I find myself perched on the largest “rock” in a quaint playground, just a stone’s throw from the house I recently left. This “rock” resembles a chair of sorts—an oddity in a space meant for children, a potential hazard for toddlers. Yet, here it sits.
I absentmindedly trace the carved initials etched into the stone—testaments of youthful affection, like “Sam loves Mia,” and evidence of someone’s prolonged stay, “Jake was here, March 1990.”
At that moment, I was 12 years old, waiting for nearly two hours for my mother to pick me up. I had just finished extra math classes at a teacher’s home, along with ten other students, all of whom were quickly whisked away by their waiting parents. But there I was, all alone.
After what I considered a reasonable wait (45 minutes), I chose not to call my mother, even when offered the phone. I instinctively knew she wouldn’t be home. In a time before cell phones and social media, it was a simple matter of patience. No urgent texts or Facebook messages to update my location or to check in with my dad.
I sat in that house for what felt like an eternity. Finally, after two long hours, I spotted her black Volvo approaching. By then, I was beyond angry or hurt; I had simply resigned myself to the situation.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said as she pulled up.
“Yup. It’s okay.” (But where WERE you?!?)
“Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“I just wanted some air. It was boring in there anyway.” (The teacher had her own life to manage.)
“Next time, just wait inside. It’s not safe out.”
“Okay.” (Next time, please arrive on time.)
While such a lengthy wait was unusual, it wasn’t uncommon for me to feel forgotten. As the third of four children, I often felt like the typical middle child—yearning for attention and validation, with little to show for it. Unless, of course, something significant occurred.
Was I waiting for something to change while sitting outside that teacher’s home? Was I seeking my mother’s attention in a rather dramatic fashion? I often felt like an outsider, rebellious even in kindergarten, quick to speak my mind and stand up for myself.
My mother loved me, and I know she still does. But the affection I craved as a child was never quite expressed in the way I needed. Our relationship lacked the warmth of hugs, the exchange of “I love you’s,” and heartfelt conversations about our days.
Since the births of my own children, I have made it a point to hug them daily. I tell them I love them repeatedly, perhaps excessively. I dream of the day they will share their secrets with me. I always arrive 20 minutes early for preschool pickups, determined to ensure my children never feel the need to seek my attention in drastic ways. I want to be their safe haven, always.
I am forging my own path. I am not like my mother.