Conditional Love, Unconditional Love

I have a childhood memory that is like a stain—inconspicuous and small, yet it remains very deep and will never fade away.

The color of that stain is not bright.

Though that dark stain looks small on the surface, it has quietly and widely seeped its color into the deepest parts of my heart.

And perhaps that seepage is still growing little by little even now.

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When I was in the first grade of elementary school, Mini 4WDs—plastic models with electric motors—were popular. They are toy cars that run when you assemble them, put in batteries, and turn on the power.

My friends and I all owned several of them. Since they would immediately hit walls or furniture and stop inside the house, we all used to play with them outside.

The company that manufactured the Mini 4WDs sold official race tracks for indoor use, but none of my friends owned one. At that time, my father made one by hand, imitating the official race track using cardboard and thick paper as materials. To my childhood self, it looked like a magnificent piece of work, almost indistinguishable from the official one, and it seemed wonderful.

I cheered with joy, ran my Mini 4WD on that race track over and over again, and played with it, completely absorbed. It was an object that took up too much space in the small apartment we lived in at the time, but having a Mini 4WD race track at home felt like a dream.

I invited friends over and played with it together. My friends were all surprised and envious, saying, "Wow! Amazing!" I felt ticklish receiving their envious gazes, but I was genuinely happy, and above all, I was proud of my father for making such an amazing thing for me.

I think it is the same for many small children, but I believed my father was a great person who could do anything. I thought my father was a bit scary, but also somehow an amazing person.

I think that feeling of him being an amazing person became even stronger because he made this Mini 4WD track for me.

For a while, I innocently enjoyed the joy of having obtained a wonderful toy. However, it suddenly became more than just joy. One day at dinner, my father declared, "If you ever fail to get a 100 on a test in the future, the Mini 4WD race track will be put away." My mother nodded deeply, and she seemed to fully endorse that opinion.

I was devastated by that declaration. Would I be able to keep getting 100s on every test from now on? I surely couldn't. It would probably be put away soon. I didn't want that. But as long as my father had declared it and my mother had affirmed it, that promise could never be changed.

Since that declaration, I was able to get 100s on tests for about two times in a row. However, the third test was not a 100. I hid that test in the back of the file holder attached to my study desk.

I didn't hesitate. The idea of honestly telling my father and mother that I hadn't gotten a 100, apologizing, and begging for forgiveness because I would try harder next time didn't even cross the back of my mind.

At that time, my desire not to have the race track taken away was so strong that I probably couldn't think of anything other than hiding the test.

It was my first experience having a guilty secret from my father and mother. Although apologizing was not an option, a sense of guilt about having a secret began to sprout.

No, perhaps it was a little different from guilt. Because I don't think I felt much that it was a sin or a bad thing at that time. It's not that I had no guilt at all, but what weighed more heavily on my heart was the feeling of what I would do if it were discovered that I was hiding the test. I was deathly afraid that my father and mother would find the tests that were not 100s hidden in the back of the file holder.

As time passed, every time a test was taken, the tests that were not 100s kept piling up in the back of the file holder—two, three, four. If you ask whether my fear increased as the number of sheets increased, that was not really the case.

Because I became accustomed to that secret, it became a habit to show my father and mother tests with perfect scores and hide the others, and the guilt I originally barely had disappeared completely, and the fear that I might be found out also gradually decreased.

When I played with my race track, it was only to the extent that the back of the file stand would occasionally cross my mind.

However, the secrets of a still young, first-grade elementary school student would eventually come to light. My mother noticed that the number of tests I brought home—that is, the ones I showed her without hiding—had become unusually small.
And then, she found the crumpled-up tests that didn't have perfect scores in the back of the file stand.

My mother asked, "Why do you do things like this?"
I cried. I kept crying because I was sad about being scolded and about my race track being taken away. My mother asked me many times why I hid the tests. At first, I interpreted my mother's words, "Why do you do things like this?" as meaning, "You shouldn't do things like this!" and I thought she was continuing to be angry that I had hidden the tests.
Therefore, I had no choice but to shed tears without saying anything.

However, while crying, I watched her and began to vaguely feel that my mother was truly confused and didn't understand why I had hidden the tests.

I had taken the promise that "if you don't keep getting perfect scores, the race track will be taken away" as an absolute, and I didn't doubt that my father and mother clearly remembered it as well.

Therefore, I thought my father and mother would immediately understand that the reason I hid the tests was because I didn't want the race track to be taken away.

However, the mother in front of me looked puzzled, unable to understand the reason.

I gathered my courage and told her, "Because you said you would take the track away if I didn't get 100 points," and my mother made an indescribable expression that looked surprised and puzzled. Then my mother said, "What! There's no way your dad or I would do something like that."
As I thought, my mother didn't know why I had hidden the tests. Furthermore, she didn't even seem to remember my father's statement.

Perhaps my father saying he would take the race track away if I didn't get 100 points wasn't that important, and he had just said it lightly on the spot. My mother didn't even remember that promise well, so it seemed that for my father and mother, they hadn't even thought I was worried about such a thing.

Even though I was bound by that promise and it occupied a significant part of my heart, it was a trivial matter for my father and mother.

This was an event that became a trigger for me to realize that things I consider important might not be that important to others.

In the end, the race track wasn't taken away and was kept in the small room of our small apartment for a while, but every time I saw it, it felt like I was being confronted with the inconvenient fact that I had hidden the tests, so I played with it less.

And before I knew it, it was gone, and the small room in the small apartment started to feel just a little bit bigger.

However, this was not the end regarding my father and mother's obsession with tests.

The promise that "if it's not a 100, the track will be taken away" seemed not to have been such an important promise, but the fundamental mindset of saying "if it's not a 100" was something that formed the foundation of life for my father and mother.

