The Quiet Moments of Childhood

There was an idle weeknight when my mother took me to a Checkers near our house.

I don’t remember what day it was or even what time of year, but it was an unusually cool night in South Florida. The weather had a crispness to it that can only be found in the fall.

I can’t recall what we ordered.

I can’t remember what we talked about.

I only remember that it was a joyful night without a care in the world, and yet, I think about that night often.

I was a very curious little girl. Always full of questions. And for every question I had, my dad had an answer.

He was a good teacher. Not endlessly patient, maybe, but smart and creative in the way he shared his lessons.

One particular night, on the way home from somewhere, I remember asking him a question. I can no longer remember exactly what the question was, but it had something to do with astronomy.

I remember my dad taking my hand and walking me to the end of our block, where we could see out over the park we lived beside. He pointed to the moon and stars and used a stick to draw diagrams in the dirt until everything became crystal clear to me.

I don't remember the question.

I don't remember the lesson.

But I remember my dad taking the time to make sure I understood.

My parents were amazing.

Most good parents want to give their kids everything. They want to create incredible childhoods filled with experiences their children will remember forever.

My parents were no exception.

However, looking back on my life, it is most often the quiet moments that draw me back in.

The time my ailing mom stood in the kitchen and made three batches of cookies for me because she wasn’t sure which batch would be “best.”

My father researching local theater troupes because I had expressed an interest in acting.

My mom singing along with me as I performed a song I had written at a party.

They probably didn't know they were making memories when any of those things happened.

Neither did I.

Even my vacation memories are often less about the destination and more about getting there.

Finding a frozen waterfall on the side of the road in Tennessee.

Being bundled in layer upon layer of clothing because we were from South Florida and completely unprepared for seriously cold weather.

The unexpected things.

The silly things.

The things nobody planned.

Maybe I’m unique. Maybe most children wouldn’t remember such ordinary moments.

But if I’m not, perhaps that will give my parent-friends a reason to breathe just a little easier tonight.

Because maybe it isn’t the elaborate birthday parties.

Maybe it isn’t the luxurious vacations, the expensive gifts, or the perfectly planned experiences.

Maybe you don't have to make every childhood moment magical.

Maybe, years from now, the memory that comes wandering back to your child won't be something you spent weeks planning at all.

Maybe it will be an ordinary weeknight when the weather was unusually cool and you decided to stop at Checkers together.

Maybe they won't remember what they ate.

Maybe they won't remember what you talked about.

Maybe they'll just remember that, for a little while, they were with you.

They were happy.

They felt loved.

And there wasn't anywhere else in the world they needed to be.

Perhaps the little, quiet moments in between—the ones when you're simply being yourself and enjoying the incredible little person beside you—are the moments that make the biggest difference after all.

I'm curious: when you look back on your own childhood, which do you remember most?

The big moments?

Or the quiet ones?