We're Whimsy-Obsessed Because We're Novelty-Deprived

Throw a stone at the momfluencer corner of the internet (or at least my momfluencer corner of the internet), and you’ll hit a dozen Whimsy Moms on your first try. The algo has my number, knowing that I am very much infatuated with their proclivity towards a creative, laissez-faire but also somehow incredibly intentional approach to parenting, with hints of Type B behaviors (my favorite kind) coming through every reel. They’re doing watercolors by the neighborhood creek, they’re wearing clothing in a ROYGBIV color scheme. They’re burning taper candles at dinnertime and there’s always glitter in the periphery. They’re crunchier than the Fashion Moms, breezier than the Analog Moms. They’re one adaptogenic bevvy chiller than the Tradwife. They’re good-time gals and damn if they don’t make you want to be in their orbits.

And there’s a reason for that: when we become mothers, our ability to meet serendipity almost instantly wanes. Yes, there’s a lot of newness—learning how to feed an infant, tending to cracked nipples, acclimating to an existence built on 3 hours of sleep—but the bulk of it lacks the hedonistic delight we spend most of our teenage years and young adulthood chasing.

Parenthood fun is planned fun, for the most part, due to the various needs of small children that require forethought: what are we eating for lunch? Who needs naps and when? We’ve got a birthday party at the trampoline park at 2pm and we have to be back by 5pm to get everyone fed and bathed. Gone are the days of deciding at 7:58pm that, ya know what? Let’s go try that new Peruvian restaurant tonight! And maybe the tiki bar after? I once hopped on a flight with my boyfriend (now husband) to spend 48 hours in Scotland. It’s really, really hard to find that kind of adventure in the thick of parenthood—the minutiae of everyday obligations and the consistency required in early childhood simply impedes those pursuits.

Which is why whimsy is so appealing. The idea that I can add one small thing to my life, or tweak our highly-scheduled routine just a fraction, and things will feel shinier, brighter, more fun-filled, offers a kind of false solace that nothing has changed or maybe more aptly: I haven’t changed.

The problem with lusting after whimsy is that the shininess wears off too quickly. We pull on a pair of socks with cats in tutus on them, get the dopamine hit we wanted, and then pad out to the cluttered kitchen to make macaroni again. The thing we really want isn’t the short-lived rush of sprinkles on our oatmeal, but a longer-lasting phenomenon: novelty.

Unlike whimsy, novelty lies in pursuits that feel fresh, unique, interesting, maybe even a little daunting or audacious. Ideally, novelty arrives in a more substantial package than whimsy does; it’s enrolling in the 6-week ceramics class instead of buying a cute East Fork mug in the shade lagoon. It’s scheduling or prioritizing something out of the ordinary that may require expanding a way of thinking, becoming a student again, taking a step outside of a comfort zone.

I didn’t exactly plan it, but I’ve noticed myself seeking novelty this year more than I ever have. I joined the jump roping bandwagon, but not just grabbing my kids’ rope and hopping around once in awhile: I researched which rope is best for beginners, I learned how to trim it down properly to my height, I downloaded an app to instruct me on tricks and form. I also started to flip secondhand furniture, teaching myself the ins-and-outs of the resale game. And I began writing a novel—reading craft books, following other nascent novelists, creating a writing space for myself. These things felt good because they were joltingly unfamiliar, their open-ended timeframes and outlines offering a kind of beguiling uncertainty—an unpredictability—that hadn’t been felt amidst the school lunch-making, the dishwashing, the calendaring, the binge-watching, the unending tidying.

Whimsy is great, and I will forever be looking for little things to make the days a little brighter. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. But it’s the adoption of novelty that will be felt months or even years later—a sort of coming home to the self, a reminder that you can eke out more from this phase of life than you may have thought possible. And maybe most importantly, it proves to us that we still have agency over our lives even when the laundry pile tries to convince us otherwise. Novel pursuits and experiences serve as little nudges, whispers to remind us: There is more for you yet.

• Enlist a buddy. Two of my oldest and best friends and I have been getting together monthly and trading dinner meetups for novel activities: an escape room, a self-defense class, and yes, a ceramics class. It’s such a delight to know not just that I get to see my friends but that I’m also segmenting time for something that will challenge me or delight me in a way I wasn’t expecting.

• Plan ahead. Getting something on the calendar means you’re more likely to follow through. Ideally this would be paired with a monetary buy-in, even a tiny one, making backing out a heavier lift.

• Extend the experience. If you’re thinking about taking a class to learn a new skill, commit to more than one session. Give yourself a chance to figure out if it’s something you want to do more of (or not!)

• If you’re stuck, start with what you kind-of know. If you’re having trouble even coming up with something novel to try, think about things that you enjoyed when you were a kid, or things you do now on a smaller scale. What can you bring back into your life from childhood? What are you already doing that you could go deeper on?

• Travel can offer a quick fix. Our annual travel budget is, shall I say, modest during this phase of life but if you have the time and money to plan a getaway—even just a night or two away—an unfamiliar setting is the ticket (pun intended) to seeing the world (and yourself) with fresh eyes.

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