I'm three, holding my parents hands and walking in the carnival. Mom brushed my hair till it's shining, and I'm wearing my favourite blue clip. I'm a big girl today. Mommy pinned a big white napkin to my yellow-and-red frock, which means I get to wipe my hands rather than wash, like a grown up.
I'm hungry. I look up with my big brown eyes, pleading for a lollipop. "Jus one?" I put out a plump fore-finger to stress my point. My red lower lip quivers. Dad's softer than mom, within a minute I'm happily sucking on a bright red lolly.
Oooh, urgent problem. I pull on my mom's dress and say I need to go. Now. I hear her sigh but I'm too pressurized to care. I happily follow mommy, licking on the saccharine sweetness as if my life depends on it. In many way, for a three-year-old me, it does.
I'm observing my pretty lacy socks, swinging my legs rhythmically. I don't need to go any more, but I like this little cubical, and I like the song in my head. I see my mom's shoes under the door, but I don't understand the impatience.
"Sweety, come home when you're done!"
Suddenly mom's gone. I panic, and try to hurriedly follow after her. The lock is too high, its too tight. The footsteps are echoing now. In a rush of adrenaline, I manage to throw the door open and shout after her.
"Mommy?!"
But the place is deserted. I frantically check all the stalls and corners. I'm alone. The panic swells. I lean against the wall for a while.
Am I a bad girl? No, mommy says I'm a very good girl. Do I cause trouble? Rarely, daddy says he's very proud of me.
Obviously they wouldn't have left me. They couldn't have. Maybe they're waiting outside?
Frantically, I run out. "Mommy!!" But there's no one there. "Dad?" I ask, half heartedly, my voice a mere whisper now.
Maybe I was misunderstanding the situation. Every night mommy and daddy told me how much they loved me, before they tucked me in.
Every night, that is, until recently. I've become a big girl now, when I come back from the playground nowadays I am too tired to wait for them or hear a story. I tell myself, they still love me. They must be testing me, trusting me. They think I'm old enough to come home alone.
I'm a big girl now, I swell up with pride and tell myself I'll make them proud. I will come home all on my own.
I look down at my hands. They are brown and dirty. I don't want to go home like this. When mummy hugs me, I don't want to dirty her dress or daddy's shirt, though I know they won't mind. But I'm a big girl now. I can do things, like clean my hand.
I turn back inside. I'd rather wash my hands than dirty my beautiful, white napkin. My hair gets in the way and I push it back. I use lots of soap.
My confounded hair. I reach for the wipes and look into the mirror. I'm seventeen years older. My napkin has become my name tag, but aside from that, nothing much has changed. Except, I've grown up now.
Now when mommy and daddy reach for my hand, I barely notice. Mommy had been there, just a little further from the bathroom, waiting for me. But I never lost my independence.
Seventeen years I've been walking alone. And now, when I need support, I don't know how to use it.
I grew up too fast. Mom and Dad were always there for me, are always there for me. Why can't I seem to reach out?
I stare at my reflection. Things are bad. I need someone to talk to. Scratch that, I already have someone to talk to. I need guidance, and who better to give it to me than my parents?
Yet why do I feel, that it's expected of me to manage on my own? Ever since I can remember I've been looking after myself. Not doing a very good job, but still going wherever I went, all on my own.
I've grown up, but I need to grow down. I need warm, freshly baked cookies, a loud our-of-tune song, two heavenly smiles and the best group hug I've ever experienced. I need my parents, I need parental love and I need guidance. I need an arm I can crawl into and lick my wounds. I need a shield and a protector. I need a shoulder to cry on, to lie on.
I need you, mom and dad.
I love you, mom and dad.
I'm hungry. I look up with my big brown eyes, pleading for a lollipop. "Jus one?" I put out a plump fore-finger to stress my point. My red lower lip quivers. Dad's softer than mom, within a minute I'm happily sucking on a bright red lolly.
Oooh, urgent problem. I pull on my mom's dress and say I need to go. Now. I hear her sigh but I'm too pressurized to care. I happily follow mommy, licking on the saccharine sweetness as if my life depends on it. In many way, for a three-year-old me, it does.
I'm observing my pretty lacy socks, swinging my legs rhythmically. I don't need to go any more, but I like this little cubical, and I like the song in my head. I see my mom's shoes under the door, but I don't understand the impatience.
"Sweety, come home when you're done!"
Suddenly mom's gone. I panic, and try to hurriedly follow after her. The lock is too high, its too tight. The footsteps are echoing now. In a rush of adrenaline, I manage to throw the door open and shout after her.
"Mommy?!"
But the place is deserted. I frantically check all the stalls and corners. I'm alone. The panic swells. I lean against the wall for a while.
Am I a bad girl? No, mommy says I'm a very good girl. Do I cause trouble? Rarely, daddy says he's very proud of me.
Obviously they wouldn't have left me. They couldn't have. Maybe they're waiting outside?
Frantically, I run out. "Mommy!!" But there's no one there. "Dad?" I ask, half heartedly, my voice a mere whisper now.
Maybe I was misunderstanding the situation. Every night mommy and daddy told me how much they loved me, before they tucked me in.
Every night, that is, until recently. I've become a big girl now, when I come back from the playground nowadays I am too tired to wait for them or hear a story. I tell myself, they still love me. They must be testing me, trusting me. They think I'm old enough to come home alone.
I'm a big girl now, I swell up with pride and tell myself I'll make them proud. I will come home all on my own.
I look down at my hands. They are brown and dirty. I don't want to go home like this. When mummy hugs me, I don't want to dirty her dress or daddy's shirt, though I know they won't mind. But I'm a big girl now. I can do things, like clean my hand.
I turn back inside. I'd rather wash my hands than dirty my beautiful, white napkin. My hair gets in the way and I push it back. I use lots of soap.
My confounded hair. I reach for the wipes and look into the mirror. I'm seventeen years older. My napkin has become my name tag, but aside from that, nothing much has changed. Except, I've grown up now.
Now when mommy and daddy reach for my hand, I barely notice. Mommy had been there, just a little further from the bathroom, waiting for me. But I never lost my independence.
Seventeen years I've been walking alone. And now, when I need support, I don't know how to use it.
I grew up too fast. Mom and Dad were always there for me, are always there for me. Why can't I seem to reach out?
I stare at my reflection. Things are bad. I need someone to talk to. Scratch that, I already have someone to talk to. I need guidance, and who better to give it to me than my parents?
Yet why do I feel, that it's expected of me to manage on my own? Ever since I can remember I've been looking after myself. Not doing a very good job, but still going wherever I went, all on my own.
I've grown up, but I need to grow down. I need warm, freshly baked cookies, a loud our-of-tune song, two heavenly smiles and the best group hug I've ever experienced. I need my parents, I need parental love and I need guidance. I need an arm I can crawl into and lick my wounds. I need a shield and a protector. I need a shoulder to cry on, to lie on.
I need you, mom and dad.
I love you, mom and dad.
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