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| Photo by the Author |
Well, there are 5 billion people on this planet and you're the perfect mom for me. What are the odds of that? -Young Sheldon
My mother is not perfect. She is flawed and gets unpleasant, too, when time permits. She gets angry and sometimes acts like a child if she wants to. She gets in a bad mood and forgets things. She gets exhausted and snaps at someone unintentionally. She comes to me to learn; she doesn't know everything, after all. She gets things wrong sometimes, and she apologizes whenever she makes a mistake. My mother likes to see drama in real life and share it with me in gossip. She teases others, too. She holds secrets even I am not aware of. She even lies on rare occasions.
And sometimes I think we’re polar opposites.
She wakes up early every morning, whilst I prefer to be awake at night. She likes eating chicken feet, I don’t. She makes sure everything is set and organized, and I prefer things to be messy. She works in the field of Science; I hope to work in the field of Humanities. She likes sleeping on the top bunk while I crash on the bottom bunk.
We argue and often find ourselves standing on different sides. We don’t always come to terms and we often misunderstand each other’s intentions. One time, in a heated argument, she exclaimed:
“I want to have my own life too!”
This initially made me think that maybe she regretted having me, which was far from the truth but emotions ran high at that time and I couldn't think rationally. But as I stared into her eyes, at that moment, I saw the pure vulnerability of a woman who once had her life to herself, a woman who once had high dreams of her own welfare. More than my mother, she was once someone like me—young and free.
There were chances when I got to see her old photos—the times she was yet to bloom. Elementary, college, and even up until high school. In those photos, she always had the brightest smile. “This was you?” I ask every time I see a picture of my mother in her 20s, close to my age today. She would nod and tell me that college years were her prime, she found genuine friends and had several love stories to keep (so she could tell me years after).
In these photos, where her age and mine aren't too far off from each other, I get to see how beautiful she was. She still is now, but you could still see in those eyes the youthful hope all young adults have during those stages in their lives. I have always wondered if my mother and I were to meet at the same age as strangers, would she find it in herself to care about me the same way she does as my mom today? Possibly not, she is an introvert. It would take her some time to fully open up to people. The problem is, so do I. Would we shun each other out of the wariness towards other people, or would we be able to eventually engage in small talk together?
As much as the thought of having to become a stranger to my own mother horrifies me, it leads me to realize quite a handful of things. She is an individual, who had her own life and aspirations before I was ever brought into this world. We might be bonded by blood, but we have our own visions and dreams. Those dreams may have involved me from the day of my birth—but there are times I would see a glimpse of the inner child peeking through her eyes. Whenever she talks about space or astronomy, whenever I ask her to act in a short film I need to make, whenever she talks about volleyball, or whenever she tells me how she regrets quitting the judo club or not joining the drama club out of certain circumstances, I see remnants of the youth she wishes she had held on to for a quite a while longer.
Youth is a fleeting bliss, yet it remains inside the walls of your heart. I see her growing, too, just as how she saw me grow from a chubby little baby into a man. From a young woman who was struggling as she entered into motherhood to a mature woman full of scars and experiences that she narrates to me with either glee or regret and sometimes, a combination of both. I see how she ages, and how she is weaker now than in the years before I was little.
My mother is not perfect. She will never be.
But the thing is, so am I.
With these flaws, I am able to fully know who she is, her raw edges that I will hold on to even if there are times that they hurt me, her younger self who’s been wanting to get out of her system and live out her unfulfilled dreams. How ironic that we, often polar opposites, seem to just complement each other like a magnet. The unspoken synergy between the two of us is what attracts us together, our uncanny similarities in mindset, beliefs, and thoughts.
My mother is imperfect, for many reasons. But all of those reasons are negligible because she is the perfect mother for me. And even in any alternative universes I get to visit, I would like this version of her to be in my life, always.
Mom, I cried writing this for you, I think this is yet to be one of my most sincere essays. Just so you know, I meant every word. In a few years from now, please fulfill the dreams of your younger self, I’ll take care of you this time.
Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers, and to every people who have acted as such. You are our hero.
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