My father regretted that his family was poor and he wasn't allowed to go to university. Because of that, he thought it was harder for him to get promoted at his current company than others, and he felt humiliated by that.
My mother resented that she wasn't allowed to go to university due to the trend in the countryside at the time that women didn't need to acquire useless knowledge.

My father and mother were convinced that they had the ability to go to famous universities, and they were convinced that if they had just graduated from university, the vague anxiety and unhappiness they currently felt would have been resolved.
Therefore, both of them had a kind of common understanding that they at least wanted to send their child to university and not let them experience the same sense of misfortune they had.

As a result, they spared no effort to improve my academic ability. From the time I was in the fourth grade of elementary school until I was in the third year of high school, they let me attend the most expensive cram school in the area, and I was also made to participate without fail in the summer and winter courses that cost extra, as well as special courses during the New Year and Obon holidays.

Surely, those cram school fees must have been a big burden for our family, which was by no means wealthy.
In addition to that, they bought me as many reference books and problem sets as I said I needed.

They also spared no effort in driving me to and from cram school, making bento boxes for me to eat during class, and checking my study progress.

For my father and mother, my academic ability was a great hope.

And pouring money, time, and effort into that was surely love.
I have always believed that it is not wrong that it was love.
Love that wishes for me to live happily.

Both of them are people who try to convey the love they believe in directly.
I think that when I slacked off in my studies or got bad test scores, their shouting loudly and even laying a hand on me were also due to their overwhelming love.

I accepted that and made an effort to live up to that love. And so, I successfully passed the entrance exam for a university in Tokyo and was able to enroll.

My father and mother were overjoyed, and I was happy to see them like that.

However, I realized somewhere along the way that what my father and mother valued above all else was not as important to other people. And that I, too, did not believe what my father and mother valued was the most important thing of all.

Until I was about elementary school age, I worked hard without doubting that academic ability, which my father and mother valued above all else, was the most important thing.
However, as I entered junior high school and my world expanded, I began to feel that my father and mother's values might not be absolute.
But I felt that thinking that way was like betraying my father and mother, so I tried not to be conscious of it as much as possible.

I had a feeling that if I denied what my father and mother were doing so hard for me, it was because I was immature.
It was my fault that I couldn't honestly accept their love.
That is what I thought.

Also, I didn't have the courage to step outside my father and mother's values, and I didn't have the ability to live by other values, so I just kept trying to think that what was important in my father and mother's world was important to me as well.

And to show proof that I thought it was important, I made an effort to improve my academic ability and passed the university entrance exam. My father and mother were satisfied, and I was happy to have met their expectations. There was a fulfilled love there.

But what if I hadn't made the effort to improve my academic ability, or if I hadn't passed the university entrance exam?

I want to believe that my father and mother would have treated me with love even if I hadn't studied, or even if I couldn't.
However, when I recall my father and mother's abnormal obsession with academic ability and getting into university, I become unsure of that.

Was I able to be loved because I was trying to meet their expectations?
Was I doing that because I knew I wouldn't be loved if I didn't meet their expectations?

Such questions have always haunted me.

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After that, I got a job and got married.
And I came to have children.
In raising my children, I made a vow to myself.

That was to try not to force what I think is important onto my children, and never to get angry or hit them even if they don't act the way I want them to.

I don't think my father and mother's way of doing things was wrong. My father and mother were desperately trying to pass on the important things they believed in.

That was undoubtedly love.

I received that love, and I truly believe that love was real.

I don't want to doubt that love, and when I try to, a faint sense of disgust or guilt sprouts.

But there are several ways to show love, and I have a feeling that if there were better ways, it would have been better to use them.

That is why I decided to convey love to my own children in my own way.

Instead of making them do what I want them to do, I try to grant what my children say they want to do as much as possible, and I don't get angry. I always praise their good points.
I have been doing that for a long time.

I thought I was conveying love in a better way than my father and mother. I intended for my love to be correctly conveyed to my children as well.

However, I have recently realized something.
Could it be that I, too, am trying to mold my children into the shape I desire without even realizing it?
Could it be that I am trying to make my children into the image I idealize?

I have two children, a daughter in second grade of elementary school and a son in the final year of preschool.

Recently, when I watch my daughter and son's actions, I notice that they often sense my hopes and expectations and try to live up to them in a dutiful way.

I find myself unconsciously saying things to my daughter like, "It's great that you helped out," or "You managed to clean up before Daddy even asked," as if I want her to remain the responsible eldest daughter.
To my son, I say things like, "You're so cute," or "You're so funny," words that reveal my hope for him to remain the adorable, playful younger brother who is loved by everyone.

I believe my children are reacting sensitively to those words of mine.

It is painfully obvious that my daughter feels she must do everything seriously, and my son tries desperately to act spoiled and appeal to his cute side more than necessary.

I intend to praise my children, but through those words, am I not imposing conditions—that my daughter must be responsible and my son must be cute—and creating a situation where I only love them as long as they meet those conditions?

It is not something I do consciously, but could my love have become a condition that dictates my children's behavior?

Conditional love.

Just as I was loved when I worked hard at my studies.

My daughter is loved if she is responsible.
My son is loved if he is cute.

Then what if they don't study?
What if they aren't responsible? What if they aren't cute?

Did my father's and mother's love disappear?
Will my love go somewhere else?

I don't know.

Can I only love my children conditionally?
Am I unable to show unconditional love?

Does everyone possess unconditional love?
Is unconditional love sleeping inside everyone's heart?

Can I gently lift unconditional love from within my own heart?

If I could awaken unconditional love, would I be able to love my children, my father and mother, and even myself more?

Will such a day come, and will the deep stains in my heart fade away?

I don't know.
I truly don't know.