I find myself on the largest piece of rock in a small playground, mere steps from the house I just exited. This ‘rock’ resembles a chair, an oddity in a space designed for children, yet here it stands, a potential hazard for toddlers.
As I trace the etched initials and heartwarming messages, such as “Alex loves Jamie” and “Sara was here, March 1990,” I’m transported back to a time I’d rather not revisit. At 12 years old, I sat waiting for my mother to pick me up for nearly two hours after an extra math class at a teacher’s home, alongside ten other students who all left with someone waiting for them. I was left behind.
Though offered a phone to call my mother, I declined, knowing she wasn’t at home. In an era before cell phones and social media, I had no choice but to wait. Two hours later, I finally spotted her black sedan approaching. Instead of anger or sadness, I felt a sense of resignation.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said, offering a vague excuse.
“Yup. It’s okay,” I replied, internally screaming, Where were you?!
“Why didn’t you wait inside?” she asked.
“I just wanted some air. It was boring in there anyway,” I muttered, aware that she had her own life to attend to.
“Next time, just wait inside. It’s not safe out,” she advised.
“Okay,” I said, thinking to myself, Next time, you could try arriving on time.
While two-hour waits were rare, being forgotten wasn’t unusual. As the middle child in a family of four, I often felt overlooked, craving attention and approval that rarely came my way unless something significant occurred.
Was I standing there, outside my teacher’s house, waiting for fate to intervene? Was I seeking my mother’s attention through my very presence? I often felt like an outsider, rebellious even in kindergarten, quick to voice my opinions against adults. I thought I was championing the underdog—myself.
My mother loved me, undoubtedly, but it wasn’t the affirming, nurturing love I desired. Our interactions lacked the emotional warmth I craved.
Since the birth of my own children, I’ve embraced a different approach. I hug them daily and express my love frequently, perhaps excessively. I look forward to the day they confide in me as they grow older. I always arrive at preschool pickup early, determined never to let them feel they need to seek my attention in drastic ways. I strive to be their constant source of support.
In essence, I am carving out a new path in motherhood. I am not my mother.
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In summary, this reflection highlights the contrast between past parenting experiences and current aspirations for a nurturing, attentive environment for my children. I am committed to being the supportive figure I always needed.
Keyphrase: Parenting and Nurturing Relationships
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