I was at work when I remembered that it was Mother’s Day. One of the children I work with was just coming down from a temper tantrum. Her voice was raspy from screaming obscenities and threats at me. She stood in front of me, panting, fists clenched. My jaw tightened, and I tried not to flinch, preparing myself to be the recipient of another noisy insult. My heart thundered in my chest.
But then there was a moment of silence. The child’s lips began to quiver, and with a soft thud, she crumpled into a tiny pile at my feet. “I MISS MY MOOOOOOOOOM!” She gripped my ankles and sniffled. “I miss my mom. I miss my mom!” Right, today’s Mother’s Day, I thought. It clicked. That's why she's like this.I haven’t been home in a while. I miss my mom too, kid. I could feel the little sniffling heap shaking against my feet.
I took a long, deep breath. It rattled in my chest and out through my nostrils.
~
I had a great childhood. Of course, it had setbacks and confusions, as everyone’s childhood does, but my family was always a positive constant in my life. My parents were very supportive, nurturing, and kind.
Every evening, from kindergarten through high school, on the way home from school, I looked forward to 7:00pm. This was because 7:00pm was a very special time for me. It was dinnertime. My mother always crafted incontestably the greatest home cooked dinners. I had a couple favorites, including Japanese style curry, rice bowl with chicken and egg, and grilled mackerel with vegetables. Every meal had the perfect balance of nutrients (vegetables, proteins, carbohydrates), textures (crunchy, doughy, fluffy), and tastes (savory, spicy, sweet). It was a sumptuous dinner every day. And every day, regardless of how exciting or disappointing or frustrating my day was, my mother’s cooking was waiting for me at 7:00pm. Regardless of what happened, at 7:00pm, I ate, recharged, and knew that I was alright, that tomorrow was going to be a new day.
That’s just one special example of how my mother’s quiet but constant support helped me navigate the world safely and without much fear.
My mother has always been a quietly strong lady. When I was a child, she went to work on weekdays, and sometimes worked overtime. Upon her arrival home, she went to the kitchen and began to cook dinner. Some days at dinner she had complaints about her coworkers or bad drivers she encountered during her commute, but she never complained about being tired because of work. Maybe I am just not remembering properly, but I do not remember her ever saying that she was tired. She always had things to do, and she always stood up straight and pushed through whatever it was. She never mumbled.
As a painfully shy child, "pushing through" was incredibly difficult for me.
My mother always told me, “Stop cowering and just do what you want,” or “Give it a shot,” or “Stop mumbling. No one can hear you. Be confident about what you think.” It was through watching my mother that I learned the value of hard work. It was my mother who pushed me to just close my eyes and jump, to hit the ground running and smash through any obstacles. When I made a mistake, she taught me to stand up, laugh loudly until it didn’t hurt, and then to sit to plan my next try. She was a pillar of resilience, of polite assertiveness, of power.
As an adult, I have days when I want to just slump on to something and whine about being tired. Days when I seriously doubt my abilities and my character. Days when every small decision feels like the edge of a cliff. On days like that, I wish my mother was here with a plate of warm and welcoming food and some blunt words of encouragement.
But I’m almost 25 now, and my mom lives far away. I miss my mom very much, but it’s no longer her job to provide comfort and brusque motivational speeches to me, and I must not expect that from her. I live alone, and thus, I need to find ways to nourish and comfort myself. I need to rely on myself to inspire myself to try harder and act with confidence, to be accountable for myself and for my dreams.I need to find the strength and kindness of my mom within my own heart and mind, and exercise them every day. On many days, this is hard and my knees tremble from anxiety and doubt.
But I can do it. I need to do it. I’m an adult now, and there is no going back to childhood.
~
I took another deep breath, a little bit less shaky this time, and looked at the trembling heap at my feet. I patted her head. She sniffed. Everything was going to be okay.
Full stop.
~
Sorry this isn’t so much insight as it is a confession or a brain/heart-dump entry. Even if this wasn’t super informative, I hope that at least maybe you can relate.
Love and Peace,
Rina
Beautiful... Call home...
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