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July 23, 2006

Do you still love me?

It was the middle of Caroline’s spring concert for school, and Frank was in time-out again.

Sitting still on the metal folding chairs, watching the older students sing and play, proved too much for Frank, whose squirmy 5-year-old body would not be still. I pulled him onto my lap in hopes of calming him down, but when he started using me as a climbing toy, I’d had enough. Out to the stairwell we went.

I sat Frank on the bottom step and stood a foot or two away, where I could still watch the concert through the doors. If you can’t sit still and be quiet, I told him, you can’t watch. You have to sit there.

Then I turned to watch the show.

Frank was quiet for a few seconds. I thought I had him thinking about how to behave. Then he said, “Mommy, do you still love me?” And he smiled.

Even so, I can’t let that question go. Since that evening, he has asked it many times—always when he’s being scolded or in time out or enduring some other form of discipline. And every time, I answer, “Of course I do. No matter what. Even if I’m mad at you, or if you’re mad at me, I still love you.”

Every time, he smiles, and even if I was mad at him when I started, the anger, frustration or annoyance fades away. Because no matter what, I do love him.

Frank might not have started kindergarten yet, but there are some lessons he has already learned. One is that he is always loved. The other is that he sometimes has to remind Mom about the important stuff.

I know that because he doesn’t ask me if I love him because he doesn’t know the answer. If he thought there was a chance I didn’t love him, I don’t think he’d be able to ask the question. He does it to remind me—and to reassure himself that whatever is happening at the moment will soon pass, and we’ll be back to sharing hugs, kisses and train rides.

Maybe he has that confidence because his dad and I often tell him we love him. We also play the “Who loves you?” game, getting him to list family and friends who all love him.

We adults don’t play that game much. I know who depends on me, and I know to whom I have obligations. But not many people (besides my family) tell me they love me—and if they did, it would strike me as kind of strange.

But the need for love doesn’t go away. The Gospel of John tells us “God is love,” so maybe the need for love is really a thirst for God. If it is, it explains why people need love so much, as much as they need food, water and shelter.

The difference is that just as much as we need to get love, we also need to give it. That’s why Frank tells me all the time, “I love you, Mom. No matter what.”

Michelle Martin is a Catholic New World staff writer.