It's Mother's Day, and I want to write about my mother. I don't want to write about all of the struggles we've been through together, though, and I don't want to write about how my mother, above any and all people I know, is a fighter and a survivor. These are all true things, but when I think about my mother, my first thoughts aren't of her ever present bravery and strength.
Let me tell you about my mother.
The other day at work, one of the staff members had put in Rihanna's album. The heavy beats to Don't Stop the Music came on and I was transported from the staff room in a small suburb of Osaka to the passenger side seat of my mother's car. We were riding down the stretch from the nearest shopping center to our house, singing the nonsense words to Rihanna's song while bobbing up and down in the awkward sort of dance that you can only properly replicate in cars. Passangers from nearby vehicles occasionally shot us an odd glance, but we paid them no mind. They couldn't stop the music.
I have a picture of my mother on my cell phone, and when I show people it, they always -- without fail -- exclaim that my mother looks so young. I've always felt blessed by my mother's youth, because I never feel the presence of an isolating generation gap between us. To be honest, my mother is probably more hip than I am; my idea of good rock is Styx or Aerosmith, while my mother rocks out to System of a Down.
I love this.
I love that I can talk to my mother about anything in the entire world and she will listen without being judgemental. My mother is one of my best friends. There is pretty much nothing I hide from her and nothing I'd feel I'd have to hide. I know that even if I did something that disappointed my mother, she would always forgive me and try her hardest to understand why I did whatever it was. I think all parents should be like this, but I know from both observations and from my own personal experiences that this is an ideal and very rarely a reality.
I am very, very lucky to have the mother that I do.
My best friend told me that my mother reminded her so strongly of me that she was moved. I felt like that was the best compliment I could have received. I aspire to be like my mother, a hard worker who never loses sight of her sincerity and her open mind. Since moving to my new place, I've found that I feel uneasy leaving dishes from a hastily eaten meal in the sink as I go to work and that the sight of grime on my carpet distresses me. I have to laugh at myself, because these are most assuredly traits I'd picked up from living with my mother between my graduation and moving here. I used to hate cleaning, but now I find it a source of pride, because it's something -- a small, silly something, perhaps -- that links me with my mother, dyes the color of my thread a closer hue to hers.
I love my mother. She has always accepted me for who I am while pushing me to better myself. She never once displayed any sort of unhappiness over having been given an oddball of a daughter with a deep love for Super Mario and robots. She always loved me regardless of the fact that, at 25, I still can't properly apply makeup. I cannot remember a single time in which she'd dismayed over my lack of feminity or my overall oddness when compared to most of my female peers growing up. She nurtured my personality, allowing me to discover who I was on my own terms, and I am so deeply grateful for that. I know that she will love me even if I'm still mouthing off about video games when I'm 35, 45, and I know that she will support me no matter what random path I ultimately decide to take. She never questioned my desire to go to Japan but instead did everything in her power to make it happen.
I wanted to write something well-written and beautiful. I've failed; my allergies have been kicking in lately, and my sleep has been random and shallow, leaving me in a perpetual state of drowsy. I just love my mother. For all that we've been through, Mom, and for all that you may sometimes feel like you've screwed up, I really just want to tell you this: from my heart, I honestly feel like you are the perfect mom, and I thank God that you were the mother I was given. Thank you so much for everything.
You're the Mario to my Luigi.
Happy, happy Mother's Day.
PS: Nose.
Let me tell you about my mother.
The other day at work, one of the staff members had put in Rihanna's album. The heavy beats to Don't Stop the Music came on and I was transported from the staff room in a small suburb of Osaka to the passenger side seat of my mother's car. We were riding down the stretch from the nearest shopping center to our house, singing the nonsense words to Rihanna's song while bobbing up and down in the awkward sort of dance that you can only properly replicate in cars. Passangers from nearby vehicles occasionally shot us an odd glance, but we paid them no mind. They couldn't stop the music.
I have a picture of my mother on my cell phone, and when I show people it, they always -- without fail -- exclaim that my mother looks so young. I've always felt blessed by my mother's youth, because I never feel the presence of an isolating generation gap between us. To be honest, my mother is probably more hip than I am; my idea of good rock is Styx or Aerosmith, while my mother rocks out to System of a Down.
I love this.
I love that I can talk to my mother about anything in the entire world and she will listen without being judgemental. My mother is one of my best friends. There is pretty much nothing I hide from her and nothing I'd feel I'd have to hide. I know that even if I did something that disappointed my mother, she would always forgive me and try her hardest to understand why I did whatever it was. I think all parents should be like this, but I know from both observations and from my own personal experiences that this is an ideal and very rarely a reality.
I am very, very lucky to have the mother that I do.
My best friend told me that my mother reminded her so strongly of me that she was moved. I felt like that was the best compliment I could have received. I aspire to be like my mother, a hard worker who never loses sight of her sincerity and her open mind. Since moving to my new place, I've found that I feel uneasy leaving dishes from a hastily eaten meal in the sink as I go to work and that the sight of grime on my carpet distresses me. I have to laugh at myself, because these are most assuredly traits I'd picked up from living with my mother between my graduation and moving here. I used to hate cleaning, but now I find it a source of pride, because it's something -- a small, silly something, perhaps -- that links me with my mother, dyes the color of my thread a closer hue to hers.
I love my mother. She has always accepted me for who I am while pushing me to better myself. She never once displayed any sort of unhappiness over having been given an oddball of a daughter with a deep love for Super Mario and robots. She always loved me regardless of the fact that, at 25, I still can't properly apply makeup. I cannot remember a single time in which she'd dismayed over my lack of feminity or my overall oddness when compared to most of my female peers growing up. She nurtured my personality, allowing me to discover who I was on my own terms, and I am so deeply grateful for that. I know that she will love me even if I'm still mouthing off about video games when I'm 35, 45, and I know that she will support me no matter what random path I ultimately decide to take. She never questioned my desire to go to Japan but instead did everything in her power to make it happen.
I wanted to write something well-written and beautiful. I've failed; my allergies have been kicking in lately, and my sleep has been random and shallow, leaving me in a perpetual state of drowsy. I just love my mother. For all that we've been through, Mom, and for all that you may sometimes feel like you've screwed up, I really just want to tell you this: from my heart, I honestly feel like you are the perfect mom, and I thank God that you were the mother I was given. Thank you so much for everything.
You're the Mario to my Luigi.
Happy, happy Mother's Day.
PS: Nose.
Baby,
ReplyDeleteyou have moved me to tears....i love so much and thank you for the honest, touching, words that you wrote. You really are a gifted writer and i'm so proud to have you as my daughter. Forever, nose.