An Apology to My Mother
“She was the type of person everybody cherished and trusted. She was one of those rare individuals who got along with everyone.”
It isn’t a big surprise that the mother-daughter relationship is a recurring theme in movies, novels, TV series, and poems. That’s because each one is full of contention and the nuances are too varied to fill in even the broadest Pantone (color) palette. A stereotype byproduct of this familial connection is the image of the nagging matriarch.
My relationship with my mother was a shade of purple that shook up that ever-expanding shades-of-gray lineup. Nothing in human relationships, as with questions about morality and ethics, is ever black or white. Many of those who do not acknowledge the gray areas are deluding themselves.
It didn’t help that mother and I were polar opposites. She was Type-A and I refused to belong to any category of personality. Move over, Myers-Briggs and company. I prance to my own tune.
One Extrovert Versus Three Introverts
This difference bred contempt within the family. Unfortunately for her, my father, brother, and I had similar personalities. We were lackadaisical, withdrawn, and introverted, but fiercely stubborn. She was often frustrated with us, comparing us to boulders she had to push uphill daily—to no avail.
This annoyance manifested every Sunday with shrieking to scare us into getting to the church on time. She would say, “It’s noon. We’re already late for mass. Hurry, hurry!” Often, it wasn’t even close to 11 am. We would all just roll our eyes and plod on, dragging our feet heavily to whatever direction she was prodding us to go.
Most of the nagging centered around mundane matters: admonishing us for wearing the wrong outfits to specific events, shaming us every weekend for returning to bed after having already risen, forcing us to ingest more vegetables/fruits/vitamins, or chiding my father for not joining her more frequently in pursuits that interest her. Of course, like most moms, she hounded us to do more chores.
The Social Butterfly Flits Among Caterpillars
She found fault with introversion and viewed it as a character flaw. So she kept pushing us to attend social functions. She loved entertaining, so she often had people over and we had to endure the small talk and the curiosity from guests.
“Mrs R,” they asked, “your cooking is outstanding… almost Michelin-standard. How come your kids are so skinny?”
To which she replied, “Yes, but look at our pet dogs—see how deliciously plump they are!”
Passive Resistance
My father, brother, and I never uttered a word to her face, but we all resented her. So we just huddled among ourselves whenever we were unanimously peeved and complained about her behind her back, like cowards. Instead of communicating our grievances to her, we chose the path of passive aggression. The more she bulldozed us, the more we resisted.
My brother and I had opposing types of disobedience. If I refused to comply, I declared an outright “no” and stormed out of the house. My brother was a pacifist, so he always said, “Yes, mother, I’ll do it.” But he never did.
Once, after a particularly tense dispute, I angrily turned to my father and asked, “How can you stand her after all these years?” He just shrugged dejectedly. It was clear he loved her and the feeling was mutual.
Make no mistake, father was no pushover. When he felt he was right, he always stood his ground. No amount of yakking from my mother could sway him. And when he was angry with us kids—for being noisy for instance, he didn’t need to say a single word. He just stared at us with his protruding eyeballs and we shut up instantly.
The Query
But I was vexed with mother’s endless nagging. What was the cause of this infernal racket that occurred almost daily? I ventured to ask her one day.
“It’s because you never listen to me. You never do what I tell you to do,” she replied, heaving one huge, exasperated sigh.
“Well, why can’t you just tell us once? Why say the same thing over and over? Haven’t you ever considered that if you delivered your message in a different tone, we would be more willing to listen?”
Apparently, she did try to convey her requests calmly in the past, but these had fallen on deaf ears. So she had taken to raising her voice or repeating herself in the hopes that we would surrender and comply after she had sufficiently worn us down.
I vowed that when I grew up, I would never be like my mother. I would express my unhappiness or disappointment with logic, always backed by facts, and preferably delivered in a monotone. And so I did.
Then the Ingrates Were Left Alone
One day, our Maker called my mother. It was time to let the underlings thrive on their own. Reluctantly, I took her place in the family when it came to domestic matters. She had a great many friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. They deluged her wake and funeral. Being the only female in our nuclear family, I was overwhelmed with the duty of receiving all of them.
Her visitors continued to pour in even afterward—from the nine-day prayer vigil to her 40th day anniversary. We were never ones to follow traditional practices, but we had to, in this instance, to avoid offending relatives and the community. So father, brother, and I had to endure these extra “social” functions, which I felt was mom’s last act of imposing her will on us from beyond the grave.
And the Light Shineth
To her credit, mother’s nagging was only one of her few imperfections. She was the type of person everybody cherished and trusted. She was one of those rare individuals who got along with everyone.
She once visited me in my adopted country. Two days in and she had befriended my neighbors from the entire street. A week later, all the early-morning mass attendees from my parish, including the parish priest and his staff, were chums with her. She could have run for mayor and won.
Many of my friends sought her as a confidante and called her mom. She never divulged any of their secrets to us. (We didn’t care about other people’s business, anyway.) She was the one they turned to when they were incensed with their own mothers. They all showered her with affection.
Which was ironic because her own children seldom showed her signs of endearment. We weren’t a touchy-feely kind of family. If she disapproved of our standoffishness, we in turn treated her loud venting of discontent with disdain.
The “Mourning” After
Years passed and I thought about spending time with father and brother in the family home. Apart from them aging rapidly, it was like being in a time warp. They left almost everything as mother had left it. They let dirt and possessions accumulate. They let themselves go. Thankfully, good genes kept them svelte. They could eat anything and not gain weight. The house was new-ish, too, so it wasn’t exactly crumbling.
Still, I discovered that I was slowly emulating my mother, albeit inadvertently. (Many movies depict this phenomenon—that of children turning into their parents when they get older. I just didn’t think it would happen to me.)
I found myself repeating requests to father and brother but mostly because these (which were usually calls for household repairs) weren’t met. Questions weren’t answered. Sunny greetings were met with grunts. I realized after a while that I was often increasing the volume of my voice when communicating with them. That was out of character for me.
I became aware that I was grappling with the same exasperation mother felt. I now realize why she nagged us so much. She didn’t want to, but it was absolutely necessary. We were a bunch of obstinate ingrates! We took her for granted. How I wish I learned this sooner. I missed mother all the more as I pondered over this. Still, I am sure that from her lofty perch on God’s knee, she understands us and has forgiven us.
Final Thoughts
Those of you whose mothers (or fathers, siblings, other relatives) nag you, learn from my mistake. They don’t get any satisfaction from the practice. Know that when they repeatedly harangue you to do something, it’s out of love and concern for your wellbeing. Let them know how much you love and appreciate them as often as you can before it’s too late.
Photo credit: Ishan @seefromthesky
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