Someday, my kids will remember me differently than I remember raising them.

That thought has been sitting with me lately.

They won’t remember every lunch I packed, every load of laundry I folded, every appointment I scheduled, or all the nights I stayed awake worrying about things they never knew I was worried about.

They probably won’t remember how many times I checked on them while they were sleeping. How often I wondered if I was making the right decision. Or how many times I questioned whether I was doing enough.

And honestly, they probably won’t remember most of the things I spend so much time wondering if I’m doing right.

But they’ll remember something.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about what I hope that something is.

I Hope They Remember That I Showed Up

I haven’t been the perfect mom.

I’ve lost my patience.

I’ve raised my voice when I wish I hadn’t.

I’ve said no when they desperately wanted me to say yes- and probably said yes a few times when I should have said no.

I’ve made decisions I’ve second-guessed five minutes later.

I’ve gone to bed wondering if I handled something the right way, only to wake up the next morning and continue doing the best I knew how.

Because that’s the part of motherhood I don’t think you fully understand until you’re living it.

There is no answer key.

You’re handed this little person you love more than you knew it was possible to love someone, and somehow you’re supposed to figure out how to raise them.

Then, just when you think you’re getting the hang of one stage, they change.

The problems change.

The worries change.

They change.

And you have to learn to be their mom all over again.

So no, I haven’t always gotten it right.

But I hope they remember that I showed up.

Again and again and again.

I Hope They Remember the Ordinary things

It’s easy to think childhood memories are made from birthdays, Christmas mornings, vacations, and all the big moments we take a hundred pictures of.

But I have a feeling that’s not what they’ll remember most.

Maybe they’ll remember something completely ordinary.

A song we always played in the car.

Something I cooked that they loved.

A ridiculous inside joke nobody else would understand.

The way the house smelled.

The things I always said.

Maybe they’ll remember laughing so hard together that none of us could breathe.

Maybe they’ll remember me embarrassing them.

Actually, I’m pretty confident they’ll remember that one.

I hope they remember the little traditions I didn’t even realize were traditions.

I hope they remember feeling comfortable at home.

Most of all, I hope somewhere inside all those ordinary memories is the feeling that they were loved.

Because they were.

Even on the ordinary Tuesdays when nobody said it out loud.

I Hope They Remember That Home Was Always Theirs

As my kids get older, I’m realizing that so much of motherhood is learning how to let go.

When they’re little, they reach for you constantly.

They want your hand. Your attention. Your help.

Sometimes they just want to be in the same room you’re in.

Then slowly, almost without you noticing it happening, they start pulling away.

They want independence.

They have parts of their lives you are automatically included in anymore.

And suddenly you’re learning something nobody really prepared you for.

How to remain close without holding too tightly.

I know my kids are supposed to build lives that don’t revolve around me.

That’s the goal.

But no matter how old they get, I hope they always know there’s a place where they don’t have to have everything figured out.

I hope they know they can call.

They can come home.

They can tell me they messed up.

They can tell me they’re scared.

They can tell me something they think I won’t want to hear.

I might not always agree with them.

I might worry.

I might give them the Mom Look.

But I hope they never question whether I’ll still love them when the conversation is over.

I Hope They Understand the Worry Someday

There are things about your mother you don’t understand until you become a parent yourself.

Why she wanted you to text when you got there.

Why she asked so many questions.

Why she couldnt sleep until you were home.

Why she worried about things you were absolutely positive were no big deal.

Then you have children.

And suddenly it makes sense.

You realize there was a whole world of worry happening quietly in the background of your childhood.

I know there will be times when my kids think I’m worrying too much.

There probably already have been.

But someday, maybe they’ll understand.

They worrying was never because I didn’t believe in them.

It was because there are pieces of my heart walking around outside my body, and I’m somehow expected to just be normal about that.

I Hope They Remember the Version of Me Beyond “Mom”

This one matters to me more as they get older.

To my kids, I’m Mom.

And for a long time, that’s probably most of what they’ll see.

But I’m also a woman who has had dreams, fears, heartbreaks, mistakes, insecurities, ridiculous moments, things I’ve overcome, and things I’m still figuring out.

I’ve changed while raising them, too.

They aren’t the only ones growing up in our family.

In a lot of ways, motherhood has been raising me right alongside them.

Maybe that’s the part of why I’m writing all of this down.

Right now, these are stories about motherhood.

But someday, they might become stories for them.

Maybe Thats What Between Coffee & Curfew Is Really About

When I started Between Coffee & Curfew, I wanted somewhere to write.

I wanted to connect with other moms who are living the same beautiful, exhausting, hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking life.

I wanted somewhere we could admit that we love our children more than anything and still sometimes want to hide in the bathroom for five uninterrupted minutes.

But I’m realizing I want this to be something else, too.

I want to leave pieces of myself here.

Years from now, my kids might read these posts and see moments they dont remember.

Maybe they’ll laugh at stories about themselves.

Maybe they’ll read something and think, Oh. That’s what Mom was thinking.

And someday, when I’m not here to tell the stories anymore, these words will still be here.

They’ll get to kow what made me laugh.

What scared me.

What kept me awake at night.

What I was learning.

What I got wrong.

What I wish I could do over.

And how fiercely I loved them through every version of themselves.

From the little hands that still reach for mine to the older ones I’m slowly learning to let go of.

If My Kids Read This Someday

I don’t need you to remember a perfect mom.

She didnt exist.

I hope you remember the mom who tried.

The mom who worried about you quietly and loved you loudly.

The mom who sometimes got it wrong and came the next day determined to do better.

I hope you remember the laughter.

I hope you remember the talks.

I hope you remember the ordinary days.

I hope you remember that no matter how old you got, some part of me could still see every version of you that came before.

And I hope you always knew that being your mom wasn’t simply something I had to do.

It was one of the greatest parts of who I got to be.

So if someday you’re reading this and I’m no longer here to tell you myself, there’s one thing I hope you never have to wonder about:

I loved you through every stage, every hard day, every beautiful moment, every mistake, every milestone, and every ordinary day in between.

And I would choose you.

Every single time.

I hope you always knew just how much I loved being your mom. ❤️