Mother Dear

When I was younger, I hated my mother. Sincerely, a part of me still hated her as a teen. But looking back now, I realize there never was anyone who loved me more than she did.

If anyone ever knew my mother, she was usually shouting or arguing angrily with anyone she thought wanted to spite her. That attitude was enough to make me angry. I didn’t like that she made others speak badly of us on the bus. She would not allow anyone exploit her and would not let go unless she extracted an apology after a fight. She told me countless times never to allow others to spitefully use me.

I hated going out to places with her. I thought she had a defect that made her always voice out her discomfort. I was an introvert who loved letting things go and making excuses for people for the wrongs they did to me. I did not understand her. Although there were several times I admired her drive. She was resilient and faithful. She wanted the best for her children and didn’t mind doing everything in her power to ensure they got it.

There were times she spent most of her days at work and would not come home at all. She went from one shift to the other. Now that I am a mother, I find myself drawing closer to her. I wonder what ever made me fight her shortly before I married. We argued over everything, and I thought myself better than she was.

I condemned her dressing, her cooking, and her lack of attention span. She never got angry; she only continually wished me well. This was her journey, she said. She told me to live mine. Perhaps that was when I knew she was no superhero—just as I wasn’t one either. The blueprint for mothers hadn’t been printed yet, and I definitely was not understanding the manual reality had handed to me.

I called her for every single thing: my child’s aching tooth, my boss seizing my salary, or my failed business start attempt. In all of it, she encouraged me to stand and fight for myself. She even fought with me regarding my own health when I would not listen to her. She was that fearless and concerned.

I remember specifically a dark night when I called her about my child’s health. She braved the stormy night and visited me with all her merciful care and love. I could call her in despair and she would answer me. As I went out into life, I found myself standing up for myself, defending myself in situations where I was about to be cheated or taken advantage of. At times, I reported to appropriate authorities, and most times, I fought back.

As I gazed at my aging mother, I wondered why I didn’t understand her earlier. She had once been just a little girl like I was—one who wanted so much from the world and fought her way through life, refusing to be weathered down.

Even as I take care of my own children and bear their grumbles and concerns with the patience of a mother who knows she would do anything for her kids, I remain awed at the woman I call mother.

Mother dear, forgive all my years of naivety.