My daughter, Lily, is full of energy and very active. She often lacks spatial awareness and tends to be quite clumsy, which means she frequently tumbles. Most of the time, she gets back up and continues playing, eager to have fun. But sometimes, she really hurts herself and needs some comfort.
Today, she took a tumble off the sofa. It happened so fast that I couldn’t reach her in time. She bumped her head and began to cry, her tears flowing as she babbled in distress. Although she’s still learning to express herself verbally, I could tell she was scared. Instinctively, I scooped her up and held her close.
I let her cry and express her feelings as best as she could. Then, I sang “You Are My Sunshine” while looking into her eyes until a smile broke through her tears. I gently wiped her face as we cuddled and watched some Teletubbies together. Once she felt calmer, she hopped off my lap and ran to her toys.
That moment was beautiful, but it also reminded me of what I lacked in my own childhood. As I held Lily, memories of my own experiences surfaced. Like her, I was a clumsy child and often fell. I would cry out in pain or say “ouch” when I hurt myself, but I was met with harshness instead of the comfort I needed.
- “Get up!”
- “Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
- “You didn’t hurt yourself.”
Whenever I cried, I was often called a “wimp,” a term used in my upbringing that meant weak in both body and character. I can’t recall a time when I was hugged or reassured after a fall. There were times when I tried to hold back tears, but the pain would be too much. Instead of support, I faced disbelief and ridicule.
I remember one day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side and comforted her without hesitation. At just five years old, I was confused about why she received such tenderness while I felt neglected. My heart sank when I realized I wasn’t loved in the same way.
When I asked my dad why he didn’t call her a “wimp,” he seemed at a loss for words. My inquiries about his love for me were met with irritation, and I ran to my mom for reassurance. But she laughed it off, making me feel foolish and overreactive. I don’t recall whether my dad ever said he loved me, but I do remember being made to apologize for questioning him.
These memories intruded on the joy I felt with Lily. It was hard to shake off the recollections of my own childhood pain. For instance, when I sprained my wrist at seven, I was ridiculed instead of being taken seriously. My mother didn’t seek treatment; instead, she fashioned a makeshift brace from an old sock and dismissed my pain.
As I continued to play, I reinjured my wrist while trying to jump down the stairs, and when I cried out in agony, my parents just laughed. There was no comfort, only mockery, and I felt completely alone.
I shared these painful memories with my husband, who listened empathetically. His validation that my parents were unkind helped me realize that my parenting differs from theirs. I am committed to nurturing Lily in ways I never experienced.
Watching Lily now, happily engrossed in her books, I understand that these intrusive thoughts indicate I’m breaking the cycle. They appear when I am giving her the love and support I longed for in my youth.
These are just memories, not current realities. Right now, I can offer all the affection I had saved up throughout my childhood, and I have a little girl who deserves all of it. When she becomes a parent, I hope she won’t grapple with past trauma because she will have lived through the loving example I provide.
I will make mistakes and occasionally fall short like any parent, but Lily will never doubt my love for her. The way she gazes at me with trust and adoration fills my heart. She knows she can count on me, which is stronger than any negative memories I may have.
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Summary
The article explores the author’s commitment to providing her daughter, Lily, with the love and support she lacked during her own childhood. It reflects on painful memories of neglect and ridicule from her parents, contrasting them with the nurturing environment she is determined to create for her child. Despite the haunting memories, the author recognizes these thoughts as signs of breaking a cycle of emotional trauma, ensuring her daughter knows she is loved and supported without question.