Or how likes and likes coexist in the same childhood.
Childhood used to be like the wind: noisy, elusive, and almost elusive. Today – they try to catch it, pack it into words, impressions, stories. We record, quote, retell: first phrases, funny phrases, philosophical revelations. Children have become not just part of our lives – they have become part of our narrative. Our content.
Life as a story
- He said he wanted to be a dinosaur.
- She hugged the cat and cried because “he’s the only one.”
- They argued about which one was “almost an adult” even though they were both five.
Isn’t that something you want to keep?
Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s deep, sometimes it’s to the point of tears.
Every day in a big family is full of little stories from which whole books could be written. And many moms do it – not only for subscribers, but also for themselves. In order not to forget how it was: strange, difficult, touching, funny.
Where is the line between “sharing with care” and “using”?
Every parent wants to remember. Some in a journal, some in voice notes, some by sharing stories. The problem is not the stories themselves, but why we do it.
- To remember?
- To inspire others?
- Or to get applause for every good moment?
If a child becomes a vehicle for self-expression, it’s about the adult, not the child.
If it becomes an occasion for constant reflection, where there is no privacy – it’s a question of boundaries.
Children are not characters
They don’t have a script. They don’t have to be funny, angelic, colorful, or “inspirational.”
They can be tired, prickly, boring, real. And that’s part of the story, too.
What matters is not so much what we tell, but how: with love or appreciation, with respect or reality editing.
To tell, but in a kind way
- Talking about children doesn’t mean laying out their lives in paragraphs.
- Sharing moments doesn’t mean turning them into the main characters of a timeless TV show.
- Telling with love means remembering that these stories are entitled to be personal. Even if it’s only four years old.
After all, childhood isn’t material. It’s a world we’re lucky enough to be invited into. And if we tell stories about it – let it be with warmth, respect and tenderness. Not for the likes. For the memories. For them.