“Mommy, do you still love me?” Her giant blue eyes were
welling with tears, her lip quivered.
My heart shattered.
“Of course I do! Why would you ask that?”
I couldn’t think of a single reason or event that would
justify such a gut-wrenching question from a three year old. From my three year
old.
“I dropped my toy. I thought you were mad,” she replied
while wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
“I will always love you, no matter what. Even when I get
mad, I love you. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you. Nothing. Ever. You understand?
I will love you forever.” And, with that she smiled and hugged my arm. She told
me she loved me and bounded off to play. I was left trying to figure out what
just transpired.
I was working on this column when she had come in to tell me
she dropped her toy. It has fallen from her hands and hit her lip. She wasn’t
hurt, but felt the need to tell me about it. I had checked her face and made
sure she was ok. I had kissed her and gone back to my work. I couldn’t think of
anything I had done to make her think I had ceased to love her.
Maybe, in her mind, I had gotten mad. Maybe, in her still
developing brain, being mad meant no longer loving. I tried to brush it off. I
tried to write about something else. But the question kept creeping into my
head: What is love to a child? I never remember teaching it to her. She never
once mentioned it in her barrage of questioning everything. Love was something
she instinctually knew. It was something she felt and learned, somehow, to
associate with the word. Her daddy and I had been saying, “I love you” to her
since before her ears were functional and she was still occupying the space
behind my belly button. Did she learn by osmosis? Did she absorb the love we
have for her and figured it out that way? Or, what if, she wasn’t actually sure
of what love was at all, and that was why she questioned my stance?
The only way to find out was to ask her. I called her back
into the kitchen where I had been contemplating. “Kiddo, what is love?”
She thought for a minute, head slightly cocked to one side,
eyes looking off into the distance. A smile slowly formed and grew larger as
her thinking took shape and then formed words, “You mommy!!”
I melted on the spot. Scooped her up and held her tight. I
blinked back tears, not wanting her to see me cry. Happy tears were still an
oddity we discussed frequently. She asked me if I was done hugging her yet.
“Almost,” I lied. After her response, I may never be done
hugging her. I managed to peel myself away before out sweet embrace became a full-fledged
wrestling match. She scampered off to do whatever it was that she was up to at
the moment and I turned back to my computer screen.
I was the definition of love for my daughter. If I took a
step away from my own emotions and looked at her answer objectively, it made
sense. Perfect sense. I embody safety, warmth, soothing, and happiness for
her. I have been the center to her
slowly growing universe for over 3 years. It would make sense that she would
describe such a complex emotion with one word. Mommy.
My thoughts turned to other kids. Do they have a similar
description? Does age change their definition? Do we adults over complicate a
basic human emotion by trying to define it? I took to my Facebook page and
asked parents to have their kiddos fill in the blank:
Love is ________.
Here is a little of what I received.
“Mommy.” -2 year old
“Kisses. True
love is best friends.” -4.5 year old
“The most important thing in the whole wide world.” -5year
old
“Something that keeps you together no matter how far away
you are.” -10 year old
“Strong.” -14 year old
“The force that keeps this world alive and gives us meaning
to survive."-15 year old
Their answers showed that, as adults, we tend to
overcomplicate things. Dictionary.com has over 27 definitions of what love is.
After reading what the kids said and then the 27 things the dictionary had to
say, I had a thought. What if we just let go and loved. Ignored preconceived
notions of what love is and what it isn’t. What if we started to define love by
what we know instead of what we think it should be? What if, when we fell, we
enjoyed the plunge instead of praying while we plummet that we land with our
hearts and heads intact? What if we love thoroughly without constraints and
fear?
What if we loved like our children?
What a nice piece. I love the progression of definitions by the children. I wish I knew how to go back to loving like a three year old. I still remember how to tantrum like one, but not love. Go figure. I think I may have loved this post like a kid, though :-)
ReplyDeleteThank you! I loved all the answers the kids gave. It was hard to edit them down to the few I used.
DeleteI can totally tantrum like a 3 year old. I try to love like one. It is hard!
Thank you so much for reading!!
This is so beautiful, it made me get all weepy! My oldest will be three in a few weeks and I can't wait to ask him this question tomorrow. I can tell he's trying to figure it out. Sometimes he'll say "I don't love you, Mommy," to which I always reply "well, I will always love anyway," and then he says "I'm just kidding, Mommy. I love you." And then I get a kiss.
ReplyDeleteLove it! Thank you for reading!!
DeleteOh how I love where you went with this -- defining love via our own eyes and then through our children's is powerful.
ReplyDeleteLovely job here, lady!
Thank you so very much. And thank you for reading!!
DeleteI took my time getting here. But I love this. Your kid is so sweet it makes me cry.
ReplyDeleteTake all the time you need, my friend. I hope you get to meet her. My words will never do her justice. She is pretty awesome.
DeleteThank you so very much. XOXO
There is so much we should be doing like children. Love, play, forgive, sleep, make new friends, anticipate a holiday, enjoy the little things…
ReplyDeleteThank you for this beautiful post. Still wiping tears...
Thank you for your continual support!
DeleteYou are so right, we should be learning from our children. They are far wiser than we give them credit for. There is something to be said for their innocence.