The saying “Mother knows best” is often used by my mom in jest whenever I do something stupid without her knowledge. Let it be known though, that my stupidity only goes as far as forgetting to bring my umbrella on a rainy day, or choosing not to bring a tumbler of water when travelling, or buying the wrong size of shoes for her. That’s the only stupidity that my mom knows, anyway. I try to spare her the details of my other faults, because I gotta keep up my image of being the perfect daughter.
All jokes aside, moms really do know best. They can read us through a simple twitch of our nose and can tell when a guy friend is actually more than just a friend. They give the best advice when we’re stuck in some dilemma, and will go out of their way to bail us out of whatever snafu we find ourselves in. They’re hardcore like that.
Unfortunately, mothers can also be hardwired into thinking that they know the best for us all the time. Case in point: my mom thinks that I need to have kids of my own in order to be truly happy.
Kids? In this economy?
Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we supposed to find true happiness within ourselves? I’m at the age where long term commitments (a.k.a. marriage and kids) aren’t really in my mind just yet. My life is already chaotic as it is, with work and deadlines, and just the day-to-day adulting whatnots, which really puts romance out of the question. I have a concrete 10-year plan which does not include having kids, and I plan to stick to it. My mom, on the other hand, is at the age where she’s starting to get anxious about her daughters’ futures. And by future, she really just means a husband and kids, and preferably a big mansion in the suburbs. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint mom, but you’re really not getting those from me.
I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want kids. I never liked kids, never liked the idea of raising a human being and being responsible for it, and never really imagined myself as a mom. Whenever I am near children under the age of seven, I tend to go stiff as a board, afraid of breaking their necks or stepping on them, or just making them cry from my sheer intolerance for people who can’t do things on their own. My mom told me that it’s just that my maternal instincts are still underdeveloped. I say it’s ingrained in my being to hate kids. And quite frankly: Kids? In this economy?
There’s this gnawing fear that comes with the idea of having kids, one that stems from the notion that I could never be as kickass as a mom. And that’s okay. I could live my life not knowing if I could actually raise my own kids or not. And it would still be a happy life.
I grew up in a loving home. My parents raised me with all the love that they could give. My mom stood beside me as I took shaky steps towards reaching my goals. She was there through my ups and downs. It was with her that I learned what it means to be a good mother. To become a mother is to become selfless. To be humble. To love and care so much for another person who will rely on you for the rest of your life. Being a mother is a 24/7 job, and it doesn’t end even when your kids get married and have children of their own. I could never be like that. I could never be like my mom, and that’s okay. There’s this gnawing fear that comes with the idea of having kids, one that stems from the notion that I could never be as kickass as a mom. And that’s okay. I could live my life not knowing if I could actually raise my own kids or not. And it would still be a happy life.
I guess, my mom doesn’t always know best after all.
I may not share my mom’s views all the time, and she may not agree with all of my life decisions, but at the end of the day, my mom is still my mom, in all her awkward dancing, sarcastic, can’t-cook-to-save-her-life glory. She may try to persuade me into having kids again and again, and I may start getting tired of it, but I will still love her nonetheless. I will still answer her impromptu mental math quizzes, laugh at her lame jokes, and tell her that her food tastes great. I will still love her, as she has loved me all these years, despite my faults and flaws and mishaps.
Happy Mother’s Day, Ma. Please stop hoping that you’ll get a grandchild from me.