Sometimes I wonder what my children will remember about their childhood.

Will they remember the birthday decorations I stayed up too late putting together?

Will they remember the trips we took?

The photographs?

The Christmas mornings?

The big moments?

Maybe.

But I have a feeling the things that stay with them will be much smaller.

The way we talked in the car.

The snacks I packed.

The songs we played too loudly.

The way I tucked them into bed.

The random Tuesday evenings when everyone was home and nothing particularly exciting happened.

Those are the moments I find myself remembering from my own childhood.

Not necessarily the expensive things or perfectly planned days.

I remember voices.

I remember kitchens.

I remember laughter.

I remember the feeling of knowing certain people were always there.

And now that I’m raising children of my own, I think about that often.

There is so much pressure on parents to create magical childhoods.

Perfect birthdays.

Perfect vacations.

Perfect holidays.

Perfect photos.

But maybe childhood doesn’t need to be perfect to be beautiful.

Maybe our children just need to feel loved inside the ordinary days.

I hope mine remember that our house was sometimes loud and sometimes messy.

I hope they remember that their mom was always working on some sort of idea.

I hope they remember cameras, books, coffee cups, road trips, laughter and evenings when everyone piled together in one room.

Mostly, I hope they remember that no matter what was happening outside our doors, they were deeply loved inside them.

Because someday these little shoes by the door will disappear.

The toys will disappear.

The tiny voices calling “Mom” from another room will grow into adult voices with lives of their own.

And I know I’ll miss all of it.

So I’m trying to remember something while I’m living through these exhausting, beautiful years:

These aren’t the days before life begins.

This is life.

And these little moments are the ones I hope we never forget.