Nostalgia as a Parenting Tool

Some evenings, when the house is quiet and the dishwasher is humming its tired song, I find myself in the grip of a memory. Not the big, cinematic ones—just a small scene. My dad’s old coffee mug, chipped at the rim. The smell of sawdust from his garage. The way he’d whistle the same tune every Saturday morning, off-key and too early.

I used to think nostalgia was just the province of old men and country songs. Now, with a kid of my own, I see it for what it is: a tool. Maybe not as sharp as a wrench, but useful in its own way. I keep finding myself reaching for it, trying to patch together something sturdy out of the past to hand down to my kid.

The Past Sneaks In

The thing about nostalgia is, you don’t have to invite it. It sneaks up while you’re doing something ordinary—folding laundry, driving the school run, standing in line for bad coffee at the soccer field. Suddenly you’re eight years old again, legs dangling off a wooden chair, watching your own dad butter toast with the back of a spoon because he couldn’t find the right knife.

The urge is strong to tell my kid these stories. Sometimes I do, though he’s not always impressed. (“You didn’t have the internet? That’s just sad, Dad.”) But I tell them anyway. Not because I think my childhood was perfect, but because those memories are the raw material I have. They’re what I know.

Tradition Is Just Repetition With Meaning

We make pancakes most Saturdays. I don’t have a secret family recipe. It’s just the box mix with a splash of vanilla. But the ritual matters. My dad used to make eggs that were somehow always both burnt and undercooked, and we ate them anyway. Now, when my kid asks for “the usual,” I know he’s not talking about the ingredients. He means the comfort of sameness, the little anchor in a week that can feel like it’s mostly drift.

We’re not big on ceremony in our house. But there are a few things we keep doing, mostly by accident. The same Christmas ornaments, even the broken ones. The same jokes about how long the drive to Grandma’s really is. Sometimes I wonder if any of it will stick. I hope so, but you don’t get to choose what your kid remembers.

Memory as a Compass

I’m not trying to recreate my own childhood for my son, and I don’t think he’d want it if I could. (He’d like less dial-up, more Wi-Fi.) But I do find myself using memory as a kind of compass. When I’m not sure what to do—when he’s sick and I’m fumbling with the thermometer, when he’s quiet in the backseat after a hard day—I think about what my dad did, or didn’t do. Sometimes I do the opposite. Sometimes I try to get it right this time around.

Nostalgia isn’t about living in the past. It’s about carrying some of it forward, like a beat-up mug that still holds coffee just fine.

A Few Lived-In Tricks

If you want to put nostalgia to work as a parent, here’s what I’ve found actually helps:

• Tell the small stories. The ones with bad punchlines or half-forgotten details. They’re more honest and more likely to stick.
• Repeat the little things. Pancakes, Sunday walks, the same weird phrase before bed. Repetition is memory’s best friend.
• Let your kid roll their eyes. If they groan at your stories, it means they’re listening.
• Save the artifacts. The mug, the drawing, the lumpy ornament. Not everything, just a few things with fingerprints on them.

I don’t have a blueprint for legacy. Most days, I’m just improvising, trying to pass along something that feels real. Sometimes it’s a story, sometimes it’s a burnt pancake. Either way, it’s a start.

Not bad, dad.