This piece first appeared on my Tumblr account.
For most people, Mother’s Day happens on a particular day of the year. In my case, I wish to acknowledge the value of my mother every day. That is why I think it’s only appropriate to celebrate Mother’s Day on a daily basis.
But why am I talking about Mother’s Day in a time when February finally welcomes us and Valentine’s Day is just looming ahead?
Maybe it’s because I believe that a mother should be honored any time (be it on Valentine’s Day, on Mother’s Day or on our birthdays).
A mother is among the many significant people in the world. Her womb is where life begins, where God’s most precious creation develops according to His design. Her hands nurture the growth of one who bears life. Her words, most often than not, encompasses the most genuine of truths resounding in verbal structures of advices and reprimand. Her heart holds the place where her children can find comfort and solace in a world marred by difficulty and challenges.
I could go over the countless ways that a mother’s essence can be shown. I could also revolve around the infinite reasons why a mother is meant to be valued, respected, and above all, loved. She can be the vessel of life, one’s gateway to live, and one’s book of lessons.
However, I couldn’t deny the limitation of this piece. If I’d have to list down all the things that a mother is capable of doing out of love, it might take me a lifetime to write the basics (just the basics). Knowing my limits, I can just relate to what I have experienced. After all, I do not hold the world’s view. I have my own eyes to see.
I grew up knowing my mother as my hero (or heroine in case an offense might be taken by some radical feminist reader for my use of the term). Some of my fondest memories of her were also those of my earliest.
I remember when I was child, probably not older than five, I had recurring nightmares of Steven Spielberg’s iconic extraterrestrial character after seeing the film on VHS. An appearance that was completely alien intruding in my dreams, E.T. would sometimes point towards me with his glowing finger, requesting me to phone him home. I’d scream in my sleep and sometimes thrash my hands around me. But when I opened my eyes, droplets of toddler tears would cease cascading down my cheeks as soon as I found myself secured in my mother’s gentle embrace. I’d listen to her soothing voice as she sways while carrying me.
She sings the lullaby that I can still vividly remember.
“ Lullaby and good night,
Close your eyes, and sleep tight.
May the rose in its bed,
Lay down its sweet head. “
With this song streaming into my ears while my lips laced my thumb, I fell asleep and made E.T. my friend. Back in my dream, he’d take me into his spaceship and the universe was ours to explore.
When I was in pre-school, classes were dreadful. At least, that’s how my mind led me to think back then. I wasn’t the type who was excited to play with kids in the classroom despite its child-friendly atmosphere. I cowered every time the teacher called my name to lead the class in a morning exercise by singing a nursery rhyme (her way of “boosting my self-confidence”).
Every time I stepped into the classroom, I couldn’t handle the noise of screams and stomping footsteps by my playful classmates. I could feel my guts churning whenever my mother would take me to school. She said it’s for my good. School was the place where I could learn. But with my juvenile mind still developing, how could I have known?
Just so I could stay in class when I was still a pre-school pupil, my mother would sometimes sit in the corner of the classroom so I could feel comfortable. When I was that age, I couldn’t live a day without witnessing my mother’s presence. Maybe it’s because at a very young age, I already knew that no child could survive without his mother. But maybe I was just exaggerating, because I was the only one in class who cried hysterically when I couldn’t see my mother in the classroom.
Due to this, she had always made time to accompany me in the classroom during my preschool days. I couldn’t remember how I was able to adjust, but it took me quite long to finally become comfortable with my classmates, accept their invitation for games, get to know them, and heed my teacher’s instructions. I finally embraced school by then. Soon, singing the nursery rhymes in front of class became a routine and my teacher was fondly proud. The corner of the classroom had an empty seat afterwards. But whenever melancholia gripped me, I’d always thought of seeing my mother again when I return home from school.
The point of this recollection is not how strange I was in pre-school; it is how my mother sacrificed her time in the morning to stay with me in the classroom even when she knew that I could get along with my classmates and teacher as time progressed.
The end of my elementary days was when my mother faced the challenge of being our single parent. Raising my sister and I was a tough one, but my mother was able to handle this phase well and eventually succeeded (not out of mere obligation, but by her innate and unconditional love). Through these years, we never heard her complain, never seen her give up, and never felt as if my sister and I were a burden to her. I recall the day when my father left, driving our family van, away from his supposed responsibilities. What he failed to give was what my mother accomplished and won for us.
In high school, I wanted to be so many things at the same time. I read books that inspired me to become a writer. I joined the glee club so I could use my voice (which I think is not quite meant for solo performances). I acted in a theater play so I could experience what it’s like to be onstage. I got so engrossed in all these things that at some point, I began to question my worth and purpose in life. I guess everybody has this kind of phase - when being a teenager, you’d think the world revolves around you and owes you its attention. I remember conversing with my mother during late nights, when I was so robust on telling her what I wanted to become when I grow up, how I felt about not being good enough, and how I think that I was nothing compared to those who excel in these fields. My mother would always listen to me, comfort me when I cried, advised me not to rush and get ahead of things. Sometimes, she’d scold me for thinking too much, but almost always, she told me to “still dream big, aim high, and do the best that I can.”
I guess I was able to pass through that phase with those words. Currently, writing triumphs my purpose.
