Before my teaching career and long before I had Ellie and Milo, I spent three years nannying for families who had more money than I could wrap my head around.
We’re talking homes with elevators, kids with walk-in closets bigger than my current living room, and playrooms that looked like FAO Schwarz had exploded inside them.
But here’s what struck me most during those years: you could tell everything about a family just by stepping into a child’s bedroom. Not by how expensive the furniture was or whether they had the latest tech. The real story was in the details—the small, seemingly insignificant things that revealed whether parents were truly present or just providing.
Now that I’m raising my own little ones in a much simpler way (our kids’ rooms have low beds, book baskets, and their own artwork on the walls), I can see even more clearly what those bedroom details meant. And honestly? Some of the loneliest kids I ever cared for had the most elaborate rooms.
1. The bed situation tells you everything
In truly connected families, I’d often find a parent’s sweatshirt draped over the bed rail or a grown-up sized indentation on one side of the mattress. These kids had parents who actually did bedtime—not just supervised it from the doorway. One family had a reading chair pulled right up next to their four-year-old’s bed, worn smooth from nightly story sessions.
The disconnected families? The beds were always perfectly made by housekeeping staff. No evidence of snuggle sessions, no books scattered on the nightstand from last night’s third reading of the same story. Just pristine, hotel-like perfection that no one disturbed.
2. Look at the artwork on display
Want to know if parents actually engage with their kids’ creativity? Check what’s on the walls. The present parents had their kids’ actual artwork displayed—wonky stick figures, paint-splattered handprints, those adorable drawings where everyone has three fingers and no neck. They’d tape new pieces right over old ones, creating these wonderful collages of childhood.
The absent parents hired decorators who hung professionally framed prints from Pottery Barn Kids. Beautiful? Sure. But not a single piece created by the actual child living in that room. Those kids would show me their drawings, desperate for someone to say “wow, tell me about this.”
3. The state of the toys reveals daily rhythms
Kids with involved parents had toys that migrated. You’d find building blocks in the hallway because dad helped build a tower after dinner. Board games stayed out on the floor from family game night. Puzzles were half-finished on the desk where mom sat helping before work calls interrupted.
But in those other homes? Every toy had its designated spot, returned there daily by staff. The kids would actually ask me permission to take things out because they weren’t used to anyone playing with them. Thousand-dollar dollhouses that had never been touched. Train sets still in their original packaging.
4. Books are the biggest giveaway
Do you know what well-loved books look like? Cracked spines, dog-eared pages, crayon marks where little fingers traced words they were learning. I worked for families where picture books were falling apart from being read so many times. Those parents knew every word of “Goodnight Moon” by heart.
Then there were the libraries that looked like book store displays. Pristine collections arranged by height and color. When I’d pull one out to read, the spine would crack like it had never been opened. The kids didn’t even know what stories they owned.
5. Personal items from parents
The most connected families had little pieces of the parents scattered throughout kids’ rooms. Dad’s old baseball trophy on the shelf. Mom’s childhood teddy bear on the bed. A framed photo of the family at the beach—not a professional portrait, but a silly selfie where everyone’s making faces.
The absent parents? Their kids’ rooms were completely separate universes. No evidence that the adults ever entered except to kiss them goodnight (if that). No shared memories, no “this was mommy’s when she was little,” no connection between generations.
6. The presence of comfort objects
Kids with attentive parents had loveys that were disgusting in the best way—threadbare stuffed animals, blankets worn to transparency, pillows that had been drooled on and cried into and squeezed through every emotion. Parents who paid attention knew these items by name and never, ever suggested replacing them with something newer.
The lonely kids either had no special comfort objects at all, or they had dozens—desperately trying to fill an emotional void with stuff. One child had over 50 stuffed animals on her bed but couldn’t tell me any of their names.
7. Evidence of real life happens here
Present parents let life happen in kids’ bedrooms. I’d find grass stains on the carpet from when they built an indoor fort with outdoor sticks. Marker on the walls from an art project that got too enthusiastic. A permanent mystery stain from the time they all ate ice cream in bed during a thunderstorm.
The uninvolved families had rooms that could be photographed for a magazine at any moment. Weekly professional cleaning, immediate stain removal, nothing that suggested actual children lived, played, and made messes there.
8. How the child acts in their own space
This one breaks my heart to remember. Kids with present parents would drag me to their rooms to show me their treasures. They’d flop on their beds, pull out their favorite things, tell me stories about everything. Their rooms were their kingdoms, their safe spaces, their creative laboratories.
But those other kids? They’d hover in their own doorways like guests. They’d ask if we could play somewhere else. Their bedrooms were just places to sleep—not spaces where they felt truly at home.
The bottom line
After those nannying years and now raising my own kids, I’ve learned that children don’t need perfect rooms. They need evidence that they matter. They need to know their parents see them, value their creations, share their space, and make memories within those four walls.
My kids’ rooms will never make it into a design magazine. We’ve got leaf collections scattered on the windowsill, toy rotation baskets that are always overflowing, and walls decorated with their latest artistic masterpieces held up with too much scotch tape. But when they’re grown, they’ll remember the stories we read squished together on those low beds, not the thread count of their sheets.
Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t buy the worn-out spot on the carpet where you sat every night for bedtime stories. Those details—the real ones that show love and presence—those can’t be purchased or delegated. They can only be created through showing up, day after day, in the beautiful chaos of raising kids.
