Mirror Mirror on the Wall, I am my Mother After All

A mother understands what a child does not say.

Author Unknown

To all you mothers out there, Happy Mother's Day! As for writing about my own mother, well, sometimes the best things in life can't be put into words.

Mothers are not biological (I always hated science). An abusive, neglecting mother is simply the person who gave birth to you. An adopted mother, who took you into her home, loved you, and did absolutely everything to stand by you is your mother. My aunt and uncle have adopted two children, because my aunt cannot have children. Those two kids love her more than anything, and, when they see her face, they say "mommy".

Mother-child relationships aren't science. There's no math (I always hated math too). There's love. And love is enough to make any computer explode. It's incalculabe, in-exact, indestructible. You can't break love down.

Love is what threads the entire family, not just mothers. But mothers and fathers constantly throw it away. Mothers, what if your child was disabled? What if they were a murderer, a sociopath? What if they constantly displayed ingratitude and hatred towards you? Could you still love them?

It's moments like those that define who mothers really are.

I used to think the mother I knew wasn't a thinker like me. I was the writer. The original. I crafted pieces of art, decorated our house for the holidays, planned vacations, drew up dream houses. My mom cooked. Cleaned. Did the wash.

I kept every little thing, from toilet paper rolls to Barbie Mansions. My mom took everything and threw it out. I thought she didn't have any things of sentimental value because she wasn't like me at all. I was nothing like my mom.

But then I grew up and, for the first time in my life, got a backstage pass to what my mom really went through. Constantly paying bills, going to work to pay for my education because I had my own problems at public school. Doing load after load of wash while my friends' moms, who I sometimes envied, paid for cleaning ladies to do the housework. I was still a dreamer, a thinker. But in my mom's desk drawer, I found some things I would have expected her to throw away like everything else: an invitation to my brother's graduation, old pictures, and some paper Mother's Day gifts.

So, I am like my mother. I'm her daughter. Because that's the payback she gets from all those years of unconditional love. All that love pours into one glass, and that glass, in turn, pours out the same exact unconditional love. With that love, she gives us part of herself. Moms will say "no he's nothing like me, he's like his daddy" or "you would never guess we were mother and daughter the way she acts". But there's so much more than personality. There's teachings, there's mannerisms, traits.

Mirror mirror on the wall, I've become my mother after all.