Just Wanted to Be Loved
I was a good kid. You know like the kind that is deathly afraid of getting in trouble and will melt when you give me "the look." I am the one that would rather have gotten a spanking than to be told that someone was disappointed in me. I was a very sensitive child. Was I perfect? Heavens no. I was a child.
I have children. Three of them. Little girls. Rambunctious little girls who fight and then love like there is no tomorrow. My dream growing up was to have little girls. I am so thankful that God has allowed me to have these girls. They annoy me to no end but my heart skips 15 beats anytime I think something is wrong with them. Daily I question my ability to be a good parent. Minute by minute I wonder if I am doing it all wrong. I pray that at least some of the things their dad and I are teaching them stick. They make me crazy and I love them like there's no tomorrow.
I can never imagine leaving these kids behind. Anywhere. I cannot imagine loving something else more than them. I don't understand what makes people do that. How can someone love a substance more than the life that they created? How can they be okay with someone else loving their child the way they are supposed to love her? It makes zero sense to me and frankly, it makes so so angry inside. The older my children get, the less I understand. How can someone drop their kid off at a family member's house as the little girl is screaming not to leave and not come back for weeks? What does that do to a person? I cannot fathom it.
I know I was not a bad kid. What did I do to deserve to not be loved? I tried so hard to be easy. I tried so hard to be helpful. I tried to be quiet. I did not want to cause problems. I made straight As. I had friends at school. I won the city-wide coloring contest in 3rd grade. I got all 100s on my report card in the 5th grade. I wanted to be loved. Plain and simple. That is all. I was loved by others. Not by the ones that were supposed to love me unconditionally from the moment I took breath into my lungs.
Sometimes the reality of what all of this is makes my heart hurt. A lot. Probably more than it should. I can do nothing about it. It is what it is. What can I do about it?