It was a late weekend afternoon. I was in the bedroom of our small Fresno apartment cutting up a piece of paper. My parents were in the living room, the blinds were open, and the California sun was beginning its descend for the day.
And I remember feeling warm. Not warm as in I was physically hot but warm as in happy, fulfilled, and content. I wanted to continue cutting and pasting but my hands were getting heavy and sore. I had been playing for a while. As an only child at the time, I spent a lot of time playing independently.
I remember laying my head down on the bed while still holding onto my scissors. The pile of paper was scratching my knees and made crunchy sounds each time I shifted to get more comfortable. I remember closing my eyes in amidst of all of that knowing that my mom or dad would find me, remove the scissors and scraps of paper, and tuck me in.
When I awoke, it happened just as that. By this time, it was nighttime and the only light I could see was from the living room lamp creeping through the door crack. My hands were empty and my knees felt sweaty underneath the comforter that someone had put on me.
It is this early, nurturing memory that I carry with me and recall warmly each time I find my children asleep. It is the great experience on knowing that you will be tended to. That someone cares for you and will come find you and make sure you are alright even when you aren’t aware. That someone is thinking of you and carrying you in their mind even when you aren’t present with them. And I thank my parents for providing me with this and allowing me to pass on this care to my children, their grandchildren. Throughout my childhood, I have endured some traumatic events at the hands of my parents (as I will write on this blog) however, it does not discount some of the nurturing memories they have given me. The negative experiences I received, I strive daily to overcome but it is those warm, tender gestures that I use to give me the strength to carry on and love.