As I sit on the oddly shaped ‘rock’ in a small playground, just a few steps from my house, I can’t help but reflect. This peculiar structure, resembling a chair, is a strange sight in a place meant for children. I absentmindedly trace the carved names and messages etched into it—testaments of youthful affection like “Jake loves Emily” and reminders from days gone by, “Sara was here, May 1992.”
At the age of 12, I found myself waiting for my mother to pick me up for nearly two hours. I had just finished extra math classes at a teacher’s house, surrounded by a dozen other students, all of whom were whisked away to their waiting families. I, however, remained alone. I waited patiently in the teacher’s living room, wrestling with my thoughts. I had the option to call my mother but knew she wouldn’t be available. In a time before smartphones and social media, I simply had to endure the wait.
Finally, I saw her black sedan approach. Rather than anger, I felt a sense of resignation wash over me.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said when she arrived.
“Yup. It’s okay.” (But seriously, where were you?)
“Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“I just wanted some fresh air. It was a bit dull in there.” (After all, the teacher had her own life to attend to.)
“Next time, just wait inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“Sure.” (Next time, how about you arrive on time?)
Though this lengthy wait was uncommon, being overlooked was a recurrent theme in my life. As a middle child among four, I often felt invisible, craving attention and validation. Waiting for my mother felt like a metaphor for my childhood—always hoping for something, anything, to solidify my place in her heart.
I grew up feeling like an outsider, rebellious even in my early years. I often voiced my opinions, defending those who might be overlooked—mainly myself. My mother loved me, I know that, but her affection didn’t match the warmth I yearned for. Our family dynamic was not built on hugs or heartfelt conversations; it simply wasn’t who we were.
Since my own children were born, I have made it my mission to hug them every day and tell them I love them often—perhaps excessively. I dream of the day when they will confide in me about their lives. I’m always the first to arrive for preschool pick-ups. I never want them to feel the need to act out for my attention. I strive to be their safe haven, their constant support.
I am creating a new legacy. I am not my mother.
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In summary, my experience as a child shaped my approach to parenting. I am determined to create a nurturing and open environment for my children, different from my own upbringing.
Keyphrase: Not My Mother’s Daughter
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