What I do not understand about mothers

Whenever I am asked what I don’t understand about mothers, I think of my very own.

My fond memories of my mother were not shaped by the taste of her breastmilk nor the sound of her lullabies at night. Rather, they were molded by an illustration of her which I drew and presented to a class when I was in nursery school.

Being artistically handicapped, I remember how I only came up with a female stick figure that stood in front of a blue house and a rose garden made of broad strokes to simplify the uncertainties that defined her.

It was only in high school when I realized how a sketch of a badly drawn woman could never justify the strange outlook I made for my own mother.

Later on, I only saw myself tucking away the drawings of a stick figure and decided that my image of her could only be captured by a large question mark.

Even though I grew up next to my mother, I feel I do not entirely understand her. I feel I can’t see clearly through the storm of emotions that cloud over her graying hair and the muffled thoughts that she hides behind her greasy apron.

Things I do not understand

I do not understand how my mother can be stern and gentle, but manages to command love either way. She still tries to steady my moral compass every now and then just to assure herself I don’t bring out the dogs and lose myself to vices and wrong friends. In defining what is right and wrong, she’d always bring up her long childhood anecdotes, only to guarantee their importance with her usual line, “Naging bata rin ako. Pinagdaanan ko rin yan (I was also a child once. I went through that, too)” and actually mean it. 

I don’t understand why she always stayed up late until I came knocking on the front door. Perhaps she only wanted to put her worries to rest the following morning when her medicines were due to be taken. I knew her lack of sleep didn’t do her any good so I kept on telling her to not wait for me, but she insisted that my late night absences didn’t do her nerves any better.

I don’t understand why she often talks about me when I am hundreds of miles away from the safety of her perch. Whenever I get the chance to come home, her friends would always try to validate second hand accounts of an ordinary life I’ve been living for the past 4 years in a faraway city I tag as my escape route. With no points to argue, I just leave them be without much more than an awkward smile and an equally awkward affirmation.

I don’t understand why she puts boundaries around the foolish dreams I want to live and the life decisions I make even though she swears by her head that I am already old enough to make the right choices on my own.  From small things like eating junk food for breakfast to bigger dreams like becoming a self-supporting traveler are often greeted by her signature frown and long lectures to pull me back to the reality I must work with.

Like other mothers

I am certain other mothers share a lot of habits with my own.

The world is full of them. Some are quite expressive while others remain dead silent. Some spend their energy in a workplace, while others, like my own, do the same thing inside a kitchen.

In between these traits that define them, I find they always have the time to share their greater halves to their sons and daughters. They talk about their children to other people nonstop. They also parade behind their kids’ crazy ambitions and stay up late into the night until they are home, only to redirect their anxieties with a nagging sermon and a goodnight kiss.

My mother never wears a mask.

Like many mothers like her, she doesn’t pretend to be a strong and perfect woman who sports a superhero’s cape behind her back and a golden crown atop her head. Instead, she tends to me as the delicate and exhausted woman who comes home bruised but still manages to watch me from a safe distance.  My mother does not bore me with perfection and I think I owe her a lot for that

Coming home 

There are other things I don’t understand about mothers.

I don’t understand how they forgive their sons who make a living out of broken promises. I don’t understand how they stretch their patience to daughters who choose not to extend them the same courtesy. I certainly don’t understand the emotional gap that widens every time their children turn a deaf ear to their pieces of advice and a blind eye to the small gestures that only speak of their motherly intentions. 

If ever I will be asked to draw my mother again, I think an abstract artwork would be more appropriate – one made of red and random strokes – to depict her complicated ways of showing affection just to keep all the family pieces together.

As I thought, a drawing of a female stick figure standing in front of a blue house and a rose garden cannot justify the outlook I made for my mother. The nature of her sermons and actions will largely remain a mystery to me, but I know I will always welcome them with arms wide open, for the things I do not understand about her are the ones that truly bring me home. – Rappler.com

John Patrick Allanegui is the managing editor of Verstehen. He tweets at @JohnAllanegui.