At some point motherhood got a production department.
I don’t know when.
Maybe Pinterest did it. Maybe Instagram. Maybe we did it to ourselves because one mom cut watermelon into stars in 2013 and now none of us can serve fruit like normal people.
But apparently childhood can no longer just happen.
It has to be magical.
Magical breakfast.
Magical first day of school.
Magical last day of school.
Magical Friday movie night with matching snacks and a printable sign because God forbid everybody just sits on the couch and watches the damn movie.
I like making things special.
I’m not anti fun.
I’ve done the baskets. I’ve stayed up too late making something cute that my kid looked at for eleven seconds.
I get it.
But sometimes I wonder if we are making memories or staging evidence that we made memories.
Because the things I remember from being a kid were mostly nothing.
Riding in the backseat at night.
Sitting on the kitchen counter when I probably wasn’t supposed to.
My dad making something weird for dinner.
A certain blanket.
Some stupid joke nobody else would understand now.
Nobody planned any of it.
Nobody said, “Wait. Let me get a picture.”
It was just my life.
And honestly, I think kids still get to have that.
A regular Tuesday.
Dinner that came out of a box.
Everybody watching something dumb together.
You forgot the cute pajamas.
Nobody cares.
Maybe the memory is that somebody burned the garlic bread and the dog stole half of it.
That counts.
Actually, that’s probably the one they’ll remember.