I find myself perched on the largest ‘rock’ in a quaint little playground, just a few steps from the house I recently left. This ‘rock’ resembles a chair of sorts, an oddity in a space meant for children, and a potential hazard for toddlers. Yet, here it stands.
My fingers trace the carved inscriptions in the stone—messages of youthful affection like “Tom loves Sarah” and a testament to someone who spent time here, “Mark was here, March 1990.”
I was only 12 years old, waiting for my mother to pick me up for nearly two hours. I had attended extra Math classes at a teacher’s home with ten other students, all of whom had been whisked away by their waiting parents. I was left behind.
After waiting a polite amount of time—45 minutes, to be exact—I contemplated calling my mother but ultimately chose not to. I knew she wouldn’t be home. In those days before cell phones, texting, and social media, waiting was all I could do. No urgent texts. No updates on Facebook to let people know where I was. I just sat there, hoping.
Two hours later, I finally spotted the familiar black Volvo approaching. Anger and frustration had faded into a feeling of resignation.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” she said.
“Yup. It’s okay.” (But where WERE you?)
“Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“I just wanted some fresh 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, maybe show up on time?)
While waiting for two hours was unusual, being left to wait was not. Sometimes I got the feeling that my mother forgot about me. It would be easy to overlook the middle child of four kids. I was the quintessential middle child—always yearning for attention and validation, but rarely receiving it unless something noteworthy happened.
Was I waiting for something significant to occur outside that teacher’s house? Was I seeking my mother’s attention in a roundabout way? I often felt like an outsider, a bit rebellious even at a young age. I was quick to speak my mind, ready to challenge adults and defend the “little people”—which, of course, included me.
My mother loved me, and I’m sure she still does. But it wasn’t the kind of affection I craved as a child. There were no long hugs, no “I love you’s,” or discussions about our days. That simply wasn’t our dynamic.
Since my children were born, I have made it a point to hug them daily and tell them I love them—perhaps even excessively. I fantasize about the day they will open up to me. I always arrive at preschool pickup at least 20 minutes early. I never want my kids to feel they need to vie for my attention in drastic ways. I aspire to be their safe haven.
I am forging a new path. I am determined to be different from my mother.
This article was originally published on March 27, 2013.