My first son arrived when I was just 19. I had little in terms of material possessions and even less in terms of expectations. What I craved most were not tangible items, but rather experiences and emotional connections. I poured my energy into healing from the emotional scars of my youth, determined not to pass those wounds on to him. Admittedly, I did make mistakes along the way, but the therapeutic work I engaged in, along with journaling and reading, transformed what could have been a troubled childhood for him into a nurturing environment filled with love and security.
With just a diaper, wipes, and a spare onesie tucked away, I ventured out with my baby. My mother would chuckle and reminisce, noting how different things were in her day. “I couldn’t leave the house without a whole cart of supplies!” she’d say. Being young and childless around me allowed me to escape the pressure of comparison; I had no peers with children to contend with. My son thrived on the undivided attention he received, being the only child in our social circle. I carried him in a sling or cradled him in my arms, opting to breastfeed, which meant no bottles or formulas cluttering our outings.
Together, we traveled weekly to bookstores, parks, deserts, dirt bike events, and the beach. By the time he was two, he was already described by many as one of the happiest and most observant children around. “He’s so polite!” “He converses like a much older child!” “He’s so mature!” I would simply smile and nod as compliments poured in. He found joy in playing independently while I immersed myself in writing.
To support our bond, I worked as a nanny and later as a preschool teacher, allowing us to spend nearly all our waking hours together. Evenings were reserved for college courses when my mom could babysit. We co-slept, shared countless cuddles, and danced with abandon. Possessing only a handful of toys and clothing, my son wore hand-me-downs and played with previously loved items. Our highlight was “Family Night” on Fridays, where we’d order pizza and rent two movies from Blockbuster—one for him, one for me—a tradition we still cherish. Our connection was profound; he explored nature, devoured books, and engaged with art and music. It was a simple yet abundant life.
Fast forward to my youngest, Amelia, who is now four. She enjoys advantages my eldest son never had. Born into a stable marriage with a large, lively family and two working parents, I was in my late thirties when Amelia arrived—more emotionally grounded and confident than I had ever been before. The chaos I once experienced had mellowed, and my tears were fewer.
Amelia benefits from three older siblings and has a dedicated sister who dotes on her. Her toy collection is vast, featuring everything from building blocks to dolls and musical instruments. However, unlike my son, she lacks that intimate, eye-to-eye interaction with a caregiver, as I often juggle the demands of a larger family. While her life is not difficult and she gets plenty of love and attention, I find myself struggling to provide her with the focused, calm presence that she needs from me.
I feel a tinge of sadness about this reality, yet I also recognize the love that envelops her. She has emotional support her brother did not experience, and in keeping her home from preschool to be with me, I’ve given her a lot. But balancing work, a bustling household, and other commitments pulls my focus away. I often reflect on the lessons learned during my early years of motherhood, which seem to slip away beneath the weight of reality.
What I’ve come to realize is that another toy or exciting outing isn’t what my daughter truly requires. What she needs is my undivided attention. She deserves walks where I’m not distracted by chores, playtimes where I’m not preoccupied with phone calls, and creative moments where I can be fully present beside her. It’s a reminder I’ve been repeating to myself: “Be where I am.” This simple mantra encapsulates much of parenting—being fully present and engaged.
In the end, it’s this focused attention on my children that allows them to also let me focus on my own aspirations.