It’s 3:30 in the morning as I type this and I’m thinking of a decent blog to write about Mother’s Day. Forgive my rambleness and randomness, as I’m still trying my best to get the caffeine off of my system.
My mom taught me a lot of things: reading, fun, prayer, thankfulness…and affection. Mommy, as we fondly called her, was fiercely protective of her young. Kind of like mother elephants towards predators wanting their babies for lunch. I know comparing my mom to an elephant is not the most awesome illustration in the world, but bear with me.
Mommy was supportive of me. She didn’t like the fact that I enrolled myself in a course that did not guarantee big bucks or work stability, but she reveled in the fact that I was enjoying myself, that I loved what I was doing. She would pout whenever I wouldn’t send her the stuff I wrote. She hated the fact that I hid things from her, that I would go my own way.
Quite recently I told my mom about a huge decision that I wanted her to know about. I still wanted to hear what she wanted to say, in spite of the fact that she was a million miles away from me. The decision was so huge, it involved relocation and starting over in a completely new environment.
Instead of the reaction that I actually hoped to receive—a smile, a pat on the back, encouraging words, like of a job well done—I heard admonition amid high pitched tones. Rethink my decision, she said, in her signature sosyal bungangera way of saying things.
After a few moments of silence after hanging up, I realized that she made much sense. Here I was, in a job I liked, in a work shift I’d been desperately wishing for, in a house I just moved in to, and barely starting over. Barely getting the “responsibility” bit. Barely gotten on my two feet.
I finally got it after twenty-three years of existing. She wanted the best for me. Still does, and always will. I guess that’s how all moms are like. My mother was definitely not perfect, nor did she claim to be, but the greatest thing she ever…I honestly don’t know how to put it. I can only say that the greatest thing ever about her is this: she wanted the best for me and my sisters. Even if we screwed up and made mistakes, she still loved us unconditionally.
Another mother I’d like to honor is the matriarch of the household that I currently live in. “Titaaaaaaa,” as I fondly call her, is someone I consider a surrogate mother of sorts, having mentioned earlier that my actual female parent is a million miles away.
I hardly know her—I’ve just lived here for three months—and at the same time I feel like I’ve known her for a long time. She, like my real mom, is fiercely protective of her five children. She was tough and knew her way around. In other words, she knew how to make diskarte. She was self-assured and possessed the wisdom that you don’t really hear anywhere else.
Truth be told, I have an affection for her that I really can’t explain in words, because they really won’t suffice. One thing I can say is this: she isn’t mushy, but she knew love. She knew and understood it, and gave much of it. Not in the typical, but then again, Tita Paz is not typical in so many ways.