Grateful for His Year, Grateful for Him

There is a unique ache in co-parenting that shows itself most clearly on birthdays—the day that should feel simple and celebratory, the day that marks your becoming a mother, and yet it seems tangled in logistics, schedules, and court orders.

Because it isn’t just a date on the calendar.

It’s his birthday.

The day his tiny voice entered the world.

The day you earned the title “Mom” forever.

And yet sometimes, despite all the love I get to pour out to him all year long, I don’t get to physically spend that day with him. The phone calls—they help, but they don’t hold the same weight as being able to watch him blow out candles today, or see his eyes light up when he unwraps something carefully chosen just for him, or to hear him giggle with frosting on his lips.

I was deeply aware—and tearful—during the very last hug I gave him as a four-year-old. There was something sacred in that moment, knowing it was the closing of his chapter as a 4 year old. And at the same time, I already know the exact spot on my calendar when I’ll get to tuck him good night for the first time as a five-year-old. It’s bittersweet, but it’s still love—just stretched across days, waiting patiently.

There is a grief that sits behind co-parenting, one no one prepares you for.

A quiet grief.

A dignified grief.

One that doesn’t throw tantrums, but sits dark and heavy in your chest when you wake up and realize that today—of all the days—you don’t get to snuggle him in the morning, pack his lunch, or kiss him goodbye on his way to school.

But you celebrate anyway.

Because that’s what mothers do.

You mark it with memories of the day he arrived. You remember how chunky he was, his beautiful head full of dark hair, how scared you were, how disorienting, chaotic, and unanticipated bringing him into the world was and how it was all washed away with so much joy. You sit with both pride and longing. You honor the love that isn’t dependent on proximity or schedule or who got what day.

And at the same time, you navigate the patient side of co-parenting:

giving space,

choosing peace over possession,

choosing your child’s stability even when your own heart is hurting.

You learn that love does not disappear because routines shift or time is shared.

You learn that presence and effort from a distance is just as important as physical moments.

And birthdays—even when you don’t get the day—still belong to you.

Because I am the one who remembers his first breath.

I am the one who knows how many freckles sit on the bridge of his nose.

I am the one who quieted his fears long before anyone else was allowed to.

Co-parenting asks for grace—especially on birthdays.

But grace is something mothers carry far more of than anyone else.

And so you celebrate—maybe pre-emptively the weekend before, maybe with a make-up dinner, maybe with a small candle at the kitchen table just for you and your mothering heart.

Because the privilege of being his mother never happens on just one day! It happens every day.