My daughter Joy handed me a picture she had drawn. “It’s you!” she said. I admired it. “Read the poem on the back! I wrote you a poem,” she urged. I turned the paper over and began reading her sweet poem:
We love you
Love us and we’ll love you
Oh how we love you
Very beautiful you
You are my mom, you are!
And how we love you.
You, you , you…But do you love me?
I smiled from ear to ear as I read, until I reached the last line. What? Doesn’t she know I love her? She was so proud of her poem, but…how heart breaking. She was waiting for my reaction so I blurted out a couple of compliments, but I suddenly felt nauseous. I am a horrible mother. She doesn’t even know I love her? How can that be? I knew I had to address it, but I didn’t want to make a huge issue out of it either. I couldn’t wait. I had to know.
“Honey, I love your poem. It’s so sweet…but…uh that last line…don’t you know I love you?” I held my breath.
“Oh, yeah. I know you love me! It just sounded good in the poem!” and she skipped on her merry way. I just smiled, but I’ve been laughing at myself ever since!