Updated: November 12, 2020
Originally Published: March 27, 2013
Nestled on the largest sculpted ‘rock’ in a quaint playground not far from my home, I sit in a moment of reflection. This peculiar structure, crafted to resemble a chair, stands as an anomaly in a space designed for children—an invitation to mischief if you will. I run my fingers over the etched letters, remnants of youthful declarations like “Tom loves Sarah” and “Jessica was here, March 1990.”
At 12 years old, I found myself waiting for my mom to pick me up for what felt like an eternity—nearly two hours. I had just finished extra math lessons at a teacher’s house, surrounded by ten other students, all of whom were whisked away by their waiting parents. Alone, I stayed behind, observing the world outside with growing impatience.
In the pre-cell phone era, my options were limited. I declined the offer to call my mom because I knew she wasn’t home. Instead, I waited—no frantic texts or social media posts to express my frustration. Just quiet solitude.
Eventually, I spotted her black Volvo in the distance. My emotions had shifted from anger to a resigned acceptance. “Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said upon arrival. I simply shrugged, suppressing the urge to ask, “Where on Earth were you?”
“Why didn’t you wait inside?” she inquired.
“I just wanted some air; it was dull in there,” I replied, knowing she had her own life to live.
“Next time, just wait inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“Okay,” I responded, though deep down I wished for a different kind of acknowledgment.
This wasn’t the first time I felt forgotten; as the third of four children, I often felt like a middle child, craving attention that rarely came unless something significant occurred. Was my waiting a cry for help? A test of fate? A way to gain her attention?
From a young age, I often felt like an outsider—rebellious and outspoken, quick to voice my opinions. I believed I was championing the underdog, but really, I was just striving for recognition.
While my mother loved me, it was never in the way I desired. Our relationship lacked the warm, affectionate exchanges that many kids experience; it just wasn’t part of our dynamic.
Now, as a parent myself, I strive to create a different narrative for my children. I hug them daily, telling them I love them perhaps a bit too often. I dream of the day they confide in me about their lives. I make it a point to arrive at preschool pick-up 20 minutes early, ensuring they never feel the need to act out for my attention. I want to be their safe haven, always there for them.
I am charting a new path. I am not my mother.
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In summary, my journey as a parent has been shaped by my childhood experiences. By being present and nurturing, I hope to create a safe space for my children, breaking the cycle of emotional distance I felt growing up.
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