I find myself perched on the largest structure in a small playground, mere steps from the house I just left. This ‘rock’ is designed to resemble a chair, an unusual fixture in a children’s area, and certainly a potential hazard for toddlers. Yet, here I am.
As I sit, I absentmindedly trace the etched names and messages on the rock—tokens of youthful affection, such as “Alex loves Mia,” and evidence of someone’s lingering presence: “Jordan was here, January 1990.”
I was 12 years old, waiting for my mother to arrive for nearly two hours. After attending math tutoring at a teacher’s home with ten other students, I was the last one left. Every other child had someone waiting in a car to take them home. I sat alone, pondering my situation.
I waited in the teacher’s residence for what I thought was a reasonable length of time—45 minutes—before being offered the phone to call my mother. I declined, knowing she was likely not home. In those pre-cell phone days, it meant simply waiting. No frantic texts or social media updates to track her whereabouts. Just a long, lonely wait.
Finally, after two hours, I spotted the familiar black sedan in the distance. By that point, I wasn’t angry or upset; I was simply resigned.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said upon arrival.
“Yup. It’s okay.” (But honestly, where were you?!)
“Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“I just wanted some fresh air. It was boring in there anyway.” (After all, the teacher had her own life to attend to.)
“Next time, just wait inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“Okay.” (Next time, please arrive on time.)
While such lengthy waits were uncommon, they were not entirely unusual. Sometimes, it felt as though my mother simply forgot about me. As the third of four children, I embodied the classic middle child—yearning for attention and validation, rarely receiving either unless something significant occurred.
Was I waiting for something to happen to me outside that house? Was I seeking to draw my mother’s attention?
I often felt like an outsider. From kindergarten onward, I was a bit rebellious, quick to speak my mind and defend “the little people,” which, in this case, was myself.
My mother loved me; I have no doubt about that. However, it was not the type of affection I longed for. Our relationship lacked the warm, affectionate exchanges—no hugs, “I love you’s,” or discussions about feelings.
From the moment my own children were born, I made it a priority to hug them daily. I express my love frequently, perhaps excessively. I look forward to the days when they’ll confide in me. I ensure I arrive at preschool pickup early, always. I never want my children to believe they must resort to drastic measures for my attention. I aspire to be their constant source of support.
I am crafting a new path for myself. I am not my mother.
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In summary, my experiences shaped my approach to parenting, demonstrating the importance of being present and emotionally available for my children, a stark contrast to my upbringing.