There's no better way to start off the 40th issue (really, that many? I know right?) of The Bong Momma – other than ranting. I owe it to my self-depreciating and endlessly impatient self to hum and haw about the things in life, and so when I was asked to put in a Mother's Day special, it gave me an ample opportunity for a nice, juicy old-fashioned rant.
So it's Mother's Day. Or it will be Mother's Day soon. I'm not exactly sure where the creation of this 'day' exactly came from – a real day of celebration or another commercial concoction of greeting card companies banking on human emotions to make a few bucks.
Days like these rile up the cynic in me, because I don't think there should be just one special day to appreciate the mommas of the world. As a mother I feel this more, and regret it equally more that maybe, just maybe, I didn't appreciate my own mother enough. I can sense her smirking as she reads this a few kilometres away, in the comfort of her own home, away from my sharp words and eye-rolls. In fact, if my eye-rolls were anything related to sushi, they would probably be described as "enhanced with wasabi flavour for that distinct biting pungency."
You might be wondering why I'm being so harsh on myself. I'm not really, it's the truth. I was a difficult child to raise, and an even more difficult teenage daughter. I might not have been as upfront as my younger sister, but I was the sort who would fume in silent rage and then erupt when I reached the boiling point. Then it was bad, really, really bad.
I'm sure for my parents it was difficult putting up with my teen angst, but as is with every first child, I was their trial and error and then my sister received the fine tuned product. I was beaten, with assorted objects ranging from clothes hangers to canes, with an odd sandal or two thrown in (literally). My parents might deny it all they want, but in my "flashback memory" (a term oft-coined by yours truly and met with great dismay by the family), I still remember it all. Every welt, every curse, every heart-shattering disowning.
Excuse my over-dramatism, but that's how it felt for me while growing up. Of course my little sister never got a hand raised on her, other than by me (which of course I would regret and apologise for), and so she always managed to get her way with our parents. I was and always will be very protective of her, something I spurred early on in life. My parents were doctors and if they weren't busy, one of them was always in some foreign country. So my natural mothering instincts honed in when it came to my sister, reinforcing the possessive need to take care of those I loved.
That's how I knew I always wanted kids. A whole brood actually, until I found out how painful it was to have even one. I had always treated my little sister as my first baby, but until the point I had Jellybean, I didn't know what it felt like to create one of my own. Becoming a mother was like opening and closing a raw wound. Every discomfort split everything open, while every smile and cuddle closed everything again. But being a mom is one of the few things that make me "ME", and so I would gladly go through the wounding and healing every time.
I now understand why my own mom kept coming back to us, despite every harsh thing we have said to her. Because we are what make her "HER" and we are all she has. Maybe I'm too proud to make amends as an adult, but I hope she knows that I turned out just like her and would go to any lengths for my own daughter.
Speaking of whom, Jellybean just went through a bout of chicken pox, so I'm soothing an itch with one hand and typing with the other.
Happy Mother's Day to all you mommas out there!