My Mother

            My mother’s favorite movie of all time is Dirty Dancing. I remember being around six or seven when I walked in on her watching it. She was lying on the couch, and, when she caught sight of me, she rushed to find the little grey DVD remote to pause the TV. She paused the movie at the perfect moment. Baby was carrying a watermelon into the slightly seedy, and more than slightly erotic, dance party. The frame was incredibly blurry, but I could just make out Baby’s shocked expression and the knowing smirk on the face of the guy next to her. This was enough to stir my childlike curiosity.

            “Can I watch with you?” I asked my mom. She said no and turned the TV off to really drive the point home. Talk about adding insult to injury. When I asked why, she explained that the movie was inappropriate and that I could watch it when I was older. This was beyond insulting to me. As a six-year-old, I was quite sure that I was as mature as I was ever going to get. I begged and pleaded, but my mother staunchly refused. That blurry scene of Dirty Dancing was my only reference for the movie for the next fourteen years of my life.

            Looking back now, I’m glad that I wasn’t introduced to Patrick Swayze’s dance moves at the age of six. Not only would I not have appreciated them properly, but I wouldn’t have understood any aspect of the movie. Not to mention that the film is just inappropriate for a six-year-old.

Since my birth, my mother has taken on the roles of nurturer, caregiver, and playmate, but she has also taken on the less enjoyable roles of disciplinarian, shoulder to cry on, and Stern Mom. Up until a few years ago, I thought that being a mother was easy, and I couldn’t wait for motherhood. I would have a little kid that I would love on, play with, feed, dress, and pass off to my husband when I tired of them. My mother has shown me, however, that this is not a realistic image of motherhood.

When everyone in my family was about ten years younger, my father was a fleeting figure in the household. We all loved him dearly, but the house was just a motel he stayed at fleetingly as his work caused him to travel all over the States. My mother basically became a single parent. She drove me to math club and to hangouts with my friends, educated my younger siblings and me, broke up fights, put delicious food on the table, raised an infant and a toddler, went to bed, and did it all again day after day. Without complaint. While my father made money for the family, my mother was literally the glue that held us all together. Sometimes the glue was soft and comforting, other times, it felt rigid and entrapping.

Sometimes my mom and I get along swimmingly. We can talk about anything and everything, or nothing at all, and still be at peace. We crack jokes and make each other laugh until our sides ache and tears creep out of our eyes. We people-watch and make gossipy observations. We just seem to be on the same wavelength. At those times, things are good, and we’re almost like the same person.

Sometimes my mom and I don’t get along at all. I say mean things to hurt her, and she takes them quietly because she’s the mother, or she snaps hurtful things right back. We can go hours in stony silence, each one of us too stubborn to do the right thing and make up. We have mastered that way of looking at someone without really seeing them. We are really good at ignoring each other because we’ve had some practice.

Ever since I was a teenager, I have vivid memories of being in my room alone. My mom will open the door in her blustery way and stand in the doorway, “Want to hang out with me?” she asks in a tremulous voice. More often than not, the answer was no. I didn’t want to hang out with my mom. I was preoccupied with whatever I was doing -- schoolwork, reading, not being around anyone else -- and I didn't want to be bothered. Clearly, I had better things to do. 

"No, thanks. I'm good." I'd say flatly. Or, "I'm busy right now, Mom," in an irritated voice.

"Oh, okay. Maybe later then. I love you." And she'd shut my room door, leaving me to whatever else I was doing.

I was around seventeen when I took that famous 5 Love Languages quiz from Gary Chapman. I revealed my results after a slight hesitation: "Um, I got Acts of Service," I said, already wrinkling my nose in disgust. "Doesn't that make me needy?"

"No," my mother was quick to say. "It just means that you're showed love through people helping you out." Then, she casually said, "My love language is Quality Time."

That felt like a kick to my stomach. All of those times my mother came to my room wasn't her trying to annoy me, it was her little way of showing that she loved me, and her way of asking if I loved her. Almost every single time, I kept saying no. Ever since then, I've been making an intentional effort to say yes more. If I'm genuinely busy, I'll say no; otherwise, I'll say yes. Losing some alone time is inconsequential in the face of showing my mother that I love and appreciate her and her sacrifices.

When I was getting ready to leave for college, my mom and I spent so much time together. We worked our way through a list of movies that we'd been meaning to watch, we went shopping for dorm stuff, we sat in silence, we talked, we cried a little. One day, the Alamo Drafthouse movie theatre was showing a special edition of Dirty Dancing. My mom booked the tickets and we went. We left the movie laughing and talking, and my mom asked how I liked it.

Every single scene was perfection.