Dear Dr. Thompson,
Recently, my little girl, Lily, shared a whimsical thought with me. She believes that God gave her a single dimple so she would always have a special spot for storing my kisses. At just 5 years old, Lily has a knack for charming me with her innocent perspective. Her older brother, Sam, who is 8, impresses me with his surprising insights into the complexities of life—it’s remarkable how children at this age can articulate such profound concepts. Yet, there’s a unique sweetness to 5-year-olds; their days are filled with rainbows, glitter, and endless opportunities to hold onto their parents’ affection.
This morning, Lily asked when her dad would return from his business trip. “Mommy,” she inquired, “when is Daddy coming back from Your Ami?”
“Sweetheart,” I gently corrected her, “he’s actually in Miami.”
“That’s what I said, Mommy. Your Ami.”
How adorable is that?
I share this with you because, as we both know, the bond between a mother and daughter won’t always be filled with such sweetness. Just ask any mother of a teenager, and you’ll see how quickly the charm can fade. They will look at my precious little girl and say, “Just wait…” followed by a knowing pause as they reflect on their own experiences with moody adolescents who once adored unicorns and stuffed animals.
Moms of older kids often remind me of the challenges that lie ahead. “Just wait until she rolls her eyes at you and declares, ‘I hate you, Mom. You’re so dumb.’”
I’ve already faced a few of those moments. Just the other day, Lily yelled from the backseat of the car, frustrated because she had dropped her water bottle. With my focus on driving, I couldn’t retrieve it for her, which led to her declaring, “Mom, you are the worst! This is so gisdusting!”
While those words stung a bit, I also remember that she’s just 5—still learning, still adorable, even when she’s upset.
As mothers, we often bear the brunt of our children’s fatigue, jealousy, and hunger-induced meltdowns. We accept the fleeting disdain as part of the journey, knowing that amidst the chaos, there are hugs, laughter, and cherished moments. But the mothers of teenagers often lament the loss of those cuddles, sharing their own struggles with a sigh of “just wait…”
In light of this, I realize that, growing up in a city like Los Angeles—where mental health support is almost a prerequisite—and in an age dominated by social media, it’s likely my daughter will eventually seek therapy. While I wholeheartedly believe in the merits of therapy, it does give me pause to think that a significant portion of her conversations will revolve around me.
What weighs on me is the fear that she might misinterpret my moments of frustration or forgetfulness as reflections of her worth. It keeps me awake at night, worrying that she might think I lost my patience or forgot to make dinner because of her behavior. As a mother, I strive to shield her from taking things personally—a rite of passage many girls face.
So, Doctor, when you find Lily lamenting about my parenting choices in your office, please remind her of the countless trips we took to Chuck E. Cheese’s. Tell her I endured the chaos of that place for her sake—where every mother becomes an agent of sorts, tasked with managing her child’s excitement while dodging sensory overload. If that doesn’t scream love, I don’t know what does.
Children often forget the sacrifices we make for them: the late nights spent helping with assignments, or the mornings we rise early to ensure their favorite shirt is clean. Instead, they remember the times we faltered, like when I forgot to prepare dinner.
Also, mention the Legos. I’m convinced they were created as a testament to a mother’s love. Lily received a Lego Friends Pop Star Tour Bus set for Hanukkah, featuring 682 pieces. We spent weeks assembling it, during which she often cried over misplaced pieces. Ultimately, I took it upon myself to finish the set. It took hours, but when she saw the completed bus, her joy radiated. She declared me the best mommy ever, not realizing that I built it not just for her fleeting happiness, but to instill a deeper sense of self-worth and love within her.
I want her to navigate life with confidence, free from the pressures I faced. I hope for her to embrace love for herself much sooner than I did.
So, when Lily questions my love because I forgot dinner, kindly remind her about the adventures we shared. I endured the chaos of Chuck E. Cheese’s and faced my fears for her—killing spiders when I’d rather call 911. I do this quietly and humbly to show her just how deeply she is loved.
Please assure her that my love for her is boundless. She’s cherished beyond measure; she just may not see it in the little moments. Then, give her a hug for me and reassure her that life will unfold in beautiful ways. Remind her that one day, she may find herself in a similar position, and she too will hear the wise words, “Just wait…”
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In essence, I want you to remind Lily that she is deeply loved, even if I sometimes forget the small things.
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