正文
Dear Mama,
I hope you are reading this from heaven above.
Yesterday, while I was watching part of a movie on Oxygen channel called "Before women have wings", I had an epiphany: no mother means to hurt her own children in any way. But when the pain a mother has to bear by herself becomes too much, and it has been suppressed for too long, just like a vulcano, sooner or later, it erupts, just like the mother in the movie, she just lost control of herself.
Mama, I used to detest your explosive temper, your screaming and yelling, your harsh words that pierced my ears and my heart while growing up. I vowed to myself that I would never be like that. Now that I have my own husband, my own children, I lose temper, I yell and scream. I'm not proud of myself for doing that. But doing it, I come closer to understand you Mama.
Mama, I know growing up, you didn't have a happy family like the one you gave to me. You never wanted to talk about it. I can only imagine how hard it was to lose my grandfather when your were young and raised by a widowed mother within a big family that had members who were cruel and greedy. I remembered once how very upset you got when my never-met uncle was mentioned in a conversation. I wonder how that pain was eating you inside. Till this day, I don't know what made you and your only alive flesh and blood relative become total stranger. Probably that wound and cut were so deep and it never healed till the day you died.
Mama, I'm a perfectionist just like you. The tremendous pressure I put on myself to try hard and harder. So did you, all your life. You had high standards for yourself, your husband, your children, your life and the people around you. I remember, each year for the Chinese New Year, you took weeks and days to plan, to shop, to clean, to cut and chop and to cook. Oh, the great attentions to details such as cutting the sausage paper thin, the perfect presentation and preparation of eight-treasure sweet rice (Mmm, it makes my mouth watering and missing you so terribly). The exhausting effort could sometimes drive one mad. It did it to you and it did it to me too. I think you are happy to know that I'm slowly learning to let go.
For a long time, I blame you for being too critical of me while I was young. But as any Chinese parent, you only wished the best of me. And being strict and critical was the philosophy of parenting then. You treated me the way you were raised and did the best you knew how. But as I grew older, you had changed and adapted. You showed remarkable restrain and respect to me and my choice. Mama, you were a proud person, you didn't bend backwards for anyone, but when you and I had a fight one Chinese New Year over my then boyfriend, you put down your pride, came to make peace with me. When I decided to marry my "foreign devil" husband, you were concerned and worried, rightful so. But you only gently offered your opinions, then whole-heartedly welcome and accepted me and my husband. When you came to help us with my first daughter's birth, you were the queen of biting tongue. Mama, all you had done was to love me, critical or not.
I hope you are reading this from heaven above.
Yesterday, while I was watching part of a movie on Oxygen channel called "Before women have wings", I had an epiphany: no mother means to hurt her own children in any way. But when the pain a mother has to bear by herself becomes too much, and it has been suppressed for too long, just like a vulcano, sooner or later, it erupts, just like the mother in the movie, she just lost control of herself.
Mama, I used to detest your explosive temper, your screaming and yelling, your harsh words that pierced my ears and my heart while growing up. I vowed to myself that I would never be like that. Now that I have my own husband, my own children, I lose temper, I yell and scream. I'm not proud of myself for doing that. But doing it, I come closer to understand you Mama.
Mama, I know growing up, you didn't have a happy family like the one you gave to me. You never wanted to talk about it. I can only imagine how hard it was to lose my grandfather when your were young and raised by a widowed mother within a big family that had members who were cruel and greedy. I remembered once how very upset you got when my never-met uncle was mentioned in a conversation. I wonder how that pain was eating you inside. Till this day, I don't know what made you and your only alive flesh and blood relative become total stranger. Probably that wound and cut were so deep and it never healed till the day you died.
Mama, I'm a perfectionist just like you. The tremendous pressure I put on myself to try hard and harder. So did you, all your life. You had high standards for yourself, your husband, your children, your life and the people around you. I remember, each year for the Chinese New Year, you took weeks and days to plan, to shop, to clean, to cut and chop and to cook. Oh, the great attentions to details such as cutting the sausage paper thin, the perfect presentation and preparation of eight-treasure sweet rice (Mmm, it makes my mouth watering and missing you so terribly). The exhausting effort could sometimes drive one mad. It did it to you and it did it to me too. I think you are happy to know that I'm slowly learning to let go.
For a long time, I blame you for being too critical of me while I was young. But as any Chinese parent, you only wished the best of me. And being strict and critical was the philosophy of parenting then. You treated me the way you were raised and did the best you knew how. But as I grew older, you had changed and adapted. You showed remarkable restrain and respect to me and my choice. Mama, you were a proud person, you didn't bend backwards for anyone, but when you and I had a fight one Chinese New Year over my then boyfriend, you put down your pride, came to make peace with me. When I decided to marry my "foreign devil" husband, you were concerned and worried, rightful so. But you only gently offered your opinions, then whole-heartedly welcome and accepted me and my husband. When you came to help us with my first daughter's birth, you were the queen of biting tongue. Mama, all you had done was to love me, critical or not.
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