My daughter, Bella, is an incredibly energetic little girl, though she often lacks spatial awareness and tends to be quite clumsy. As you might expect, she frequently tumbles over. Most of the time, she bounces back up, eager to dive back into her playtime or race around the room. However, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and needs comfort.
Today, Bella fell off the couch. It happened so fast that I couldn’t catch her in time. She bumped her head and immediately started to cry, tears streaming down her face as she babbled in a panicked tone. Although her vocabulary is still developing, it was clear she was expressing her fear from the fall. Instinctively, I scooped her into my arms and held her close.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings. Then, I softly sang “You Are My Sunshine” as she looked up at me, slowly starting to smile. I wiped her tears away while we cuddled and watched a bit of Teletubbies. Once she felt more at ease and had calmed down, she hopped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a heartwarming moment. Yet, as I provided Bella with the nurturing I never received, I was reminded of my own childhood. Memories of similar incidents flooded back. Like Bella, I was also a clumsy child prone to falls, and I would often cry out in pain. However, I didn’t receive the comforting response 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 “weak” if I cried, a term that was commonly used in my upbringing. I can’t recall ever receiving a hug or any form of reassurance when I hurt myself. I’d try to suppress my tears, but sometimes the pain was too great. Instead of comfort, I faced ridicule or disbelief regarding my pain.
I vividly recall a day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side, embracing her tenderly. He always comforted her after a fall, never calling her names. I was just five years old and couldn’t grasp why I was treated differently. Overcome with emotion, I began to cry, concluding that my father didn’t love me.
Curiously, I asked him why he never called her names. He looked bewildered, unable to respond. When I questioned his love for me, he snapped, telling me not to be foolish. I ran to my mom, crying and explaining what had transpired. I revealed that this was a recurring pattern: he always comforted my sister, while I was met with disdain.
My mom laughed, dismissing my feelings as an overreaction. She suggested my dad simply tell me he loved me to stop my tears. I can’t recall if he did, but I do remember being made to apologize for upsetting him.
This memory intruded upon the beautiful moment I shared with Bella, and soon other painful memories surfaced. For instance, when I was seven, I sprained my wrist and, not knowing what a sprain was, assumed it was broken. Instead of comfort, my mother mocked me for thinking it was broken and didn’t seek medical help. She fashioned a makeshift bandage from an old sock, cutting out the toes, and that was that.
As my wrist began to heal, I forgot it wasn’t fully recovered. I created a game of jumping down the stairs, landing like a frog. One day, I jumped and re-injured my wrist. Crying in pain, I went to my parents, but they laughed at my distress even as they asked what was wrong.
No hugs or comfort were offered. Instead, I was ridiculed throughout the day, with jokes about how I looked when I was on the ground. My parents’ disdain for Muslims turned their jokes into something they found humorous.
I shared these memories with my husband, expressing how they resurface during my joyful moments with Bella. Speaking to him was cathartic; he validated my feelings, agreeing that my parents were unkind and that nurturing is a natural instinct of good parents.
As I watched Bella engrossed in her books, seemingly unaffected by the earlier incident, she approached me, excitedly exclaiming “a book!” and handed me what she was reading. As I began to read to her, I realized that these intrusive thoughts, while painful, signify that I am breaking the cycle of neglect. They arise during moments when I am providing Bella with the love and support I longed for in my own childhood.
These memories are just that—memories. They aren’t happening to me now. What matters is that I can finally offer the love I had stored up for so long. I have a little girl who deserves all the affection I’ve been yearning to give. When Bella has children of her own, she won’t have the same past traumas; she will only know the loving environment I strive to create for her.
I know I’ll make mistakes, and there will be times I fall short like any parent. But Bella will never have to question my love for her. The way she gazes at me with her trusting brown eyes fills my heart with love. She knows she can always count on me, and that assurance is stronger than any painful memories I might carry.
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Summary:
This article discusses the author’s experience as a parent striving to provide her child with the nurturing she lacked during her own upbringing. Through tender moments with her daughter, the author reflects on her painful childhood memories, recognizing them as reminders of breaking the cycle of neglect. She emphasizes the importance of love and support in parenting, ensuring her child knows she is loved unconditionally.