Originally Published: Sep. 30, 2015
Updated: May 26, 2020
When my eldest son entered the world during my 19th year, I had little in terms of material possessions and even less in terms of expectations. What I truly craved were experiences, emotions, and connections—not things. I poured my energy into overcoming a tumultuous childhood, determined not to pass my emotional scars onto my child. Despite my best intentions, I inevitably did, but the therapy sessions, self-help books, and journaling I engaged in transformed what could have been a challenging upbringing for him into a nurturing environment filled with love and emotional stability.
I would venture out with my baby, equipped with just a few essentials—a diaper, wipes, and perhaps a spare onesie. My mother often chuckled, reminiscing about how different things were for her: “I couldn’t go anywhere without a cart full of supplies!” My youth liberated me from the need for comparison; I didn’t have friends with children to measure myself against. My son soaked up the undivided attention he received as the only child in our social circle. I chose not to use a stroller; I carried him in a sling or in my arms and breastfed, eliminating the need for bottles or formula.
We enjoyed weekly excursions to bookstores, parks, desert adventures, dirt bike rallies, and beach outings. By the time he was two, he was one of the most joyful, observant, and secure little ones I had ever encountered. “He’s so polite!” “He converses like an older child!” “He’s so mature!” I would hear these praises from both friends and strangers. I simply nodded and smiled, as he played contentedly on his own while I wrote.
To ensure we spent ample time together, I worked as a nanny and later as a preschool teacher. I attended college courses at night while my mother cared for him. For 90 to 95 percent of those years, he and I were inseparable. We co-slept, cuddled, and danced around the house. His toy collection was modest, and his wardrobe consisted mainly of secondhand clothes. Our cherished tradition was Friday Night Family Night, where we ordered pizza and rented movies from Blockbuster—one for him and one for me, a ritual we still hold dear. Our bond was strong, and we thrived in each other’s company. He explored nature, enjoyed countless books, gardened with his grandmother, and immersed himself in art, creativity, and music. Our life was not just sufficient; it was abundant.
Fast forward to my youngest, Mia, who is now four. She enjoys privileges my eldest son never experienced. Born into a stable marriage and a large, vibrant family, she has the advantage of two parents with steady jobs. I was in my late 30s when Mia arrived—more emotionally grounded, self-assured, and connected to my surroundings. I find myself less anxious than I was during my son’s early years, and tears come less frequently.
Mia benefits from having three older siblings to guide her and an adoring older sister. Her toy collection is vast—filled with magnets, building blocks, dolls, cars, and a train set. However, she lacks the kind of intimate, sustained interaction that my son enjoyed, where family members were present to engage with him deeply and meaningfully. Although Mia’s life is comfortable and she is showered with affection, she often misses my full, undistracted attention.
I do feel sadness about this but remain realistic. She is cherished and secure within our extensive family network. By keeping her home from preschool to bond with me, I believe I am providing her with value. Yet, I must acknowledge the challenges that come with juggling work, a large family, pets, and household responsibilities.
My struggle lies in the realization that I’ve allowed the invaluable lessons I learned during my early years with my son to fade amidst the demands of modern life. While my career, writing, and family are all wonderful blessings, they can also be distractions that pull me away from fully engaging with Mia. I must remind myself that she does not need more toys or busy activities; what she craves is focused time with me. She needs leisurely walks where I am not preoccupied with chores, playtime where I’m not rushing to return a phone call, and art projects where I can be present without distractions. Eye contact, a calm voice, and my undivided attention are what she deserves.
Lately, I’ve been reminding myself of the importance of being present. It’s a mantra that resonates deeply: be where you are. This principle applies to both life and parenting—immersing myself in the moment with my children, leaving behind the distractions of daily tasks. I understand that the quality time I dedicate to my kids allows them the space to let me focus on my own endeavors.
Summary:
In reflecting on parenthood, I consider the contrast between my experiences with my first son and my youngest daughter. While my son thrived in a nurturing, focused environment, my daughter enjoys the benefits of a larger family and more resources but often lacks my undivided attention. I recognize the importance of being present and engaged, reminding myself that true connection is more valuable than material possessions or busy schedules.