There’s something wildly ironic about reading five different parenting books on presence while frantically folding laundry and ignoring the toddler asking me to “watch this, Mama!” for the fourth time. I used to think being present was a practice I had to master. A checklist to complete. I’d carve out special time, put my phone in a drawer, and try to create a stillness that felt like a scene from a parenting blog.
But real presence? The kind that roots you, humbles you, brings tears to your eyes and laughter to your belly? That kind came wrapped in peanut butter smudges, mid-meltdown lessons, and spontaneous dandelion offerings from a barefoot toddler who had no idea he was changing the way I saw the world.
This isn’t a guide on how to parent perfectly. This is a mama’s heart-story about how my toddler—without trying, without lecturing, without once reading a mindfulness article—taught me more about being fully here than any book or expert ever did.
Because toddlers, as it turns out, live presence. They don’t overthink it. They embody it. And if we let them, they can pull us right back into it too.
Slowing Down Doesn’t Look Like I Thought
I used to think slowing down meant spa music and empty calendars. I imagined it as sipping tea in silence while my child played contentedly nearby with open-ended toys in a clean playroom.
But my toddler’s version of slowing down? It’s stopping to stare at a crack in the sidewalk. Taking ten whole minutes to peel a banana “by self.” Asking, “What’s that sound?” every time a leaf rustles. The kind of slowing that disrupts timelines, not calms them.
At first, I resisted it. I’d hurry us along, nudge him forward, finish the peeling myself. But over time, I noticed something: he was never in a rush, and he wasn’t anxious. I was. He had time to be curious. I had deadlines.
And then one day, I just sat. On the sidewalk. While he poked at that crack with a stick. I listened to the birds, let my breath settle, and didn’t check the clock. That was the first time I understood what it really meant to slow down. Not to control the pace—but to join theirs.
Toddlers Don’t Time-Block Presence
No offense to the color-coded planners out there (I’ve been one), but toddlers don’t schedule their joy. They don’t say, “Let’s pencil in delight at 3 p.m.” They just live it. In the moment it shows up. Which is often inconvenient, gloriously messy, and exactly what I needed.
We were walking back from the library one afternoon—my mind already scanning through dinner prep, bath time, that text I forgot to answer—and my toddler suddenly flopped down in the grass.
“Lie down, Mama,” he said.
I hesitated. Cars were passing. My jeans weren’t meant for lounging. But something in me softened. I laid down. The grass was damp. The sky was bluer than I’d realized. He pointed at the clouds and told me one looked like a dinosaur wearing a hat. We lay there for five minutes. Nothing planned. Nothing achieved.
But my soul felt lighter than it had all week.
Research published in the Journal of Environmental Psychology has shown that unstructured time outdoors—especially lying or sitting in natural environments—can increase feelings of connectedness, reduce cortisol levels, and enhance well-being. Toddlers may intuitively seek out these natural resets long before we recognize their value.
Emotional Honesty in Real Time
Toddlers feel their feelings as they happen. No buffering. No hiding. No worrying about being “too much.” If they’re mad, they let it out. If they’re happy, they squeal and jump. If they’re overwhelmed, they sit down and cry. Right there in the middle of Trader Joe’s, surrounded by snacks.
At first, I saw it as something I had to manage. But over time, I started to wonder: what if this is something I can learn from instead?
I’m not saying I should start wailing when the line at the coffee shop is too long. But watching my toddler express emotion honestly—and then move on—showed me a different rhythm.
I don’t have to hold everything in and “stay calm” until bedtime. I can say, “I’m having a hard moment,” or “I feel a little grumpy today,” and let that be okay. I can cry in front of my child without apologizing for it.
He taught me that presence doesn’t mean pretending to be fine. It means showing up with your whole, human self.
They Notice What We Miss (And Invite Us In)
There was a morning when I was wiping down the table for the third time before 9 a.m., trying to sip my coffee before it went cold again, when my toddler called out, “Mama! Look at this sparkle!”
I turned around expecting glitter glue or a spilled sugar shaker, but he was just staring at the floor. At a sliver of sunlight hitting the wood grain, bouncing off the dog’s water bowl, making a little rainbow arc across the tile.
“It’s sparkly like magic,” he whispered.
I never would’ve seen it. I wouldn’t have even looked down. But because he did—and because I paused long enough to kneel beside him—I did too. And it really was magical.
Toddlers live with wide-angle wonder. They notice the ant on the fence, the steam from a cup, the way the wind wiggles a leaf. They remind us that there’s still magic in the ordinary. That awe is accessible—if we slow down enough to see it.
Routine Is Grounding—But Flexibility Is Its Own Presence
We thrive on routine in our home. Predictable rhythms, meal anchors, bedtime rituals—they help everyone feel safe. But toddlers have also taught me the value of responsive flexibility. Of changing plans when the day asks for it.
There was a day we were supposed to meet friends at the park. It was sunny, the bags were packed, snacks ready, toddler shoes on (which is an Olympic sport some mornings). But my child melted into tears at the door. Not tantrum-tears. Real ones.
His body was saying no.
So we stayed. Took off shoes. Turned on quiet music. Colored at the kitchen table for an hour. He came back to life in his own time.
No book told me to do that. The plan said otherwise. But presence meant responding, not just following. And it turned into one of the sweetest mornings of our week.
What I Stopped Doing to Be More Present
Over time, I started noticing that being present wasn’t just about what I added to my day—but what I quietly stopped doing. Things like:
- Multi-tasking in every quiet moment (hello, scrolling while they play)
- Narrating their play instead of letting them lead
- Filling every silence with teaching or explaining
- Trying to capture every cute thing on camera
- Holding myself to unrealistic expectations about engagement time
Now, sometimes I just sit. I let the moment be what it is. If they’re lining up blocks, I watch. If they’re singing a song to themselves, I listen without chiming in. I don’t need to make everything a lesson.
I stopped trying to be “productive” every second they weren’t in my lap. And that space? It became a sacred kind of stillness I didn’t even know I needed.
Presence Isn’t Perfect, and That’s the Point
I still have distracted days. I still snap. I still zone out or count the minutes until nap time.
But now I know that presence isn’t a switch to flip. It’s a rhythm. A practice. A remembering.
My toddler doesn’t expect me to be 100% tuned in all day. He just wants me to see him—really see him—when it matters most. And I want the same.
He’s teaching me that presence isn’t found in big gestures or quiet mornings with nothing to do. It’s in the micro-moments. The eye contact. The pause before the reply. The hand on his back while he tells me a nonsense story with six plot holes and no ending.
Rhythm Reminders
- Follow their curiosity trail—when they stop to notice something, let it pull you in too.
- Join their world before pulling them into yours—play first, then pivot to tasks.
- Use transitions as connection points—songs, eye contact, a breath together.
- Let go of the camera sometimes and just see the moment with your whole self.
- Choose one anchor a day to return to—tea together, a walk, a story, a shared silence.
Living Slower, One Tiny Hand at a Time
No parenting book ever told me that my toddler would be my mindfulness coach. That in his refusal to rush, his love of repetition, his unfiltered feelings, he would offer me the kind of presence I’d spent years chasing in adult ways.
He’s still teaching me. Every day. And I’m still learning how to soften, to slow, to sit on the floor even when the dishes call.
So if you’re in a season where the days blur together and you’re not sure if you’re “present enough,” let me tell you—presence isn’t a finish line. It’s in the noticing. It’s in the kneeling down. It’s in the sparkle on the kitchen tile.
And sometimes, it’s in letting the laundry wait just a little longer so you can lie down in the grass and look for dinosaur clouds together.
