Basically, Mom

Just recently, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary. Honestly, I was never big on celebrating anniversaries. Not the idea of celebrating, just that for anniversaries specifically.

My mom and dad never wished each other a happy anniversary, not that I knew of, let alone celebrated it. One thing’s for sure, my dad isn’t the kind of person who expresses affection in words. He’s more of an action kind of man. Bringing us to road trips, frying up snacks at midnight for our TV time. Those little things he did that told us he cared, even without saying it.

So I told my husband, let’s exchange something.

Not expensive gifts. Just something small to remember it by, even a wish card. We agreed to it.

But as the date got closer, I didn’t feel any excitement. Honestly, I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m just not used to it. It was our 5th anniversary, and we’d never really had the chance to celebrate properly, with little treats for each other.

Anniversaries make me reflect on the marriage itself. Lots of things happened — the good and the bad. At some point, the pain blurred the good memories. I’ll admit there are moments that still circle at the back of my head, like a blocker I can’t quite remove.

“Are you happy being married?”

It’s not easy to answer with a simple yes or no. Define happy. But what I can say is that, I’m grateful for what I have now.

Anniversary. Celebration. Words are just words.

But put them together, and it becomes something almost sacred. We need to find the meaning behind it, in order to actually celebrate it. What are we celebrating, really? That’s the question I had to ask myself.

The fact that we’re still here. That we made it to this point, together. That’s what we’re supposed to celebrate.

Love has to be nurtured. It must be fed with care, effort, trust, and attention, so it can grow. So the trauma, the pain, the bad memories don’t end up infesting it instead, making things worse.

Now I get it. Whatever we celebrate, find the meaning behind it first. The celebration follows.

Meanwhile birthdays, that’s a different story.

When it comes to birthdays, I’m always the one who remembers the date, the one who comes up with a plan, big or small.

As far back as I can remember, my parents always celebrated my birthdays. There would be a cake to blow candles on, and presents to unwrap by the end of the day.

When I became an adult, single at the time, all I got were birthday wishes online. Some years I’d feel sad that nothing special happened. LOL. So I bought myself a slice of cake (as I was supposed to, obviously).

Now that I’m married, I told my husband.. at least get me a slice of cake please. He’s never missed celebrating with dinner. It’s nothing big, just enough for the two of us (now three). Early in our marriage though, he took me to dinner but forgot the cake. I was so bummed. Funny, but true.. because that’s what I grew up with, what I was used to, what I’d always expected, since my parents never missed it either.

Even at this moment, with my parents and siblings, I still feel that urge to get them something. Be it a cake, a small gift, anything.

Being a mom, I’m the event planner.

For my kid’s birthdays, for the small things, for whatever excuse I can find to make a regular day feel like something. First time being called “mommy.” First day of school. Every milestone, every small achievement, every first. Not fancy, but just enough to make her feel celebrated. That’s the tradition I’m carrying forward.

But I think what I’m really doing is passing down a belief that we’re worth celebrating. Not because we did something extraordinary. Not because we hit some milestone everyone agrees matters. Just because we’re still here, still trying, still showing up for each other.

My dad never said “I love you,” but he showed it in the fries he prepared for us at midnight. My parents never skipped a birthday cake, not once, even when I wasn’t living with them anymore, being in boarding school and college.

I didn’t grow up with grand gestures. I grew up with consistency – small actions, repeated proof that I mattered to someone.

Maybe that’s what celebration actually is. Not the cake, not the gift, not even the date on the calendar. It’s the act of stopping, on purpose, to say this mattered, you matter — to a marriage, a birthday, a weekend that didn’t need to be special but became one anyway.

So when my kid is older and looks back, I don’t know if she’ll remember the exact cakes, birthday themes, or the gifts. But I hope she remembers that she was never once forgotten. That in our home, showing up for each other wasn’t a sometimes thing. It was the tradition.