Overcoming Sadness at My Child’s Birthday Celebration

home insemination Kit

Would you mind holding on for a second? I just need to grab something from the upstairs.

The theme was polka dots. Our nearest and dearest gathered in a room that looked like it came straight from Pinterest. Colorful paper plates were stuck to the ceiling, and streamers danced around the room, creating a magical atmosphere. The hallway displayed twelve carefully chosen photos, each capturing a smile from each of her first twelve months. And we had a smash cake that could only be described as a masterpiece. We were all set for a celebration.

Except I was upstairs, curled up in my closet, tears streaming down my face. Alone.

At this point in our journey, my daughter couldn’t even sit up. She ranked in the 0 percentile for her occupational therapy skills test, barely made any sounds, and didn’t seem to comprehend us. We were already three months into speech and physical therapy, had met with three specialists, and still had no answers.

But this was her first birthday party, and over thirty guests were waiting downstairs. “Don’t worry,” friends reassured me. “Every child has some delays. My friend’s neighbor’s cousin didn’t say a word until he was two, and now he’s at Harvard. She’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be right down. Just trying to find something that doesn’t make me look like a walking polka dot,” I lied.

But I couldn’t go down. All I could think was:

This day is a celebration of everything she can’t do.

Every article, every blog, every chat at the water cooler focused on the milestones a child should hit by their first birthday. Some days, I’d fib. Other days, I’d change the subject. Most days, I would just smile and comment on the challenges of new parenthood. But I never let anyone see my fears.

In my tiny closet, barely big enough for the oversized, stained sweatshirts I had taken to wearing, I sat huddled, trying to summon my brave face. By March 5, I had wished for all the things we were waiting for to just magically happen.

This was my first time throwing a birthday party for my little girl. I did everything a mother should do. Our story began like everyone else’s: Just 365 days ago, she entered the world, welcomed by a loving family and an absurd number of photos. I sang “Happy Birthday” softly as she slept. Welcome to the world, my darling. We are going to create an amazing life for you. I learned to nurse, change diapers, and make her giggle. But while my friends continued turning the pages of the parenting handbook, I felt like I was flailing.

Maybe it was genuine fear that kept me from going downstairs. Maybe it was anger at the story we were given. Perhaps it was the fear of asking for help. I worried that if my beloved guests saw my vulnerability, it would expose how terrified we all were.

I don’t know what finally pushed me to move. Perhaps it was the sound of giggles drifting up from the party. I splashed some water on my face, threw on an oversized sweater, and bright polka dot socks to distract myself, and made my way downstairs. With a deep breath, I picked up the smash cake, found my husband’s reassuring smile in the crowd, and walked toward my beautiful girl.

And here we are again, it’s March 5. I cry every year. But around her third birthday, those tears transformed from sorrow to joy. A birthday is a celebration of milestones, and my child just charts a different course. It took me half of her life to embrace that.

On the evening of her sixth birthday, my spouse and I tucked her in with seven of her My Little Pony dolls. She eagerly shared their names and requested that I tuck them in too. I savored every moment of March 5. I watched her giggle while eating purple pancakes. I delighted in her joy during a performance that didn’t overwhelm her. I beamed as she excitedly told a stranger, “Pee pee on the potty!” and marveled at her reading her name from the birthday card. I celebrate every part of this incredible child and all she continues to achieve.

Her birthday is no longer a reminder of what she can’t do. I’ve learned how to truly celebrate it. It’s my annual reminder to breathe. Welcome to the world, my darling girl. We are going to craft an amazing life for you, no matter what. Now, I just have to work on my baking skills.