My first child arrived during my 19th year, a time when I had little to my name and even less desire for material possessions. What I truly craved were moments, feelings, and connections. I was deeply committed to healing from a turbulent childhood, determined not to pass down my emotional scars to my son. While I inadvertently did so, the therapeutic work I engaged in transformed what could have been a challenging upbringing into one filled with love and security.
As a new mother, I’d venture out with little more than diapers and wipes stashed in my bag, perhaps a onesie for quick changes. My own mother would chuckle, recalling how different things were in her day. “I couldn’t leave home without a cart full of supplies,” she would say. My youth spared me the burden of comparison; I had no friends with children. My son thrived in this unique environment, receiving undivided attention as the only child around. I opted against using a stroller, carrying him in a sling or cradling him in my arms while breastfeeding, eliminating the need for bottles or formula altogether.
We explored the world together—visiting bookstores weekly, enjoying park outings, desert adventures, dirt bike events, and beach days. By the time he turned two, he was one of the most joyful, observant, and secure children one could encounter. “He’s so polite!” “He engages in conversations like an older child!” “He’s incredibly mature.” These compliments came pouring in from friends and strangers alike. I would simply nod and smile, while he played contentedly for hours, allowing me the space to write.
To stay close while providing for us, I worked as a nanny and later as a preschool teacher. I took night classes while my mother cared for him. We spent around 90 to 95 percent of those formative years together—co-sleeping, cuddling, and dancing crazily. His toy collection was small, and his wardrobe even smaller. I cut his hair, dressed him in secondhand clothes, and gifted him used toys. Our cherished tradition was Friday Family Night, where we’d order pizza and rent movies from Blockbuster—one for him, one for me—a ritual we still uphold today. Our bond was strong; he reveled in nature, read countless books, spent hours in Borders, and engaged in artistic and educational activities with his grandma. It was enriching and more than enough.
Fast forward to my fourth child, a vibrant four-year-old named Lily. She enjoys advantages that my oldest son never had: a loving and stable home, a lively extended family, and two parents with steady jobs. By the time she was born, I was in my late 30s—more emotionally stable, self-assured, and connected to the world. I am less anxious now than I was during my son’s early years, and my tears are far less frequent.
As the youngest, Lily has three older siblings to learn from, and an older sister who dotes on her. Her toy collection is vast and varied—magnets, building blocks, dolls, cars, a train set, and more. However, what she lacks compared to her brother is the one-on-one, focused attention that I once provided. While she certainly does not lead a difficult life and is surrounded by love, I find myself unable to dedicate the same calm, uninterrupted time to her.
This realization brings me a mix of sadness and acceptance. I know she feels secure within her family’s embrace and has resources her brother did not. I’ve kept her home from preschool to provide her with quality time, and in doing so, I’ve given her much. Yet, I grapple with the reality that my attention is divided among my four children, a husband, pets, and household responsibilities, unlike the simpler life I once led with my son.
What I wrestle with most is how easily I’ve allowed the vital lessons from my early days with my son to fade amidst the busyness of modern life. Working, writing, and managing a large family are indeed blessings, but they also lead to distractions where I lose focus. I often find myself preoccupied, neglecting to direct my energy toward my daughter, who deserves my presence.
I continuously remind myself that she doesn’t need more toys or bustling activities; she requires my love and attention. She deserves leisurely walks without the urgency to rush home, playtime free from distractions, and art projects where I am fully engaged rather than distracted by my mental to-do list. Eye contact, a calm tone, and the reassurance that I am entirely present are what she craves. Recently, I’ve been repeating to myself the mantra: “Be where I am.” It’s a guiding principle for both life and parenting—truly being present and engaged. Leaving the distractions behind and embracing time with my daughter, free from gadgets, is essential.
In these moments, I’m reminded that when I focus on my children, they grant me the freedom to pursue my interests.
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In summary, while the journey of parenthood may evolve, the core need for connection and presence remains constant. Each child’s experience is unique, and adapting to their needs while staying true to the lessons learned is crucial.
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