I Love You

On saying what my parents never said

In the first thirty years of my life, I don’t think I ever heard my parents say “I love you” to me. After forty-six years, I’m fairly sure that my dad still hasn’t said it.

I write this not to complain. It was just a generational thing. Love is a big word, you don’t throw it around, and you certainly don’t plump it into a big cushiony sentiment for your son to lounge around on. For most of that time, I never thought of it as something that was missing.

But I’m now a father myself, somewhat belatedly, and I probably tell my 18-month-old daughter that I love her ten times a day. Of course, she doesn’t understand and sometimes doesn’t even want to listen. She has other things that need her attention, like figuring out magnetism and finding random Cheerios under the play mat. And that’s okay.

I used to wonder if my family’s lack of emotional display was a problem, if it was the reason we aren’t particularly close as adults, and why most of my siblings retain a puzzlingly close relationship with the Catholic church. Now I realise that my sympathies were in the wrong place all along (as they usually are when you point them back at yourself).

Telling my daughter I love her isn’t something I do for her. It’s something I do for me. Every time I say it is like a shot of adrenaline to the soul. It’s simple, warming, a tiny little grateful mantra that somehow never depletes, never feels played out.

I love saying it. I feel sorry for them that they missed out.