As I perch on the largest piece of “rock” at the tiny playground just a stone’s throw from my house, I can’t help but think about the past. This “rock” is shaped like a chair, standing out among the swings and slides, a little dangerous haven for toddlers. I absentmindedly trace the carved names and hearts—“Tom loves Sue” and “Jessica was here in May 1990.”
I was 12, waiting for my mom to pick me up, and two hours had already slipped by. I had been at a math tutoring session with ten other kids, and one by one, they all left with their parents, leaving me behind. I opted to decline the offer to call my mom using the landline. Back then, before cell phones and social media, it was a game of patience—you just had to wait it out. No frantic texts or status updates to check in on her whereabouts. Just me and my thoughts.
Finally, I spotted her black Volvo approaching. Rather than feeling angry, I felt a sense of resignation wash over me.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said as I climbed into the car.
“Yeah, it’s okay.” (But seriously, where had she been?)
“Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“I just wanted some fresh air. It was boring in there.” (I mean, the teacher had her own life to live, right?)
“Next time, wait inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“Sure.” (Next time, could you show up on time?)
While a two-hour wait was unusual, it wasn’t uncommon for me to feel forgotten. As the middle child in a family of four, I often felt like I was hovering in the background, yearning for attention and approval that seemed perpetually out of reach. Unless, of course, something big happened to draw the spotlight back to me.
Was I waiting for a sign? Was I trying to get my mother to notice me?
I always felt like a bit of a rebel, even in kindergarten, quick to speak my mind and stand up for what I believed in, which often meant standing up for myself. My mother loved me; I have no doubt about that. But it was a love that didn’t manifest in the hug-filled, heartfelt conversations that I craved.
Since my children came into my life, I’ve made it a point to shower them with daily hugs and “I love yous,” perhaps even a bit too much. I dream about the day they’ll confide in me. I always arrive early for preschool pick-ups—20 minutes early, in fact! I never want them to feel the need to act out for my attention. I want to be their safe space forever.
I’m forging a new path. I’m not my mother.
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In summary, my experience as a middle child shaped my approach to parenting. I strive to create an environment filled with love and attention for my children, unlike my own upbringing. I am determined to break the cycle and be the mother they deserve.