Dear Dr. Smith,
Recently, my daughter Lily shared something heartwarming: she believes that God gave her one dimple so she’d always have a spot to store my kisses. At just 5 years old, she’s full of these adorable thoughts, which is typical for little ones her age—they have a knack for charming us with their cuteness. Her older brother, Alex, who is 8, impresses me with his surprising insights and understanding of complex ideas. But those 5-year-olds? They truly excel at being cute. Every day is filled with sweet moments, unicorns, and places to keep her mom’s kisses safe.
Just this morning, Lily asked when her dad would return from a work trip. “Mommy,” she inquired, “When is Daddy coming back from Your Ami?” I chuckled and corrected her, saying, “Actually, sweetheart, he’s in Miami.” To which she replied, “That’s what I said, Mommy. Your Ami.” Isn’t that just the cutest?
I share this with you because I recognize that the sweet moments with Lily may not always last. Ask any mom of a tween or teenage girl, and she’ll see the charming 5-year-old and raise you a “Just wait…” followed by a nostalgic pause, recalling the days when her now surly teen was once a unicorn-loving child who kept her mom’s kisses tucked away in her favorite backpack.
Moms of older kids often remind those of us with little ones that the cuteness won’t last forever. They say, “Just wait…” “Just wait until she turns sullen.” “Just wait until she rolls her eyes and says, ‘I hate you, Mom. You’re so dumb.’”
It’s happened a few times already. Once, while driving, Lily yelled from the backseat because she had dropped her water bottle. Unable to retrieve it safely, her frustration boiled over. “Mom,” she snapped like a tiny dictator, “You are the worst person ever. You are frustrating me. You are gisdusting.” Sure, her words stung a bit, but she’s still just 5. At this age, she’s learning and even her anger is somewhat endearing, especially when she mispronounces a word like “disgusting.”
Moms often bear the brunt of tired kids, sibling rivalries, and hunger-induced meltdowns. We’re used to being called stupid when we’re actually right. We brush off these moments as phases because, amidst it all, we receive love, cuddles, and those kisses saved for later.
However, moms of teens seem to miss out on the cuddles, judging by the tearful stories from friends who caution me to “just wait…” “Just wait until you doubt every parenting choice you once felt proud of.” “Just wait until the teenage years pass, and you hope to get your child back.” They all say, “Just wait.”
Living in a city like Los Angeles, where having mental health professionals on speed dial is almost mandatory, and given that my daughter is growing up in the era of Snapchat and influencers like Kylie Jenner, I can only assume that she will eventually see a therapist.
In theory, that doesn’t bother me. I’ve benefited from therapy many times. I know the value of a great therapist, but I can’t shake the feeling that much of what she will discuss will revolve around me.
What weighs heavily on my mind isn’t the criticism for losing my patience or the times I forgot to make dinner and tried to cover it up with “Family Soup Night.” I genuinely want to spend quality time with my three greatest loves—my kids, my husband, and my writing. Sometimes, I forget dinner because I’m pursuing my passions with people I adore. That’s when we end up having soup.
What really keeps me awake at night is the thought that my daughter may interpret my forgetfulness or frustration as a reflection of her worth. It’s a rite of passage for many girls to take things personally, and I want to help her navigate this.
So, Doctor, if Lily comes to your office and expresses doubts about my love for her, please say this: “Chuck E. Cheese’s.” Remind her that I’ve taken her there numerous times. If one can survive the chaos and sensory overload of Chuck E. Cheese’s, all while following a child around with hand sanitizer, it’s a testament to a mother’s love. If that doesn’t convey how much I care, I don’t know what does.
Kids often forget the times we stayed up late helping with projects or the times we woke up early to wash their favorite shirt. They only remember the times we slipped up, like forgetting dinner. Kids don’t recall the sacrifices because we do them quietly and humbly, expecting nothing in return except that they grow up to be kind individuals.
You should also mention the Legos. I’m convinced they were invented to allow mothers to demonstrate their love. For instance, Lily received a Lego Friends Pop Star Tour Bus set for Hanukkah. It has 682 pieces, and it took weeks for us to assemble it. When I say “we,” I mean that Lily would insist on doing it herself, often getting frustrated when things didn’t go perfectly.
After many weeks, I finally took it upon myself to finish the Lego set while I had a quiet afternoon. It took me four hours, a backache, and the destruction of a perfect manicure, but I was thrilled to do it for her. When Lily returned home and saw the completed tour bus, she squealed with delight and buried her head in my leg, calling me the best mom ever.
But that’s not why I finished the Lego set. I wanted her to be truly happy, not just in the moment, but in the long run. I want her to love herself without the struggles I faced. I hope she’ll date fewer bartenders than I did and scrutinize herself less than I did. That’s why I endure places like Chuck E. Cheese’s and tackle massive Lego sets when I could be enjoying time to myself—I want her to know she is loved profoundly.
When Lily questions if I love her enough because of my forgetfulness, please remind her that I’ve faced my fears for her, whether it’s enduring roller coasters that terrify me or dealing with spiders I’d usually run from. I do these things quietly and humbly, so she knows she is deeply loved.
So, Doctor, when she wonders if I could love her more, please tell her, “Your mother couldn’t possibly love you more. She loves you wildly and endlessly. She just forgets to make dinner sometimes.” Then please give her a hug for me and assure her that everything will be alright. She will get through whatever brought her to your office. And remind her that one day, she may have a daughter of her own. “Just wait,” you might say. “Just wait.”
Summary:
This heartfelt letter expresses a mother’s hopes and concerns regarding her daughter’s future therapy sessions. It highlights the adorable moments of childhood while acknowledging the challenges that arise as children grow older. The mother reflects on her love and sacrifices, desires for her daughter’s happiness, and the importance of self-love. She wants her daughter to understand the depth of her affection and the lengths she goes to show it, despite occasional oversights like forgetting dinner.