Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what parts of childhood actually stick with us.
My son is still a baby. He won’t remember our walks around the neighborhood. He won’t remember sitting in the grass pointing at birds. He won’t remember the countless times I’ve carried him around outside because being outdoors was apparently the only thing standing between us and a complete meltdown. But I think about the childhood I want him to remember all the time.
Not the individual memories. The feeling of it.
I think there’s a lot of pressure on parents these days to make every moment magical. Every holiday needs a theme. Every activity needs to be educational. Every outing needs to be documented from seventeen different angles. Meanwhile, my son’s favorite activities currently include staring at trees, trying to eat leaves when I’m not looking, and aggressively crawling toward mud.
Honestly, kind of iconic.
The more time I spend with him, the more I realize the childhood I want for him isn’t complicated. I want him to remember muddy shoes. I want him to remember spending more time outside than inside. I want him to remember collecting rocks, pinecones, sticks, and whatever other treasures kids decide are valuable. I want him to remember stopping to watch ducks. I want him to remember climbing over logs, splashing in puddles, and asking questions I don’t know the answers to.
I want him to grow up believing that adventure doesn’t have to be expensive or far away. Sometimes it’s a trail you’ve walked a hundred times. Sometimes it’s a picnic by the lake. Sometimes it’s noticing something beautiful on an ordinary Tuesday.
Lately I’ve been realizing that childhood magic isn’t really about doing more. It’s about paying attention. It’s about slowing down enough to notice the ladybug, the wildflower, the funny-shaped cloud, or the duck that somehow becomes the highlight of the entire day.
The laundry will always be there. The dishes will always be there. The emails will absolutely always be there. But this version of my little boy won’t.
One day I’ll carry him for the last time and not even realize it. One day he won’t reach for my hand on a walk. One day he’ll be too big to fall asleep on my shoulder after a day outside. And wow, I did not expect this post to attack me emotionally.
So for now, I’m trying to lean into this season. The slow walks. The messy adventures. The pine needles that somehow end up in my car and stay there forever. The ordinary days that don’t seem important now but might end up meaning everything.
Because when I picture the childhood I want my son to remember, it doesn’t look perfect. It looks like fresh air, dirty hands, wildflowers, lake days, and a family that spent more time looking at the world than looking at screens.
And honestly, that’s kind of the vibe I’m going for.
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