Ode to Mom

Mom and I don’t have one of those traditionally complicated mother-daughter relationships, full of dysfunction, discontent or animosity. Naturally as I writer I wish there existed a little more drama, but I suppose I get a double-dose from my parents’ relationship and the prat-falls that ensured from being their child. Oh wait; do dysfunctional parental relationships make writers or serial killers? I digress.

It was a rather immediate metamorphosis (if you consider a nine-month waiting period, immediate) into a different person with access to places most sane people avoid; and knowledge of bodily functions, development charts that only the insane talk about in wild rants standing on a milk crate in the intersection at Downtown Crossing. A member of an all-inclusive club called “Motherhood”. Considering how many of us exist, I should expect that we are a powerful political/economical/social block with which all others should bow and listen to; and clean up after oneself while you are at it. Instead, we are the ones standing on the street corners heading warnings at passer-bys, who are just to busy to get where they need to go to listen. I’ve gathered this experience and wisdom from a mere three years of paying dues, just wait until I have another five or ten under my non-existent belt (after discovering holes in shirts around my belt-buckle, I suspect the cause to stem from picking up exhausted kid who uses the buckle as some sort of perch). Ever try to talk to a three-year-old? My advice, get a recorder and put it on repeat while they are sleeping. I witnessed a friend trying to ask her son what he did today. His response was to collapse, falling to the brown tufted-carpet pleading, “Mom, why are you talking to me?” Enough said.

I get it now. I’ve made my decisions and my fair share of mistakes. I’ve followed some of the rules and chose to actively ignore others, disregarding my much-too-wise-mother’s opinions. As I said before, we never had mother-daughter angst that my other friends survived. Understanding my place in the family, my own personality and desire to please (both my parents, not just my mom) offers some insight; additionally, not living with her from 15 until 19 adds another element and potential explanation as to why our relationship never stained. Since this history, alternate paths can’t be tested and theories will remain unproven, either way. The cliché of us turning into our mothers is very true. As least, I see it occurring within my girl friends. It is impossible for me to say the same for me because I don’t believe myself to have ever been so different. The need to rebel never existed. Perhaps Mom is a master chess player, knowing when to sacrifice a pawn to take a rook. She rarely said no, rather why not. She instilled Asian-mom guilt, “how can you do that. Do you not respect me? How could you shame me?” looking back at my seven-year-old self, I can easily say that I was wrong to take that last drumstick of chicken knowing that my younger cousin would only eat drumsticks, causing a waterfall of tears at my Aunt and Uncles’ dinner table while on holiday.

Consequence. Cause and effect. I understood the theory in practice well before I studied it formally later in school. She didn’t need to stand over me because I believed it all came back to her. In some way, shape or form, it would reflect upon her because I do. Although, this notion viewed by some as an extension of ones ego, and for some I truly believe it is. For me, it serves me well as my conscience. A favorite movie of my younger brother was Pinocchio. “Let your conscience be your guide,” says Jiminy Cricket to help keep Pinocchio on the straight and narrow through his journey to becoming a real boy. Like Pinocchio partying in Treasure Island, playing pool and smoking cigars, I’ve celebrated a time or two (or two hundred); but the point is to understand limits and know when to leave the party before turning into an ass. My mom is my Jiminy Cricket. As I see it, if I do turn into her or if I am already, it would be all right with me. Of course I’m biased but I think she did a pretty good job; but just again, may she played tapes while I was sleeping.