My daughter, Ava, is a lively little girl who often lacks spatial awareness and tends to be a bit clumsy. As a result, she frequently tumbles over. Most of the time, she gets back up as if nothing happened, eager to dive back into playtime. But there are moments when she truly hurts herself and needs comforting.
Today, she fell off the couch. It was so sudden that I couldn’t reach her in time. She bumped her head and immediately burst into tears, babbling anxiously. She is still learning to express herself, but I could tell she was frightened. Instinctively, I picked her up and held her close.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings. I sang “You Are My Sunshine” as she gazed into my eyes and began to smile. I wiped her tears away while we spent some quality time watching cartoons. Once she calmed down, she jumped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a truly special moment. However, as I gave Ava the nurturing I never experienced, I was hit with memories of my own childhood. I, too, was a clumsy child who often fell. Like Ava, I would express my pain, but I wasn’t met with the comfort I needed.
“Get up!”
“Don’t cry, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“You didn’t even hurt yourself.”
More often than not, I was ridiculed for crying. In my childhood home, being called a “wimp” was common if I expressed my pain. I have no recollection of ever receiving a hug or reassurance when I was hurt; I just tried to hold back tears, but sometimes the pain was too overwhelming.
I vividly remember a day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to comfort her, always treating her with kindness while I was left feeling unloved. At five years old, I couldn’t understand why she received so much affection. I cried and asked my dad why he didn’t call her names, to which he didn’t have a proper response. When I questioned his love for me, he snapped that I was being ridiculous. I ran to my mom, seeking answers, but she dismissed my feelings with laughter, making me feel foolish for bringing it up.
This memory intruded upon the sweet moment I shared with Ava. Soon, other painful memories surfaced as well. I recalled a time when I sprained my wrist at seven. In agony and unsure of what was wrong, I was mocked by my mother for thinking it might be broken. She didn’t seek medical help; instead, she fashioned a makeshift bandage from an old sock.
As I healed, I once again hurt my wrist while jumping down the stairs during play. I ran to my parents, crying, but they laughed and mocked me instead of comforting me. There were no hugs, no kind words—just ridicule that lingered throughout the day.
I shared these thoughts with my husband, explaining how often my beautiful moments with Ava are overshadowed by haunting memories of my childhood. Talking to him was therapeutic; he validated my feelings and agreed that my parents were unkind. He told me that any loving parent would instinctively protect and comfort their children.
As I watched Ava engrossed in her books, seemingly unfazed, I realized that these intrusive thoughts don’t have to be a negative thing. They reveal that I am breaking the cycle of my past. They arise in moments when I’m parenting well, showering Ava with the love and support I longed for.
These memories are just that—memories. They do not define my present. Right now, I can provide all the love I saved during my childhood for my little girl who needs it. When she becomes a parent, she will learn to share beautiful moments without the shadow of past trauma. She will have the loving example I always wished for.
I know I will make mistakes, and there will be times I fall short, as all parents do. But Ava will never doubt my love for her. The trust in her big brown eyes fills my heart with warmth. She knows she can depend on me, and that’s stronger than any intrusive thought.
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Summary:
A mother reflects on her challenging childhood while nurturing her daughter, Ava, with affection and support. Despite painful memories surfacing, she recognizes that she is breaking the cycle of neglect and is determined to provide the love she never received. Her moments with Ava serve as a testament to healing and the power of nurturing in parenting.