Cedrix S. Hay
WHEN your mom slaps you with a high-hitting “no” on your face, then you must now believe that “Mother knows best.” Or, maybe, it is the other way around. You tell her that you wanted to join your clique skinny-dipping into Friend A’s pool—knowing it was the fictive character in your head that convinced your mom, so you wouldn’t end up doing the chores or lying in bed all night—since you’ve gotten this, as assumed, all planned with your girls on a Saturday night.
Cliché, but dead true. When it happens, you’ll just hear her scream at the top of her lungs after telling her short, but sweet, that the hottest guy on your school hooked you up and decided to give you your first French kiss, your first “break” and your first child. And—voila!—you just can’t look straight to her eyes drowning in a sea of tears, since you know that your girls don’t know anything of these, and your one-day summer escape turned out to be a sexcapade.
You feel guilty for yourself, because your knight in shining armor finds his path away from you, since he isn’t ready to face what’s waiting on your tummy for nine months, and his balls flipped in after your mom’s blood pressure kicked high. God knows that your mom was an unsung saint in history.
You’re 17 and young, as fragile as perishable goods delivered at the mountains, yet brave enough to face an empty future. Now that you begin to take a huge leap in your life, since you have no other option but to raise your first-born child all by your strength, there is still your mom behind, wearing purple-tinted shades and on heels, guarding your every decision with newly threaded brows on point. After all the disgrace you have brought in to your home, you’ll still feel her palm laid on your tummy and arms wrapped on you, with that sincerity and love fervent on her cheeks.
Suddenly, memories played back in your mind—of you being pushed down by your bitchy playmate while running; wounded with a Swiss knife while peeling off that freshly picked mango from your neighbor’s tree; picked up in a girl fight, when you don’t have the idea what happened and why; bullied for being fat; having your first monthly flow; your first day of class; your first prom; the first time you were caught by your school teacher leaving classes with your so-called friends; and the first time you hooked up on a Saturday night.
But, there she is, the Wonder Woman of your life, ready to save you from the distance, no matter how hard it is for her to hear whispers of your stupidity ruminating around the town. You don’t need to shout for her name; she’s just a room away, washing your stained undies. She knows when you’re in a triple threat.
As pure as you wanted to tell her how typically inconsiderate you are to her—for all of the suffering she have endured, from your infantry to adolescence—your mouth shivers and words babble. All you can afford to give back is your tears. Afraid to hear the worst adjectives that best describe your insanity, you remain silent. Before you have earned the courage to humble yourself and admit you’re a horrible daughter, you are providently forgiven. Remembering the lullaby she would always sing for you, the atmosphere becomes dramatic. You’ll just hear the music on cue. A minute after, your mom would laugh and you follow…and cut! Kidding.
Now that you’re a clueless teenage mom of one, clubbing or bar-hopping at night and shopping might be your least priority every payday. But that doesn’t stop you from having fun, of course. Well, you’re now about to choose whether you’ll spend your week with your dear in the park, mall or in the province.
Resorting to the biggest-saving pack of milk, diaper and other infant needs is a huge support to your weekly budget. For once, you lose her respect, but your mom would always come to catch you, your child and your pocket, even if you reached zero balance. That’s how she says “I love you, bitch!” You fall on the pedestal a thousand times, and she’ll raise you a million times with her heart and soul.
So, believe her when she nods her head from left to right. You don’t have to show her how you make a fool of yourself.
Cliché, but dead true.