My daughter, Mia, is an energetic little girl with a knack for getting into mischief. Her spatial awareness is still developing, which makes her quite clumsy. Consequently, she frequently tumbles down. Most of the time, she dusts herself off and continues playing with her toys or racing around the room. However, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and needs a little comfort.
Today, she took a fall off the couch. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t catch her in time. She bumped her head and began to cry, tears streaming down her face as she babbled in a frantic tone. Although she hasn’t mastered many words yet, I could tell she was expressing her fear from the fall. Instinctively, I scooped her into my arms for a comforting hug.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings, then I sang “You Are My Sunshine” while she looked into my eyes, which coaxed a smile from her. As I wiped her tears away, we snuggled up and enjoyed some Teletubbies together. Once she calmed down and regulated her emotions, she jumped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a lovely moment. However, while providing Mia with what I lacked in my own childhood, I’m often reminded of my past. Memories of similar incidents from my own upbringing flood back. Like Mia, I was a clumsy child prone to falling. I was also emotionally expressive and often cried or exclaimed “ouch” when I got hurt. Unfortunately, I didn’t receive the nurturing support I needed.
“Get up!”
“Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“You didn’t hurt yourself.”
More often than not, I was labeled a “wimp,” a term commonly used where I grew up, implying someone who is physically weak or lacks character. I can’t recall ever receiving a hug or reassurance when I was hurt. I would try to hold back my tears, but sometimes the pain was too much. Instead of comfort, I faced ridicule and disbelief.
I vividly remember one day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side, scooping her into his arms, providing the comfort I yearned for but never received. At just five years old, I couldn’t understand why she was treated with such tenderness. Tears filled my eyes as I concluded my father didn’t love me as he loved her.
When I asked why he hadn’t called her a wimp, he looked bewildered. My inquiry about his love for me led to his irritated response, telling me not to be silly. I ran to my mom, crying and explaining what had happened. I also pointed out the ongoing pattern—he always comforted my sister, never belittled her, and always believed her pain.
My mom laughed, dismissing my feelings as silly. She instructed my dad to just tell me he loved me to stop my tears. I don’t recall if he did, but I remember having to apologize for upsetting him.
This recollection intruded on the beautiful moment I shared with Mia, overshadowing it. Other memories surged forth too. Once, I sprained my wrist at the age of seven. I couldn’t move it and thought it was broken. Instead of seeking help, my mother mocked my fears, merely cutting the toes out of an old sock for me to wear as a makeshift brace.
Although my wrist healed, I forgot it wasn’t fully recovered. I engaged in a game while going down the stairs to see how far I could jump, landing awkwardly and injuring my wrist again. Crying in pain, I rushed to my parents, but their laughter only added to my distress. They mocked me for the rest of the day, making jokes at my expense.
I shared these thoughts with my partner, explaining how these memories often surface during joyful moments with Mia. His validating response was comforting. He acknowledged my parents’ cruelty and reassured me that loving parents instinctively want to protect and comfort their children.
As Mia sat reading her books, seemingly unfazed, she brightened my heart when she ran up to me, exclaiming “a book!” as she handed me what she was reading. As I began to read to her, I realized that while these painful memories linger, they also signify that I’m breaking the cycle. They only arise when I’m parenting well and offering Mia the love and support I never received.
These memories are just that—memories. They are not my current reality. Right now, I am able to give all the love I saved throughout my childhood to my little girl, who needs it. This is why when she has children and shares precious moments with them, she won’t have past trauma resurfacing; she will simply be living the loving example I set for her.
I know I will make mistakes, and there will be times when I fall short as a parent. However, Mia will never have to question my love for her. The trust in her big brown eyes fills my heart with love, assuring me she knows she can depend on me and that I’m always on her side. This bond is far more powerful than any intrusive thoughts I may have.
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For related queries, you might explore:
- What are the best practices for comforting a child after a fall?
- How to break the cycle of childhood trauma in parenting?
- What are effective ways to support emotional expression in children?
- How to ensure your child feels loved and secure?
- What resources are available for new parents navigating their own pasts?
In summary, my journey of parenting Mia allows me to provide her with the love and support I desperately needed as a child, breaking the cycle of toxic experiences from my past.