It was a long week. Getting ready for my son Anthony’s third birthday meant days of cleaning, shopping, and cooking, wedged around a full-time job. Saturday finally came, and we celebrated with 35 people in 95-degree heat.

We spent the next day cleaning up, and, on Monday, Anthony’s actual birthday, we continued our tradition of having professional photos taken. But on Tuesday, instead of waking up relieved that our routine could return to normal, I knew there was something left to do.

My husband and I met our son’s birth mother only once, the night before she gave birth. With emotions high, and hearts guarded, we barely scratched the surface of creating an actual bond. The only thing she asked for was a birthday package each year. We stay in touch more frequently, sending her our son’s handprints on Mother’s Day, a Christmas card, and at least one “just because” letter. But his birthday packages are our biggest undertaking.

Each one includes that year’s birthday portrait, as well as candid shots taken throughout the previous year. In the letter, we update her on Anthony’s latest interests and hobbies, as well as changes in our household (like our plan to adopt another child). Since Anthony can’t yet write, he usually includes a scribbled drawing that only a mother could love.

Over the years, I’ve come to value this correspondence because I trust that she appreciates it, and also because it’s the only way I have to show how much I appreciate her. We have yet to hear back from her, but I continue to hope that one day we will.

So, after work that Tuesday, we headed off to the photo kiosk at the drugstore. Thirty minutes later, after struggling with a scanner that was having a bad day, I took a deep breath and asked for my prints. “That’ll be at least an hour, ma’am.” She’s joking, I told myself, but I bit my tongue, scooped up my little one, and headed back to the car.

When we got home, we realized that the temperature had finally dipped below 90 degrees. That set us off on three trips around the block — one in a wagon, one on his bike, and one on his toy tractor — to pass the time. Then, five minutes at the store, and we had the goods: a year’s record of Anthony’s life.

All that was left was to write the letter. So many things happen in one year when a child is young: saying goodbye to diapers, falling in love with hockey, riding on his daddy’s boat for the first time, catching his first fish. Two hours later, I had four pages and six photos. Then, for the first time in a week, I sat down to rest.

I had heard that it’s hard to keep up the tradition of the birthday package. How it might slip your mind; how something small would become an excuse not to get the photos developed. A day’s delay could turn into a month, then six, then a year.

Now that I’m a busy mother, I can see how this could happen. But when I think, “This is too much, this is too hard,” I wonder how many times Anthony’s birth mother must have thought the same things three years ago, and I know how blessed I am to have this job. And I forge ahead.