“Jamie, what are you volunteering for?” A fellow parent at preschool handed me a clipboard as I hung up my daughter’s backpack. Over time, I’ve mastered the art of slipping in and out of school without making eye contact to avoid these moments, but today, I felt cornered. After a deep breath, I grinned and said, “I’ll be signing up for wine and cheese in my PJs, Sarah.” I used her bewilderment as an opportunity to escape down the hallway.
There was a time when I eagerly signed up for everything! That was before parenting transformed into a relentless cycle of event planning, leaving me at the center of a logistical nightmare. Each week, I receive emails about activities at the preschool that I could join. Carnivals! Tea parties! Storytime with live owls!
Maybe my standards are just too low. Growing up, my family was not affluent. We made mud pies in old tins and introduced our exchange student to poker using Skittles and pennies. Occasionally, we’d go to matinee showings since they were only $2 during the day, and we played outside endlessly.
Every preschool drop-off presents a signup sheet for yet another event that my child won’t recall, filled with names of parents juggling multiple jobs and children, all trying their best. I used to think I was merely lazy. The idea of raffle day and returning to the school after a long workday sounded like my personal hell. All I wanted was to wrap myself in a blanket and munch on pretzels in bed.
Meanwhile, other parents marched into the school, armed with baked goods and checkbooks, ready to create unforgettable childhood memories. In contrast, I often found myself in the backyard with a glass of wine, watching my daughter dig for bugs, questioning if I was failing her by allowing her to play independently instead of orchestrating “experiences.”
When did parenting morph into an endless guilt trip focused on making every moment extraordinary? My upbringing felt simpler. I was lucky to have a nurturing childhood. We shared meals and visited parks. I recall the time my mom allowed us to splash in a huge puddle until we were caked in mud, or the joy of drinking green milk on St. Patrick’s Day while getting “made into the bed” as she cleaned up. I remember sliding down stairs on cardboard while she folded laundry, and the pure delight of running through sprinklers and decorating cookies with every color of frosting.
Yet, something shifted. When my daughter started preschool, I found myself acting like a concierge—hunting for raffle items, coordinating playdates, and volunteering for events like “BBQ Western Showdown” and “Donut Day.” I was even sewing costumes and crafting Pinterest-inspired birthday parties, convinced that this was the essence of being a good mom and the way to express my love.
One day, it hit me how utterly chaotic our schedule had become. My daughter was trudging through the aquarium while I flitted around like a jester, asking, “Are you having fun?” She looked unimpressed. When I got home and collapsed onto the couch, I realized enough was enough. My child doesn’t need a million activities to have a fulfilling childhood, and I don’t need to spend every moment worrying about making her life special.
She will remember the love, I reassured myself as I strolled past the signup sheet at school the next day. I’m okay with being a laid-back parent if it means I can be a fully present person. After our countless trips to the children’s museum, the joy had faded. “Having fun” felt routine, and my child’s happiness became just another task to manage—similar to laundry or dinner.
Now, we do less. Sometimes she seems bored. Other days, she’ll spend hours outside with a kitchen spoon and a bucket of water while I read a book. I still wrestle with guilt when we haven’t “done anything” in a day or two, but then I catch a glimpse of her as I fold socks and remember, Yep, she will remember the love.
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