This year, I decided to craft an Advent calendar for the holidays. As I stuffed each decorative pocket with three pieces of candy—one for each of my kids—I envisioned them descending the stairs each morning, filled with joy and excitement. I pictured soft giggles and warm embraces. I thought this would be a magical experience—but it was special for only two days.
By the third day, my children were at each other’s throats, arguing over which candy belonged to whom. In my naivety, I believed that picking three different types of candy each day would be a treat. It was so delightful that I found myself drowning out their squabbles with the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Before long, I was wrestling with the vacuum in my pajamas, yelling, “Who cares what kind of candy you get! This is supposed to be special!” In that moment, I realized I had crushed any remaining magic.
As I retreated upstairs to compose myself, it hit me—I had been trying way too hard to create memorable experiences for my kids. I had set unrealistic expectations for how they should appreciate moments that I deemed precious. It’s not that my partner and I spoil them with material gifts; it’s that I am overzealous about crafting special occasions. These moments belong to them, not to me. Just because I believe something will be fantastic doesn’t guarantee they will feel the same, and when they don’t, I find myself frustrated and disappointed. I often feel unappreciated and have the urge to remind them of my efforts. They likely won’t recognize this until they are parents themselves, and that’s not my motivation.
The truth is, special moments often occur spontaneously and unexpectedly. My favorite memories are those random instances of joy that require no planning or pressure. For instance, one afternoon, my partner returned home early during the first week all three of my children started school. We shared a delightful moment together, then decided to indulge in fried chicken. We hadn’t enjoyed a day like that in nearly a decade, and it far exceeded any meticulously planned date night at a fancy restaurant.
Another cherished memory is when I entered my son’s room to find a wilted bouquet of dandelions in a vase. When I remarked that they were dying, he smiled and said, “No, Mama, they’re just turning into wishes.” That simple response captured the essence of what special truly means.
Reflecting on my own childhood, I realize that magic came in fleeting, unanticipated moments. It wasn’t about what my parents did for me; it was about the feelings those moments evoked. Our lives are filled with such instances, and perhaps if I step back, adjust my expectations, and allow my kids to experience magic in their own way, we’ll create more of those moments together. Next year, I might skip the candy in the Advent calendar altogether. I’ll stop asking them where they want to eat out, as it only leads to disagreements—apparently, arguing about pizza is a favorite pastime. As the parent, I can determine who serves the best fries or has the most ketchup.
Planning “epic” weekends will also take a backseat. Instead of hyping them up for a trip to a chaotic play area, where disappointment often looms, we’ll go less frequently. Their excitement can be overwhelming, and when reality doesn’t match their expectations, it often leads to disappointment.
I don’t seek perfection in my children, my days, or our moments together. I still want to create wonderful memories for my family, but I will change my approach. After all, what’s truly special is a mother who maintains her composure instead of losing it while striving to make every moment extraordinary.
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Summary
This article explores the author’s realization that overly striving to create special moments for their children can lead to disappointment and frustration. By reflecting on spontaneous memories from their own childhood, the author decides to lower expectations and allow their kids to experience joy in their own way. Instead of manufacturing excitement, they aim to embrace life’s simple, unplanned moments.