Finding Whimsy in the Everyday

Lately, I’ve found myself coming back to one word over and over again: whimsy.

It’s one of those words that’s difficult to define, but when I picture it, I know exactly what it feels like.

To me, whimsy is a familiar, nostalgic feeling. It’s romantic music from the 1950s playing softly through the kitchen while my hair is twisted into a messy bun. It’s slicing into a loaf of freshly baked sourdough and sharing the first warm, buttery piece with my two-year-old. It’s the quiet that settles over the house while my little one is asleep upstairs, giving me a few peaceful moments before the day begins again.

For some reason, whimsy almost makes me feel like I’m a 1950s housewife, even though I wasn’t alive during that time. I know that picture is romanticized, but it’s never really been about the decade itself. It’s about the feeling I imagine it carried—a slower rhythm, homes that felt lived in, meals made with intention, and the quiet confidence that ordinary life was something worth savoring.

The older I get, the more I realize that whimsy isn’t really about vintage aprons or homemade bread. It’s about paying attention. It’s choosing to notice the little moments that would otherwise slip quietly by. Children are remarkably good at reminding us how to do exactly that.

“I hope I never forget this”

I’ve had quite a few of those moments recently, and I’m trying to become more intentional about creating them.

Just this morning, my four-month-old was happily playing on the floor when she suddenly started crying. Before I could walk over to comfort her, my two-and-a-half-year-old quietly wandered over, said nothing at all, and gently kissed her baby sister on the forehead. It was almost as if she wanted to remind her that she was still loved, even while she was sad.

It was one of those moments that made me stop in my tracks.

As parents, we spend so much time wondering if we’re doing enough. We question ourselves constantly. Are we patient enough? Loving enough? Are our children actually learning the things we’re trying so desperately to teach them?

Then, every once in a while, we’re given a tiny glimpse that they are.

Watching my oldest comfort her little sister reminded me that maybe I’m heading in the right direction as a mother. The little reminders to be kind, to care for one another, and to be gentle are quietly taking root, even when I can’t see them growing.

I don’t think she’ll ever remember giving her sister that kiss.

But I know I always will.

What ordinary moments do I intentionally slow down for instead of rushing through?

If I’m honest, this is something I still really struggle with.

I constantly have to remind myself not to rush through life, but to actually enjoy it—with my children and even by myself. There is always another chore waiting, another meal to make, another floor to mop, and somehow dinner arrives every single night whether I feel prepared for it or not. It’s so easy to spend the entire day thinking about what’s next instead of what’s happening right in front of me.

One thing I’ve been trying to do is involve my children in the ordinary things I would normally rush through by myself.

When I’m mopping the floors, my daughter wants her own little mop. When I’m making dinner, she wants to stir the bowl. When I’m kneading bread, she always asks, “Mama, can I poke it?”

Does it make everything take longer?

Absolutely.

Sometimes twice as long.

Sometimes three times as long.

But I’ve realized those moments are valuable for reasons that have nothing to do with getting the task done.

Not only do they help my children feel necessary and important to the well-being of our family, but they’re also teaching them valuable life skills that no one ever really slowed down to teach me. There are so many practical things I had to learn later in life, often from people outside of my own family. I don’t say that with bitterness—it’s simply part of my story.

Because of that, I hope my children don’t just remember eating homemade bread.

I hope they remember learning how to make it.

I hope they remember helping me fold towels, stirring pancake batter on Saturday mornings, and standing on a chair beside me while we made dinner together.

I’m hopeful that one day those ordinary moments become memories attached to the skills themselves.

What kinds of things did I wish adults had made feel more magical when I was growing up?

Nighttime has always felt magical to me.

When the whole world is quiet, the crickets are chirping, the stars are glowing, and everything seems to settle into a peaceful stillness, it’s hard not to feel like there’s something special about those moments.

As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve realized it’s not so much about wishing the adults in my life had made more moments feel magical.

It’s about creating them now.

It’s telling my children that fairies live in the bushes by our house.

It’s completely committing to the idea that their stuffed animals are alive, talking to one another after bedtime and looking after them while they sleep.

Those little stories don’t cost anything, but they have a way of making an ordinary Tuesday evening feel unforgettable.

I think children already know how to see magic.

Sometimes they just need an adult who’s willing to see it with them.

When my children are adults, what tiny moments do I hope they’ll remember?

More than anything, I hope they remember my patience.

I hope they remember my willingness to get them involved in the everyday things instead of always asking them to wait until I was finished. I hope they remember sitting and reading books with me, baking together, folding laundry together, and simply doing life together.

