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My daughter, Lily, is full of energy and curiosity. She is also a bit clumsy, often tumbling over as she explores her world. Most of the time, she bounces back quickly, eager to get back to her playtime. However, there are moments when she truly hurts herself and craves comfort.
Today, Lily had a little mishap and fell off the couch. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t reach her in time. She bumped her head and began to cry, her little face streaked with tears as she babbled in distress. Although her vocabulary is limited, it was clear she was scared from the fall. Instinctively, I scooped her up into my arms and held her close.
I let her express her feelings, allowing her to cry and articulate her discomfort. To soothe her, I sang “You Are My Sunshine” as she looked into my eyes, gradually managing a smile. I wiped away her tears, and we cuddled together while watching some Teletubbies. Once she calmed down, she hopped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a precious moment, yet it served as a stark reminder of my own childhood. I was also a clumsy child, prone to falls, and emotionally expressive, often crying out when I was hurt. Sadly, the response I received was far from nurturing.
“Get up!”
“Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“You didn’t hurt yourself.”
I was often labeled a “weed,” a term used in my childhood to mean someone who was physically weak or lacking in character. I can’t recall a single instance of being comforted when I was hurt. I tried to hold back tears, but the pain was sometimes overwhelming, only to be met with ridicule or disbelief.
I remember one day, my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side, lifting her into his arms and comforting her without hesitation. At just five years old, I was baffled by this difference in treatment. As tears streamed down my face, I couldn’t help but think that maybe my dad didn’t love me.
I asked him why he hadn’t called her a weed, and his confused look left me feeling more hurt. When I questioned if he loved me, he snapped back, telling me not to be silly. I ran to my mom, seeking reassurance, but she laughed off my feelings. She made me feel foolish for being upset, telling my dad to just say he loved me to stop my tears. I don’t remember his words, but I do recall having to apologize for making him angry.
This memory intruded upon the joyful moment I shared with Lily, and soon, others followed. I recalled a time when I sprained my wrist at seven. I was in excruciating pain and thought it might be broken. Instead of help, my mother mocked me for my concerns and dismissed my injury with a makeshift remedy.
Eventually, I forgot my wrist was still healing, and during a game of jumping down the stairs, I hurt it again. When I rushed to my parents in tears, I was met with laughter and mockery. They joked about my pain, and I was left without comfort or understanding.
I shared these painful memories with my husband, who listened with compassion. His validation made a difference, as he recognized the cruelty I faced in my upbringing. He reassured me that a good parent instinctively wishes to protect and comfort their child, something my parents failed to do.
As I watched Lily engrossed in her books, her happiness returned. She ran up to me, excitedly showing me what she was reading. This made me realize that while these intrusive memories are painful, they are also signals that I am breaking the cycle of neglect. They surface when I’m actively loving and supporting Lily, providing her with the nurturing I lacked.
These memories are just that—memories. They do not define my present. What matters now is that I have a daughter who needs all the love and support I can give. I want to ensure that when she becomes a parent, she will not carry the burden of past trauma but will instead embody the loving example I strive to set.
I know I will make mistakes, and there will be moments I fall short, like all parents do. Yet, Lily will never have to question my love for her. The trust in her big brown eyes fills my heart with warmth. She knows I am her unwavering supporter, and that love is more powerful than any negative thoughts.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt narrative, a mother reflects on her efforts to provide her daughter with the nurturing she lacked during her own childhood, despite being haunted by painful memories. Through moments of connection and love with her daughter, she recognizes that these intrusive thoughts signify her commitment to breaking the cycle of neglect. The article emphasizes the importance of emotional support in parenting and the transformative power of love.
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