Now that I’m in college, sleepless nights due to massive requirements have become unavoidable. Keeping with this pace, I usually follow the trend of juggling with to-do lists which I can preferably accomplish at night. (College can be a factory for nocturnal mortals). I often lack sleep and welcome the mornings with veils of drowsiness shading my eyes. My mother never wanted me to neglect my health just so I can complete something which I could have done during my time of availability in the afternoons (mostly), but sometimes my disobedience would result to this daily weariness. There have been rare times when I get a fever (albeit not severe) due to mild fatigue. It is only in sufficient slumber when the strength to live through a new day can be gained.
Occasionally though, I encounter situations when I recall my mother’s advice and believe she knows best.
Akin to the fairy tale, little red riding hood is advised by her mother not to speak with strangers in the woods while on her way to her grandma’s house. She encounters the big bad wolf but eventually escapes his deception. Even though she survives in the end as they all lived happily ever after, this fairy tale may mirror reality. Only, in reality, we do not wear red cloaks as occasionally as little red, we’re not in a forest but in a city, and there are no wolves that speak cunningly the way humans do. Instead, there are advocates of crime lurking in places unimaginable; they are those who carry guns, ice-picks, and whatever weapons that harm their chosen victims to fulfill their vile pursuit. This happens because crimes have become ubiquitous these days.
My mother still reiterates her advice even in my adolescence. “Never talk to strangers on the streets and never go to places unknown and unfamiliar.” She also expresses in concern, emphasizing that maturity is not a shield from danger. “Dili ko ganahan mabutang sa alanganin ang imong kinabuhi [I do not want your life to be put to risk].”
A mother, of course, cares for her child’s safety no matter how young or old he or she is. Her love is made evident on such care and even as the world dictates that “exaggerated protectiveness” is old-fashioned and boring, and has not much use in the present era, negligence may pose greater threat to those who know nothing about the world’s evil ground. As much as millennials want to be brave, independent, and strong-willed with the belief that they are immune to dangers, they may want to heed the advices given by their parents who lived before them and knew the ways of the world before the present-day millennials were even conceived.
Wisdom entails in knowing that we have a lot to learn. Learning encompasses abiding to the counsel of those whose experience and knowledge came before our existence.
Needful to express is how I value and love my mother with what I am as her son and with what she is for being able to nurture me through all the years that I have lived. I believe we all have unique relationships with our mothers and accordingly, we have become what we are now because of their love for us. Carrying us for nine months in their womb can be a figurative foreshadowing to how they’d bear us in their hearts for a lifetime. That is why I find no shame in proclaiming to the world that my mother deserves all the love that I (as her son) could give to her just as she (as my mother) gave me all the love she could.
I live in a generation where the youth strive for independence, proving to everyone that they could live all by themselves and be responsible for their actions. But it’s also significant to keep in mind that most of what we’ve learned in life, all of what we are, and how well we have lived is because of our mothers. Laboring in pain just to deliver us in the moment of our birth already proves much of what a mother can do so her child could live (and this is just a beginning of the numerous sacrifices she’d have to make). In times of our despair, a mother is concerned of what bothers her child. In times of dire need, a mother endures and pushes through trials just to provide for her child’s and family’s well-being.
I remember my teacher in our Philosophy class last semester exemplifying a scene in which a mother would only take the head of a fried fish for her share when her family dines, offering the rest to her children who need the food to satisfy their hunger or to her husband who works for a living. I also know of a teenage mom who has to leave school and find a stable job just so she could provide for her son whom she has to raise all by herself. With these examples encapsulating the acts a mother can do out of love, it is only befitting to realize how much we owe a lot to our mother for allowing us to live the life we have now.
The least we can do though is to make our mothers feel that their sacrifices yield to something good and the most that we can do is to love them for who they are. In loving them, we honor them. Biblical Scripture tells us to honor our father and mother (EXODUS 20:12 “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your God gives you.”; EPHESIANS 6:2 “HONOR YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER (which is the first commandment with a promise)”). This is God’s commandment. In honoring our mothers (and our fathers), we also honor Him who made them our parents for His purpose and His design. Who are we to disobey Him? Rebellion and stubbornness will only present how ungrateful we are.
I guess the love that my mother and I share has impacted so much in my life that the works that I have written so far give glimpses of how a mother can be of great importance to the life of a person.
I suppose present-day society labels someone like me as “momma’s boy” or just plain sentimental. Regardless, I am not ashamed to proclaim to the world why we need to value, respect, and love our mothers. As I have mentioned earlier, it might take me a lifetime to write about the basic (just the basic) things a mother can do out of love. Even as I wrap this piece up, it took me quite a thousand words just to present my view on such matter. But despite this, I still stand on the grounds of loving our mothers for what they have done for us, for what they deserve, and for who they are.
I consider my mother as my hero. She now has daughter who is a registered nurse (my sister) and a son (that is me) who will graduate this March with a degree in Development Communication majoring in Development Journalism. I’d never be able to reach to where I am now if it weren’t for her.
When I walk onstage to receive my diploma, I’d know that my mother is sitting amidst the audience. Proud. She is proud just as she was back in my pre-school days when I grabbed the courage to sing the nursery rhymes in front of the class. Then I won’t only consider it as the day of my graduation, but a Mother’s Day for her. The success that I earn by God’s sufficient grace will also be hers.
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