.My father wanted his steamed rice soft. I liked mine bottom-burnt. My mother, to pamper her only son, succumbed to my desire: A chance my dad waited to display his histrionic locution.
He would scoop a handful of the rice, raise it four inches, then loosen his grip. As the grain clanged on, he recited his useless mantra: Why don’t you just cook sand?!
I witnessed my father how he had been least prioritized. One time his volcano grumbling on his chest erupted. He asked my mother point blank… “Who do you love more… Your children or me?”.
Inay gasped. “That’s the most stupid question I’ve ever heard!”, her voice cracked.
“It’s your children!. Your flesh… we’re talking here!”.
Stunned, my father wanted to back out. But trapped already. He spewed more explosives.
“If there’s anyone – he stabbed his finger on his chest – invest your love in me. Children would go away, and you’d only have me to care for you.
That sudden outburst of immature indignation shocked my mother. She allowed her tears gushed across her cheeks.
“You just don’t understand…”.
That expression stuck with me. An enigma…? It waited for connection.
I am least-prioritized, too. Yes. But with sophistication.
My wife seemed myopic in some obvious things I might need. For our children she sees beneath the surface. She’s so intuitive.
On occasions, I thought, I am inheritor of hand-me-downs. When she buys socks, mitts, or Winter boots, mine would wait for a sale. If I have my boots in Spring, my wife would say – since I survived the Winter, I might as well save it for next year. My children get theirs on time. She doesn’t worry if those are expensive ones.
I complained. And she answered: You’re an adult. You can manage. Your children can’t.
I like to put justice into this. But I avoid my father’s style of hasty approach, lest I would appear immature.
I remembered reading “Love Signs” by Linda Goodman. I learned from her book.
My wife has three “M’s,” as her priorities. Marriage, Money, and Motherhood. She already dispensed the ‘Marriage part’. That’s me. Money came next. She had a career. Now, she culminates on “Motherhood”. Then it clicked! And I recalled my mother’s appeal to my father, “You just don’t Understand”.
That’s it. That’s the mystery. The Motherhood thing!
In a lovey-dovey mood one evening, I teased her of her overzealous nurturing of our kids. I placate her, she could be the next Mother Teresa.
In a serious, troubled tone, I asked her. “Am I side by side with my children in her heart?”. She looked at me, rolled her eyes on the ceiling. And she laughed! I am ashamed.
She became quiet and explained. That sublime feeling of Motherhood, where I grasp in my palm the destinies of my son and daughters – explains why I exist. The joy I am needed: where I fulfill the grand scheme of things at their dependency stage.
Now, I know what’s behind my mother’s “You don’t understand”. I am sorry for my father that my mother was not as articulate as my wife.
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