Last week, I was digging through our hall closet looking for winter boots when I stumbled upon a mason jar filled with beach glass and shells. My daughter had collected them last summer, and seeing them brought me straight back to my own childhood home, where windowsills were lined with similar treasures I’d gathered on walks with my mom. It’s funny how certain things stick with you decades later.
As I watch my own kids grow, I’ve been thinking a lot about what they’ll remember when they’re adults. What will stay with them from these early years in our slightly chaotic, love-filled home? After talking with friends and reflecting on my own memories, I’ve noticed some patterns in what really leaves a mark.
1. The smells that defined daily life
You know that moment when a certain smell hits you and suddenly you’re eight years old again? For me, it’s the combination of bread baking and lavender soap. My mother made everything from scratch, and our kitchen always smelled like something wonderful was happening, even when money was tight.
Now I catch myself wondering what scents will transport my kids back home someday. Will it be the sourdough starter that lives on our counter? The mint from our garden that we crush into sun tea? These aren’t things we plan; they just become part of the fabric of home.
I’ve noticed my daughter already associates certain smells with comfort. When she’s upset, she’ll bury her face in the clean laundry and say it “smells like home.” These sensory memories run deeper than any Pinterest-perfect room could ever reach.
2. Where everyone gathered (and why)
Our kitchen table has paint stains, scratches from scissors that went rogue during craft time, and one wobbly leg that we keep meaning to fix. But it’s where everything happens. Homework, playdough creations, difficult conversations, spontaneous dance parties while dinner cooks.
Growing up, our kitchen was the same way. It was well-used and slightly cluttered with whatever project we were working on. My mom would be cooking while we did homework at the table, and somehow everyone always ended up there, even when we had a perfectly good living room.
What matters isn’t having the perfect gathering space. It’s having a spot where everyone naturally gravitates, where real life happens without anyone trying to keep things pristine.
3. The feeling of safety (or lack thereof)
This one cuts deep, doesn’t it? Kids are emotional sponges, absorbing the undercurrents of their home environment. My mother, bless her heart, was anxious. She loved us fiercely but worried constantly, and that energy colored everything.
I work hard to create a different atmosphere for my kids. Not perfect, not stress-free (impossible with a two-year-old who thinks climbing everything is his life’s mission), but generally calm. When chaos hits, we acknowledge it, deal with it, and return to baseline.
Children remember whether home felt like a refuge or a place to tiptoe through. They remember if they could make mistakes without the sky falling, if their feelings were welcome, if laughter came easily.
4. Holiday traditions that weren’t Pinterest-worthy
What do you remember most about holidays growing up? Probably not the perfectly decorated tree or color-coordinated table settings. My kids won’t remember those things either, mostly because we don’t have them.
Instead, they’ll remember making paper chains from old artwork, the wonky gingerbread houses that collapse before we finish decorating them, and the way we always eat pancakes for dinner on Christmas Eve because everyone’s too excited to focus on real cooking.
The traditions that stick are the ones that happen naturally, year after year, without anyone trying too hard. The inside jokes, the special foods, the rituals that would seem weird to anyone outside the family but feel essential to those within it.
5. How parents handled the hard stuff
Remember when something went wrong in your childhood home? A job loss, an illness, a big disappointment? Kids watch how we navigate rough waters, filing it away as a blueprint for their own future struggles.
We had a tough year financially when I was about my daughter’s age now. But what I remember most isn’t the stress (though I’m sure there was plenty). I remember my mom teaching us to make “stone soup” with whatever vegetables we could find, turning scarcity into a game. I remember planting our first real vegetable garden that spring, not knowing it was partly out of necessity.
When our washing machine broke last month and flooded the laundry room, my first instinct was to lose it. Instead, we turned it into an adventure, with the kids helping mop up and my husband making up silly songs about the “great flood of 2024.” They’ll remember the laughter more than the mess.
6. The “special spots” that were just theirs
Every child needs a corner of the world that belongs just to them. Mine was under the dining room table with a sheet draped over it. My son has claimed the space behind the couch. My daughter has a reading nook she’s created with pillows in her closet.
These spots matter more than we realize. They’re where kids go to process emotions, to imagine, to just be. The tree swing in our backyard serves this purpose too, and the mud kitchen where they create “potions” from dirt and rainwater.
Having a special spot isn’t about having a big house or perfect playroom. It’s about respecting that children, like adults, need space to call their own, even if it’s just a cardboard box in the corner.
7. What hung on the walls
Our walls tell stories. They’re covered in kid art, nature treasures we’ve found on walks, and thrifted finds that caught our eye. Nothing matches. Everything has meaning.
Growing up, I remember exactly which drawings my mom kept on the fridge, which family photos lined the hallway, which quotes she had tacked up by the phone. These visual touchstones become part of our internal landscape.
Children notice what we choose to display. Are their creations celebrated? Do the walls reflect the people who live there, or do they look like a catalog page? The answer shapes how kids understand their place in the family story.
8. The background soundtrack of daily life
Was your childhood home filled with music? TV constantly on? Comfortable silence? These soundscapes stick with us. In our house, there’s usually music playing while we cook, audiobooks during quiet time, and yes, probably more kid songs than my mental health strictly requires.
But there’s also conversation. Real talk about real things, adjusted for little ears but not dumbed down. Questions welcomed, even the endless “why” phase that tests every parent’s patience.
The sounds of home become our internal rhythm. They’re what we miss when we’re away, what we recreate in our own homes, what makes us feel anchored.
9. How love was expressed day to day
Beyond the big “I love yous,” how did your family show care? Was it through food, through time, through words, through presence? My mom showed love through creation. Homemade everything, gardens tended together, problems solved with craft projects.
I find myself doing the same, though in my own way. Love looks like reading the same book for the hundredth time, like letting them “help” even when it makes everything take longer, like saving the best strawberries from our garden for little hands to discover.
Children remember how love felt in their home. Not the grand gestures, but the daily accumulation of small kindnesses, the reliability of care, the sense of being seen and valued for exactly who they are.
Making memories that matter
Here’s what I’ve learned: the memories that last aren’t the ones we orchestrate. They’re born from the daily rhythm of life lived together, from the values we embody when we think no one’s watching, from the space we create for our children to simply be.
Our home isn’t perfect. The sandbox needs fresh sand, there are always art supplies cluttering the kitchen table, and at least one person is usually having a feeling about something. But it’s real, it’s ours, and hopefully, it’s giving our kids the kind of memories that will warm them from the inside out for years to come.
What do you remember most vividly from your childhood home? I’d bet it’s not what your parents thought you’d remember. The magic lives in the mundane, in the accumulation of ordinary days that somehow add up to an extraordinary foundation for life.
