Last week, I video-called my older sister and brother who are now in their thirties with kids of their own.
We got talking about their childhoods, and I asked them what they remembered most from growing up.
Their answers left me sitting at my kitchen table, tears streaming down my face while my two little ones played with blocks nearby because almost nothing they treasured had anything to do with what consumed me during those early parenting years.
I spent countless hours researching the perfect organic baby food recipes, agonizing over developmental milestones, and creating elaborate sensory bins.
I worried endlessly about screen time limits, structured their days with educational activities, and lost sleep over whether they were hitting every benchmark on schedule.
However, when I asked what stuck with them all these years later? None of that made the list.
The memories that actually lasted
My daughter remembered the morning walks we took to nowhere in particular, just wandering the neighborhood while she collected sticks and told me stories about imaginary worlds.
She talked about how I’d stop whatever I was doing when she needed to show me a bug she’d found or a picture she’d drawn.
My son brought up something I’d completely forgotten: How we’d have “backwards dinner” sometimes when I was too tired to cook properly.
Breakfast for dinner, eating dessert first, or having a picnic on the living room floor.
He said those nights felt like adventures.
They both remembered the songs I made up during bath time, completely off-key and ridiculous.
The way I’d lie next to them when they were sick, reading the same book over and over because it was their favorite.
How their dad would turn grocery shopping into a game, letting them choose one “weird” fruit to try each week.
What really got me was when my daughter said, “You were always just there, Mom. Like, really there. Not doing anything special. Just there.”
Why we chase the wrong things
Sitting with my coffee now, watching my own little ones dig in the garden, I understand why I got so caught up in the performance of perfect parenting the first time around.
Every parenting blog, social media post, and well-meaning relative had opinions about what my kids needed to thrive.
Wooden toys only, organic everything, and classical music for brain development.
The list was endless and exhausting.
I measured my worth as a mother by how well I followed these rules, how many enriching activities I provided, how perfectly balanced their meals were.
I thought love meant giving them every advantage, every opportunity, every carefully curated experience.
However, kids don’t keep score the way we do.
They don’t remember the expensive music classes nearly as much as they remember dancing in the kitchen while dinner cooked, and they don’t recall the perfectly organized playroom, but they remember building blanket forts that destroyed the living room.
What actually matters to little hearts
Now, with my second round of parenting young children, I see things differently.
When my daughter brings me her hundredth leaf to examine, I really look at it; when my son wants to read the same truck book for the fifteenth time today, we read it.
Yesterday, instead of the sensory activity I’d planned, we ended up spending an hour watching ants carry crumbs across the patio.
My daughter narrated their entire journey like a nature documentary while my son kept trying to give them more crumbs to carry.
Was it educational? Maybe.
Was it memorable? Absolutely!
The truth is, children remember feelings more than activities.
They remember the safety of routine, like their dad making pancakes every Saturday morning without fail, they remember the comfort of traditions—even simple ones like everyone adding something to our family collage table after dinner—and they remember presence over presents.
Connection over perfection.
Letting go of the guilt
Here’s what I wish I could tell my younger self: Your kids won’t remember or care that you used disposable diapers during that exhausting phase.
They will remember that you sat with them during thunderstorms, that you listened to their long, meandering stories about their day, that you apologized when you messed up, and that you laughed at their jokes, even the ones that made no sense.
My older kids told me they remember feeling safe, loved, and like they belonged.
Everything else was just background noise.
Does this mean we should abandon all structure and intentionality in parenting? Of course not, but maybe we can release ourselves from the pressure of perfect execution.
Maybe we can trust that love shows up in the ordinary moments just as much as the Instagram-worthy ones.
The path forward
These days, I still care about healthy food and limited screens and all those things, but I hold them loosely.
When my daughter wants to help make dinner, even though it’ll take three times longer and make twice the mess, I let her; when my son needs extra cuddles instead of independent play time, we cuddle.
I’ve stopped apologizing for the things I don’t do.
No, we don’t have a rigid schedule, themed activities planned for every season, nor are my kids enrolled in multiple enrichment classes.
Instead, we have slow mornings and impromptu dance parties.
We have conversations about nothing and everything; we have presence, patience (mostly), and a whole lot of perfectly imperfect love.
Twenty years from now, they’ll remember that mom was there, really there, when it mattered.
And honestly? That’s enough.
