There was a time when my mornings began with my children.
Before they woke up, I was already thinking about what they would eat.
Breakfast first. Then the lunchboxes. Then the snacks.
There was always something to prepare, something to pack, something to remember.
I would stand in the kitchen while the house was still quiet, making breakfast and thinking about what would keep them full until lunchtime. Sometimes it was something simple—eggs, bread, fruit, or whatever we had at home. Other mornings meant cooking something they particularly liked because I knew that a good breakfast could make the morning a little easier.
Then came the lunchboxes.
I packed food with the kind of thought that only a mother seems to understand. Not just What can I put in here? but What will they actually eat? What will still taste good by lunchtime? What will they be hungry for?
There were sandwiches to make, fruits to wash and cut, little portions to put into containers, snacks to choose, drinks to prepare. Sometimes I would add something special just because I knew they liked it.
And I learned that children have very specific ideas about food.
Something they loved on Monday could suddenly become something they didn’t want on Tuesday.
A snack could come home untouched. A sandwich could come back with one bite missing. An empty lunchbox, on the other hand, felt like a tiny victory.
I would sometimes look at the empty containers and think, Good. At least they ate.
These were such ordinary things.
Washing fruit. Cutting food. Filling little containers. Closing lunchboxes. Putting everything into their school bags. Checking that they had enough snacks. Making sure nothing would spill.
And yet, looking back now, I realize how much love was hidden in those routines.
Motherhood often happens in these small, repetitive acts that nobody applauds.
You don’t receive a thank-you for remembering that your child likes the crust cut off. Nobody sees you waking up a little earlier to prepare something they will enjoy. Nobody notices when you quietly replace a snack because you remembered they didn’t like the one you packed yesterday.
You simply do it.
Because they are your children.
Because they need to eat.
Because they have school.
Because you want them to leave the house feeling cared for.
And then, after all the food was prepared, came the rest of the morning.
Wake them up.
“Good morning.”
“Get up.”
“You’re going to be late.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Where is your school bag?”
“Did you pack your homework?”
And somehow, every morning, we did it all over again.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what a privilege it was.
There were mornings when I was tired. Mornings when I wished I could sleep longer. Mornings when I was impatient because someone wasn’t getting dressed quickly enough or someone had suddenly decided they didn’t want the breakfast I had prepared.
That’s the funny thing about motherhood.
You can be exhausted by something and still miss it terribly when it is gone.
Because children grow.
The little hands that once reached for the food you prepared eventually learn to prepare their own.
The lunchboxes disappear.
The school snacks disappear.
The early-morning breakfasts become fewer and fewer.
And one day, you realize nobody is asking you anymore, “What’s for breakfast?”
Nobody needs you to pack a lunch.
Nobody is waiting for you to remind them to take their snacks.
They simply get up and go.
And you realize how much of your motherhood was hidden inside a lunchbox.
I have always been sentimental about my children. I think I have always known, somewhere inside me, that these ordinary days would not last forever. Maybe that’s why I took so many photographs. Maybe that’s why I remember little details that seemed insignificant at the time.
The backs of their heads as they walked ahead of me.
Their little school bags.
Their coats and shoes by the door.
The way they would disappear into the crowd while I followed a few steps behind.
I was always trying, perhaps unconsciously, to keep a record of them growing up.
Because childhood is constantly leaving.
One morning, they are sitting at your kitchen table eating the breakfast you made.
Years later, they are eating somewhere else.
One morning, you’re cutting fruit and putting it into a tiny container.
Years later, they are buying their own food.
One morning, you’re reminding them not to forget their lunchbox.
Years later, you realize you would give almost anything just to pack one more.
This is the bittersweet part of raising children.
We spend years preparing them to need us less.
We teach them how to dress themselves, feed themselves, organize themselves, make their own decisions and eventually make their own lives.
And when they finally can, we are proud.
But somewhere inside that pride is a mother quietly missing the days when she was needed for everything.
I sometimes think the greatest privilege was never the big moments.
It was being there for the ordinary ones.
Preparing their breakfast.
Packing their lunch.
Choosing their snacks.
Making sure they had enough to eat.
Waking them up.
Watching them rush out the door.
Waiting for them to come home with an empty lunchbox.
Those little routines were motherhood.
And I didn’t know how quickly they would become memories.
For most of our lives, Vienna has been home. But my children have been my home too. I spent so many years preparing them for their days, walking behind them, watching them move further into the world.
Now some of those days are behind us.
And perhaps that is why I feel such tenderness for those mornings.
I don’t miss the rushing.
I don’t miss the mess.
I don’t even miss having to remind them ten times to get ready.
I miss being the person who prepared their little world before they stepped into the bigger one.
I miss opening the refrigerator and thinking about what they would like to eat.
I miss filling their lunchboxes.
I miss knowing that, for a few more hours, they would be out there carrying a little piece of home with them.
A lunchbox.
A sandwich.
A piece of fruit.
A snack packed by their mother.
Such small things.
But sometimes, the smallest things carry the most love.
And when the children grow up, those are the things a mother finds herself missing most.
Not because they were extraordinary.
But because they were ours.
