Parenthood is full of heroic moments—late-night fevers, first-day jitters, the whole “keep a tiny human alive” thing.
But between the big stuff? We do some truly hilarious little things when we’re sure no one is looking.
As a natural-leaning, low-tox, co-sleeping, babywearing, cloth-when-we-can mom, I keep things simple where I can—I also do what works.
If you recognize yourself here, pull up a chair because you’re in good company.
1) The pantry peek-and-chew
Have you ever shut the pantry door with your foot and eaten the last square of dark chocolate in reverent silence?
Same.
Sometimes it’s a spoonful of peanut butter I call “medicinal;” sometimes it’s the raisins “for preschool snack day.”
It’s not greed; it’s a nervous-system reset.
One tiny bite, one full breath, zero commentary.
If you need permission, I’m writing it here: Enjoy the square and close the wrapper verrry slowly.
2) The bedtime ninja exit
If you sit with littles at bedtime, you know the choreography.
I roll off the mattress like a sleepy seal, freeze halfway (T-rex arms, held breath), and tiptoe around the one floorboard that sighs like a ship plank.
With Ellie, it’s three slow pats and a whisper about garden fairies; with Milo, I time my exhale to his tiny snore.
It’s funny because we treat the hallway like a laser maze, and it’s lovely because we learned the dance by loving them.
And if I don’t make it out? I wake up with a sticker on my cheek—not the worst fate!
3) Practicing voices for bedtime books
When the lights are low, I turn into a one-woman show.
The bear has a gentle Scottish lilt, the rabbit is somehow from Brooklyn, and the grandmother sounds suspiciously like my aunt.
I’ve been known to rehearse a line to the bathroom mirror so the voice is “consistent.”
Why perform when no one is watching? Because it delights us.
A long day needs a tiny theater, and kids lean in when we bring a book to life.
Matt just nods when he catches me practicing: “The rabbit’s accent is stronger tonight.”
Marriage is respecting each other’s bedtime canon.
4) The “I’ll just tidy one art bin” spiral
Question time: Have you opened the craft cabinet to put away one glue stick and emerged forty minutes later having sorted pompoms by size and rinsed every watercolor pan?
On ArtFul Parent, we talk about simple, inviting creative spaces.
Sometimes that means I refresh the tray after bedtime.
It starts practical and ends therapeutic.
Morning comes, Ellie spots the washed palettes and asks to paint garden snails, and suddenly last night’s spiral feels like a tiny gift to future us.
5) Whisper pep talks to appliances
I speak to the house like it’s a teammate.
“Easy there, dishwasher, we’re doing our best.”
I pat the washing machine and ask for a quiet final spin.
I apologize to the squeaky drawer I still haven’t oiled and promise I’ll find the screwdriver tomorrow (future me laughs kindly).
It’s silly, but it also softens me.
If I can be gentle to a rattly vent, I can be gentle to myself.
Ellie once asked why I thanked the compost.
“Because it’ll feed the tomatoes, and the tomatoes will feed us,” I said.
She nodded like we’d shared a secret handshake.
6) The stealth declutter that “went to toy camp”
There’s a place all parents know: toy camp.
It’s where duplicates, broken bits, and the musical button with no off switch go for a restful retreat.
I respect attachments, loveys stay—but party-bag gizmos with the emotional weight of lint? Off they go.
After bedtime, I do a ten-minute sweep.
Loved items stay visible, while questionables take a vacation in a labeled bin.
If no one asks for them after a few weeks, we donate; If something is special but not daily-play special, I rotate it.
Fewer options equals to deeper play.
Also fewer Lego landmines under my heel at 10 p.m—that’s a win–win, if you ask me!
7) The late-night Google spiral, chamomile in hand
You swore you wouldn’t, but there you are at 11:52 p.m., searching “toddler cough sounds like a tiny train.”
You’ve already set the cool-mist humidifier, tucked an onion slice near the bedside (great-grandma’s remedy), and brewed honey-lemon-ginger tea—mostly for yourself.
The tabs read like a collage: “is this rash normal,” “gentle preschool transitions,” “best skillet for pancakes (again).”
You scroll, reassure yourself, and remember the rule: If anything feels off, we call our pediatrician in the morning.
Then you check your sleeping child, adjust the blanket, thank the quiet, and go to bed.
Closing thoughts
If you recognized yourself in these confessions, welcome; if you didn’t, I bet you have your own secret habits—your pantry treat, your ninja move, or your whispered pact with the dishwasher.
These aren’t evidence we’re failing; they’re fingerprints of the creative, imperfect way we love our families.
We don’t parent in grand gestures alone—we parent in sideways smiles, spinach smoothies, sticker-cheeked naps, and freshly rinsed paint trays that make mornings easier.
On the days we’re caught mid pantry-bite or mid toy-camp transfer, we laugh, tell the truth, and keep going.
Good enough is beautiful.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a creaky floorboard to tiptoe across and a peach to eat over the basil!
