Children's Day?

Today, April 30th, we celebrate Children's Day in Mexico. It's curious, but for some years now, I no longer see my daughters as little girls, but as young ladies. During the pandemic, working far from Monterrey, I missed a part of their childhood. With each passing day, we feel our loved ones drifting a little further away. However, returning to Monterrey has allowed me to share every day with them, to recover moments and cherish them.

To be honest, Children's Day never held special meaning for me. As a child, I saw my cousins and friends excitedly showing off the gifts they received on this day. In my home, on the other hand, we barely celebrated birthdays, and I never understood why some kids got gifts on this date and I didn’t.

Over time, I experienced Children's Day in unexpected ways. I especially remember a moment that completely changed what this date meant to me. My youngest daughter was just a couple of years old when I was working at a large company. A few days before April 30th, a woman from Human Resources approached me to confirm her age. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when the day arrived, she had set aside a box of colorful blocks perfect for my little one. That simple, thoughtful gesture touched me deeply. I cried alone that day. For the first time, Children's Day took on meaning for me. My daughter loved those blocks, small details that make a big difference in life.

Years later, when I had to work outside Monterrey, the company I worked for also placed great emphasis on celebrating Children's Day. I must admit that, while the event was special, it also involved a lot of work. My department not only had to secure the unimaginable for the company but also gifts, balloons, candies, and costumes for the celebration. Despite the challenges, seeing my daughters’ excitement upon receiving those huge bags of sweets was priceless.

For the company, the gifts stopped when the children turned 12, and my daughters didn’t take long to protest when they stopped receiving those bags full of candies.

Today, once again, Children's Day has arrived. And while it still isn’t a special date for me, except because of my daughters—who will always be my little girls, even though I see them as young ladies today—I can’t help but reflect on memories of my childhood. They weren’t particularly happy. Not traumatic, perhaps, but certainly strange. In a recent conversation with my wife, I was surprised to realize that I’ve never suppressed them; on the contrary, I always keep them present. My therapist once mentioned the term “sophisticated abuse” and how writing and drawing helped me overcome many of the experiences I went through during that stage.

Recalling some moments isn’t pleasant for me. Several of those experiences, though I don’t forget them, I’ve decided not to speak of again. They are fragments of my story that I won’t be able to resolve, because my parents are no longer in this world. I know that the kingdom of heaven is within us, and that what remains of my parents lives in me. However, there are answers I will never find.