The two brothers. And, suddenly, all the superheroes were around the cake too. My heart was full. My son was happy. And that was all I wanted.
But there was someone missing. Someone who should have been there in that moment. And I didn’t even know how to explain why he wasn’t there. And I didn’t need to. Maybe because some absences are too complicated to explain to a child. Maybe because there are things that we, as adults, can understand with our heads, while a child’s heart simply accepts them. Dad wasn’t in that room. But my son was happy. And that was enough for me. But as I looked at him, I thought of something that frightened me.
What if one day it is his birthday on a morning when he is with his father? What if one day I can’t be there when he wakes up? What if I can’t make the cake? Blow up the balloons? Choose the presents? Go and get him from bed? Sing Happy Birthday to him while my voice is still half asleep? What if one day someone else’s hands open the door for him and show him the surprise? Will there even be a surprise?
I cry just thinking about it. Because I know he will still be happy. I know he will still have a birthday. I know he will still be loved. I know he will adapt. But there is something that perhaps nobody understands. I don’t just want him to have happy birthdays. I want to live some of them. I want to be there. I want to see those eyes. I want to hear that “wow”. I want to be the one who watches him wake up another year older. I want to keep the memory of his face when he walks into the room and realises it is his day. I want to be behind the scenes of the little things that, one day, may not even be memories for him. But that, for me, are an entire lifetime. Because one day he probably won’t remember the orange cake. Or the football. Or the toys. Or the balloons. Maybe he won’t even remember who was in that room. But I will remember. I will remember every birthday I was able to be there for. Every morning when I woke him up. Every candle I helped him blow out. Every time I watched him grow another year before my eyes. And maybe that is what scares me most about separation. It isn’t just losing days. It is beginning to realise that some moments of my children’s childhood may happen without me. And there is a huge difference between knowing that they are happy and being there to witness their happiness.
This year I was there. And as they danced in that room, with the superheroes around the cake and the Happy Birthday song playing, I thought that, whatever happens, I want to keep marking these moments. Even if one day the house is somewhere else. Even if the cake is made somewhere else. Even if there is another table. Because there are things I don’t want to lose. And one of them is this. The morning when my children wake up another year older. The morning when, for a few minutes, the whole world seems to me to come down to those shining eyes. The morning when I remember, once again, the greatest thing that has ever happened in my life. The day they were born. And perhaps this is what being a mother is. Someone who spends her life celebrating the day her children came into the world. And who, even when life takes away the possibility of being there for every moment, continues to be grateful for every morning when she can still open the door, look at them and say: “Happy Birthday, my love.”
Because they may grow up. Families may change. Homes may change. Routines may change. But there is a part of me that will want to be there that morning forever.
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