What I Hope My Daughter’s Future Therapist Will Understand

home insemination Kit

Dear Dr. Thompson,

The other day, my daughter Lila told me that God gave her a single dimple to keep my kisses safe. She’s 5, and she has a knack for saying the cutest things, which is what 5-year-olds do—they charm you with their innocence. Lila’s older brother, Jake, is 8 and impresses me with his insights, because that’s what 8-year-olds do—they surprise you with their understanding of complex ideas. But 5-year-old girls? They have the market cornered on cuteness. Every day is a delightful parade of unicorns, pink sparkles, and imaginative worlds where my kisses are stored.

Just this morning, Lila asked when her dad would return from his work trip. “Mommy,” she said, “when is Daddy coming back from Your Ami?”

“Actually, sweet pea,” I corrected, “he’s in Miami.”

“That’s what I said, Mommy. Your Ami.”

See, endlessly adorable.

I mention this because I know that the sweet moments with Lila may not always stay this way. If you ask any mother of a tween or teen girl, they’ll look at your charming 5-year-old and smirk, “Just wait…” followed by a reflective pause as they remember when their once-adorable daughter became a moody teen, buried in her phone, who once loved unicorns and now just loves eye-rolling.

The moms of older kids are quick to warn about the challenges ahead. “Just wait until she turns sullen.” “Just wait until she rolls her eyes and tells you, ‘I hate you, Mom. You’re so dumb.’”

It’s happened already a few times. “Mommy!” Lila yelled one day from the backseat because her water bottle fell. While trying to drive safely, I couldn’t retrieve it, which sent her into a miniature meltdown.

“Mom,” she huffed like a tiny tyrant, “You are the worst person ever. You are frustrating me. You are gisdusting.”

Sure, it hurt a bit, but she’s just 5. Five is still little. Five is still learning. It’s even cute when she mispronounces “disgusting” as “gisdusting.”

Moms often bear the brunt of tired kids, jealous siblings, and hangry episodes. We’re used to being called stupid when we’re actually right. We chalk up the disdain to a phase, because we also get love, cuddles, and the kisses saved for rainy days. Yet, moms of teenagers seem to lose the cuddles, or so it appears from the tearful sighs of my friends who keep saying, “just wait…”

“Just wait until you question every parenting choice you once felt good about.” “Just wait until the teen years pass, and you hope to get your kid back.” “Just wait.”

I’m assuming that since Lila lives in a city where you’re practically required to have a therapist on speed dial, and because she’s growing up in the age of social media and influencers, it’s likely she’ll end up with her own therapist someday.

In theory, I’m okay with this. I’ve benefited from therapy myself. But what weighs on me is that she’ll probably spend a lot of time discussing me.

I don’t worry about her recounting the times I lost my temper or when I’d try to pass off a haphazard dinner as “Family Soup Night.” Sometimes, I’m just caught up in my passions—my kids, my husband, and my writing. So, yes, on some nights we have soup for dinner.

What truly troubles me is the thought that Lila might assume my occasional lapses are reflections of her worth. I fear she’ll internalize my forgetfulness as evidence of her inadequacy. This is a rite of passage for many girls, and it’s my job to help her navigate it.

So, Doctor, if Lila finds herself lamenting my love for her during her sessions with you, please deliver this message: Chuck E. Cheese’s. Tell her I took her to Chuck E. Cheese’s many times. It’s a chaotic place where every mother becomes an overworked secret service agent, dodging sensory overload while ensuring her child has a blast. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Children rarely remember the hours Mom spent helping with homework or those frantic early mornings spent washing the shirt they just had to wear. They remember the time Mom forgot dinner.

Kids often overlook the countless sacrifices made quietly and humbly. They don’t see the effort that goes into building Lego sets, which I’m convinced were invented to showcase maternal love. Lila received a massive Lego set for Hanukkah, and together we spent weeks assembling it—well, she did most of the work while I cheered her on from the sidelines.

Eventually, out of sheer determination, I finished that Lego set for her on a rare quiet afternoon. When Lila saw it complete, she squealed with delight and declared me the best mom ever. But it wasn’t about the momentary joy; I wanted her to feel a lasting happiness about herself—a confidence I wish I had found sooner in life.

So when Lila comes to you wondering if I loved her less because I forgot to make dinner, please remind her of the times I endured Chuck E. Cheese’s and terrifying roller coasters, all to make her happy.

Tell her, “Your mother couldn’t love you more. She loves you endlessly and wildly. She just forgets to make dinner.”

Then, please give her a hug from me and reassure her that she’ll get through whatever brought her to your office. And remind her that someday, she may have a daughter of her own. “Just wait…” you might say. “Just wait.”