Right now, my two-and-a-half-year-old is fascinated by watching me color in her coloring books. She doesn’t actually want to color by herself. She wants me to sit beside her and color with her.

It’s such a simple thing, and it would be so easy to tell her, “Just give me five minutes,” or, “Mommy’s busy right now.”

But I want her to remember that I sat down.

That I took the time to actually be there with her.

That I met her where she was instead of asking her to wait until I was done with something I thought was more important.

Those little moments don’t seem very significant while they’re happening, but I have a feeling they’ll be the ones I miss the most someday.

Why do adults lose their sense of wonder?

I think it’s easy to become entranced by the mundane—to get so lost in our routines that we forget to enjoy life while it’s actually happening. In fact, I catch myself doing it all the time.

Our sprinklers flood one corner of the backyard every so often, creating what my daughter proudly calls our “pond.” Almost every time, my first instinct is to tell her no because I know exactly what comes next: muddy clothes, wet shoes, another bath, another load of laundry.

But she’s not thinking about any of those things – she wants to know what the dirt feels like when it’s wet, to hear the sound a rock makes when it splashes into the water. She wants to watch where it goes and to see what happens if she stomps instead of tiptoes. She wants so badly to stimulate her senses and figure out how her little body works in the world around her.

She’s simply curious.

It’s my job as her mother to allow her to experience those moments of learning and growth. Yes, she’ll get messy. Yes, she’ll need a change of clothes afterward. If it’s a matter of safety, I’d take a different approach. But when it’s simply a matter of inconvenience, I want to get better at saying yes.

The lesson for me isn’t that the house stayed clean longer. It’s that my child was allowed to be a child.

Ordinary magic in my home

I’ve realized that almost anything can become magical if we approach it a little differently.

The things we do every day naturally begin to lose some of their novelty, but sometimes all they need is a small change.

If reading in bed isn’t exciting anymore, fill up a bubble bath, light a candle, bring your favorite book, and eat a piece of chocolate while you read. Wrap yourself in a blanket by the fireplace with a warm drink. Bake bread simply because the house smells wonderful afterward. Dance in the kitchen while dinner is cooking. Watch the snow fall. Collect rocks on a walk. Water flowers together.

I don’t think whimsy is found by constantly searching for new experiences.

I think it’s found by seeing familiar experiences with fresh eyes.

Slow season

Fall.

Everything about it reminds me to slow down.

We’ve just spent the entire summer outside—playing, exploring, traveling, learning, staying out until the evenings get dark. Then the weather begins to cool, the leaves start changing, and without even realizing it, we’re drawn back home.

Fall reminds me that our home environment is where we’ll spend most of our time for the next several months. It’s the season of preparing our home for being indoors again. It’s baking more often, curling up with books beneath blankets, simmering soup on the stove, lighting candles before dinner, and creating a home that feels warm enough that no one is in a hurry to leave.

There’s something comforting about that rhythm.

It feels like the world itself is reminding us to slow down.

Leaving my home with a feeling

More than anything, I hope people leave our home feeling peaceful.

I want everyone who comes here to know they’re welcome at any time. I hope they know they can eat our food, pour themselves a drink, come over unannounced, or even let themselves in if we’re not home yet and make themselves comfortable.

I don’t want anyone to feel like they’re interrupting.

I want our home to be a haven for the people that I love.

I hope my children feel that more than anyone else.

I hope that years from now, when they turn onto our street, something inside them immediately relaxes because they know they’re home.

I hope they know they can tell us anything without fear of immediate judgment. We’ve all made mistakes. We all choose the wrong thing sometimes, often without meaning to. That’s part of why we’re here. We’re here to learn, to grow, and to become better than we were yesterday.

When I think about the word home, I don’t just think about the house we live in.

I think about the feeling of knowing there is always a place where you’re safe, accepted, and deeply loved.

I think that’s what I’ve been searching for when I think about whimsy.

Not because whimsy is pretending life is magical all the time, but because it reminds me to notice the beauty that’s already here. It’s slowing down long enough to watch your children discover the world, to smell the bread cooling on the counter, to read one more bedtime story, or to say yes to the muddy puddle even though it means another load of laundry.

I’m still learning how to do that.

I probably always will be.

But if, years from now, my children remember a home that smelled like fresh bread, where fairy houses hid in the bushes, where stuffed animals came alive after bedtime, where muddy clothes were sometimes worth the laundry, and where they always knew they were deeply loved…

I think that will have been a beautiful life.