All I Really Want Is for My Toddler to Remember Feeling Loved

There’s this thought that’s been running circles in my mind lately —“All I really want is for my toddler to look back and remember feeling loved.”

That’s it. Not the perfectly clean house. Not the toy-of-the-month I ordered because someone on Instagram swore it was developmentally essential. Not the coordinated outfits or the picture-perfect meals.

Okay, if I’m being honest… I wouldn’t hate it if he remembered the house being clean once in a while — or that one magical day when we actually pulled off a coordinated outfit that didn’t end in yogurt stains. But still, that’s not the goal.

Just love.

But if I’m being honest, I spend so much of my days trying to earn that “good mom” title through all the wrong checklists. I chase the clean floors, the tidy playroom, the organized pantry — like somehow, a spotless house will prove I’m doing motherhood right.Spoiler: it never stays spotless, and I end up cleaning the same mess twelve times like I’m stuck in a very specific kind of Groundhog Day.

And don’t even get me started on the toy recommendations. Every week, it’s another “must-have” gadget that promises to make my child smarter, calmer, more curious, more anything. I buy them, I try them, and half the time they end up buried under the couch — right next to the sippy cup I lost two weeks ago.

Some days, I think my real job title could fill an entire résumé.Let’s see… maid, chauffeur, teacher, nurse, personal assistant, financial manager, shopper, photographer, crisis manager, personal stylist, scheduler, safety inspector, entertainer — and that’s just on top of everything else life (and work) throws my way.

I try to wear all these hats perfectly, but honestly? I can’t remember a single day where I wore even one of them perfectly. Not one.

The truth is, I’m tired. I’m stretched thin. I’m constantly comparing myself to an impossible version of “the perfect mom” who somehow exists only on Pinterest and in my imagination.

But then — my toddler curls up in my lap, grabs my hand and says, “hand,” so I’ll follow him, or places his tiny hands on my face like I’m the only person in the world that matters.

And in those moments, I realize… this is what matters.This is what they’ll remember.

Not the spotless kitchen. Not the matching outfits. Not the latest sensory toy.

Just the feeling of being loved — of being safe, seen, and adored for exactly who they are.

And maybe that’s the whole point.Because when I stop trying to do it all perfectly, I finally have space to just be with him.

One day, when he’s grown, I hope he doesn’t remember the chaos or the clutter.I hope he remembers the warmth of my arms, the sound of my laugh, the comfort of my hand in his — and that he always felt loved.

Because at the end of it all, that’s really all I ever wanted.