The One And Only Momma

Momma, I wrote this in the midst of studying for the History exams on Tuesday and Wednesday…so this will be structurally and grammatically terrible.  I’ll do better next time.  You’re best, Momma.

One of my Momma’s Day presents to you, Momma, is that fact that I’ve decided not to use a photo of you for my Featured Image.  Despite your beautiful face, I respect your privacy; the same cannot be said for my Instagram page, I guess.

Being the mother you are, you’re the one who understands me best…which is why I have to pour my heart out here because you know, you understand, and you accept the fact that underneath my extraverted guise is the introvert with so much to say, but no way to say it.  For seventeen years, I found it difficult to verbally express how much I love you into words; I could only write it down, only for some of these words to fall flat on their faces due to my inept writing skills back in the day.  For years, none of that has changed.  Year after year, I can only express these thoughts when I write them down, and only choke up when I read it out loud to anybody.

You’re the one and only Momma who understands.

Momma, I’ve never met any woman like you.  You’re the music professor who likes to criticise how terribly I play the piano or sing a song; you’re the confused teacher who would inadvertently confuse an alkene for an alcohol (?); you’re the tiger who couldn’t understand and tolerate the fact that your daughter used to be hopeless at maths; you’re the protective mother who feared almost every aspect of your children’s lives.  Throughout these seventeen years, we’ve had countless arguments, we’ve exchanged insults, we’ve shared unsettling silences.

But Momma, did I grow up to be the woman you wanted me to be?  The girl who would ask if there was a curfew in order to spend more time with you; the daughter who would stay at school until she got kicked out just to study, thereby forsaking any chances at having dinner; the sister who lectures her brother over petty issues; the girl who grew up wearing T-shirts and jeans; the teenager who hates parties and chose to read books instead?  You were my first acting teacher, because you always told me to “act like a woman.”  Despite what I choose to wear or how I talk, I’ve tried to make you proud.  Did I?  You said yes, and I thank you.

I don’t need to say that I love you for you to believe that I love you.  You know that I love you unconditionally like how you love me.  Yet, as I grew older, as I became increasingly detached when I was seven, as I became a rebellious girl who sought autonomy at the age of thirteen, as I became more cynical and pessimistic at the age of fifteen, it got even harder to say it because the more you say it, the more the receiver gets desensitised by the words of affection.  Like “Merry Christmas” or “Happy birthday,”  “I love you Momma” feels like it earned it place as an understatement; simply saying it doesn’t mean anything anymore without the heart.  Thus, writing it down even from the bottom of my heart isn’t going to make it convincing.

But Momma, you were always there.  And you were the same; I feel like in these seventeen years, we’ve rarely exchanged the three words of “I love you.”  Between mother and daughter, I had always thought it was normal until I see my friends telling their mothers “I love you Mommy” or “Mama I love you.”  Even seeing these sights, I knew that we didn’t need those words.  We didn’t need to say it to each other.  And that’s because those words are already engraved in everything you ever did with me and/or for me.  Travelling, studying, reading, arguing…all that and I know.  You’re always there.

Happy Momma’s Day, Momma.

Thanks for stopping by.  Don’t be a stranger.

Slightly

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