If you had asked me when I was younger, I would have said very adamantly that I was never going to get married and have children (although I secretly wished to). After a difficult childhood, I was scared and hesitant to one day become a wife and mother. However, I was also a tiny bit hopeful that if it were to happen someday, that perhaps I could create a different life than the one I had experienced.
Fast forward to today. I’ve been married for 8.5 years and have 2 wonderful children. I love the family I have created. My daughter is 5.5 years old, and she is by far the most free-spirited, energetic, and fun-loving person I know. And she’s funny, she’s so, so funny. When she laughs, it comes from a place of pure joy. There are times I find myself just watching her, fascinated. She’s outgoing, engaging, sweet, and she’s magical. She says what’s on her mind, often with no filter. Her confidence is inspiring. I can’t tell you the number of times I have found myself wondering, was I like that when I was her age?
I have been estranged from my family for almost 9 years. And I don’t have a single family member with whom I’m in contact with. I have no photographs, school projects, report cards, awards, certificates, etc, from my childhood to show my children that their mom was indeed, at one point in time, just like them. All I have is my birth certificate which I had to move mountains to obtain, and I still cling on to as my most treasured possession from youth. I can recognize my father’s handwriting on that certificate from anywhere, and it’s nostalgic and emotionally charging every time I look at it. Other than that precious piece of paper, it often feels at times as if I am a ghost, floating around with no past, desperately trying to piece together memories.
Unfortunately, what I have learned is that when I try to recall any happy moments from childhood, unpleasant ones inevitably push their way to the forefront forcing me to abandon the task altogether. And ironically, I have married someone whose mom has saved his first baby spoon, still has Christmas ornaments he made in elementary school, and proudly displays every trophy he has ever won to this day. There are so many tales and adventures from my childhood that I can’t recall. Silly, embarrassing, funny stories that I would love to share with my children, but I’m missing the someone who can fill in the blanks for them and for me.
There are times that I look at my daughter during her periods of big belly laughs, and I think, when did my sparkle and joy disappear? Was I her age when I started to realize that anger, passive aggressiveness, and silent treatment dominated our household instead of love, laughter, and respect? If I had grown up in the household she is currently living in, what kind of person would I have been today? If I didn’t have to absorb so many difficult experiences so quickly and early on in age, would I have carried joyful childhood memories into my older years and been a much more open, carefree, and confident adult? I’ll never know.
Family Day occurs on the third Monday in February. I still remember schools being closed that day to honor the holiday when I was growing up in Canada. At that time, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to celebrate their family, and truthfully, the thought of spending any more time with my family than I already had felt forced and unnatural. Now that I have created a family of my own, I would be immensely sad if my children ever felt the way I did. So, while I still strive today to untangle the complicated emotions that mar my childhood, my hope is that I am doing the best I can for them as the person I am today and will do even better for them in the future.
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