I don’t know a single mom who doesn’t have a quiet scoreboard in her head.
Mine lights up at 7 a.m. in our kitchen in Itaim Bibi while we eat breakfast around the island. Did I pack the snacks, answer that email, buy tomatoes for dinner, and book the pediatrician?
Then Emilia babbles, points at the banana, and leans in to kiss my cheek. The scoreboard shuts off.
Here are the signs you’re doing better than your inner critic gives you credit for. I’m sharing what I look for in my own days, the tiny markers that add up.
1. Your child reaches for you when they’re overwhelmed
When Emilia hears the blender or a dog barks too close to the stroller, she turns and reaches for me. Sometimes she wants my shoulder, sometimes just my hand.
That reach is trust. It says your nervous system helps regulate theirs. It says you’re a safe harbor after a big wave.
You don’t have to whisper the perfect reassurance or know exactly why they’re upset. If your kiddo looks for your eyes, your voice, or your shirt to bury their face in, connection is strong. Calm is contagious, and you’re the source they choose.
That doesn’t happen by accident. It’s built during ordinary moments: diaper changes you narrate, silly songs while washing hands, being there after a fall. Reaching for you is the metric that matters.
2. Routines exist and bend when life asks
I’m a routine person. On weekdays we walk Matias to work, grab groceries for a single fresh meal, and I start my workday while our nanny Lara plays with Emilia and the neighbor kids.
At night we reset the kitchen, do bath, story, bottle, sleep. The rhythm keeps everyone sane and keeps the house from growing wild.
But real life has surprise traffic, teething, late meetings, and family flying in. The win isn’t a perfect routine. The win is a flexible one. If your bedtime slips but the evening still stays kind, you’re doing great. If lunch is ten minutes late and you replace a meltdown with a cuddle and a banana, that counts.
Routines are the scaffolding, not the statue. You’re allowed to move the bars when the wind changes.
3. You repair after ruptures
Let’s be honest. I’ve raised my voice at the worst time. I’ve felt the day closing in at 6:43 p.m. with toys on the floor, rice on the stove, and a bottle to warm. Sometimes the frustration leaks out. The question isn’t whether it happens. The question is whether you repair.
I’ll sit on the rug and tell Emilia, “Mama felt stressed. I’m sorry for being loud. I love you.” Then we hug, and I breathe slower on purpose so she can match me. If your home has this pattern, you’re modeling the emotional skill that matters most.
As writer Jill Churchill said, “There’s no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one.” That’s the spirit of repair. Perfection isn’t the goal. Reconnection is.
4. You set boundaries and ask for help
I grew up middle class, my husband a bit more comfortable, and now we’re building a life we’re proud of. That life includes childcare during the day and a weekly dinner date where Lara watches the baby while she sleeps.
Some weeks we fly to Santiago and the grandparents take the morning shift so we can linger over coffee like we used to. Every time, it feels like a small luxury and a smart boundary.
If you say yes to support, you’re doing well. If you tell family you’re not hosting this weekend, you’re doing well. If you and your partner alternate cleanup and bedtime so you both get to exhale, you’re doing well.
Boundaries protect the humans who do the caring. Asking for help is not surrender. It’s strategy.
5. Play shows up, even in short bursts
My daughter is a scientist in a floral onesie. She drops pasta to watch gravity work, then laughs like she discovered it.
I follow her curiosity in small pockets and let her explore with safe limits. She climbs the low step, I spot her. She taps the pan with a wooden spoon, I supervise.
She tries to put socks on her hands, I cheer like it’s a Nobel-level idea.
If you’re making space for exploration and you’re comfortable with a bit of mess, you’re nurturing confidence. You’re also telling your child that their ideas matter. That’s fuel for resilience.
Play doesn’t need a perfect setup. Sometimes it’s a colander, a pot, and a wooden spoon while dinner simmers. Sometimes it’s chasing each other down the hallway for five minutes before bath. Minutes count.
6. Your home has simple rituals that feel like “you”
I love an elegant, easy-to-maintain life. Capsule wardrobe, short red nails, quick skincare, hair that air-dries into something decent. We keep our home tidy because it buys us peace and time. But the rituals that ground me most are tiny.
We do a family breakfast standing around the island. We smell tomatoes together at the supermarket. At night one of us cleans while the other does bedtime so we can sit together afterward. These are our anchors. They remind us who we are as a family.
If your household has its own cozy repeatables, that’s a sign of intentional parenting. Rituals say, “This is what love looks like here.” They’re culture in miniature.
7. You’re still a person you recognize
Motherhood changed my shoes from heels to elegant flats, but it didn’t erase me. I still cook daily because it brings me joy. I still write.
I still get giddy picking an accent piece that elevates a basic outfit. Half my girlfriends are vegan or vegetarian, so we hunt down plant-based spots and try new dishes.
Those small choices keep me feeling like a full human, not just a logistics manager.
If you hold a piece of your identity on the daily, even in short, stubborn ways, your kids benefit. They get a mom who is alive in her life. They learn that adults keep growing.
And when you’re stretched thin, it’s okay to choose the version of “you” that fits the day. A fifteen-minute hobby is still a hobby.
8. You practice self-compassion and measure what actually matters
Guilt is loud. It’s also pretty uncreative. It tells you the same boring story on repeat. Self-compassion, on the other hand, helps you problem-solve without shame.
As psychologist Kristin Neff puts it, “Self-compassion is simply giving the same kindness to ourselves that we would give to others.”
If you speak to yourself like you speak to a friend, you’ll notice different metrics rising.
Is your child curious, not just compliant? Do they feel safe enough to show big feelings? Do they sleep better after a predictable evening? Are you and your partner laughing at least once a day?
Those are the measurements worth tracking. Not how Instagram-ready your living room looks at 5 p.m.
A quick self-check I use when doubt creeps in
I ask three questions at the end of the day. Did my child get a steady rhythm from me today? Did I repair if I messed up? Did I protect something that keeps our family well?
If I can say yes to at least two, I close the loop and sleep. Tomorrow, we try again.
What I’ve learned living far from family
Most of my family is in Central Asia. We meet at least once a year.
The rest of the time, it’s the three of us in São Paulo, and we treat support like treasure.
When we go to Santiago, we soak up grandparent time and let them love our daughter their way while we take a breath. That doesn’t make me less of a mom. It makes me a more rested one.
If your village looks different from your friend’s, that’s okay. Use what you have. Trade hours with a neighbor. Share a meal with another family and take the night off from dishes. Community isn’t only relatives. It’s whoever shows up and cares.
When the voice of perfection tries to run the show
Sometimes I feel the old competitive streak. It wants me to optimize every corner of life. There’s value in standards. I believe in strong work ethic, in doing what I say I’ll do. The trick is not letting those values turn rigid at home.
I remind myself of something simple. Children need present, good-enough parents more than they need perfect ones. They need warmth, limits, and chances to try again. They need to see adults apologize and laugh. They need dinner most nights and a house that doesn’t swallow the cat you don’t have yet.
Presence over polish. It’s a quiet mantra that works.
Final thoughts
If your child reaches for you when life gets big, if your days have a rhythm that bends, if you repair and reconnect, if laughter still lives in your kitchen, you’re already doing this better than you think.
You can stop arguing with the scoreboard. You can trust the small signs.
Tonight, after we finish dishes and Emilia is asleep, I’ll sit on the couch with Matias and breathe like someone who showed up.
That’s the whole assignment, really. Show up, love them, keep learning. The rest is detail.
