My Mom Is Proud of Me Without Knowing Why

She’s like a 5-year-old

Image by Freepik

A spidery tale

I originally come from a tropical country. There, the spiders grow big as dinner plates and have a nasty habit of popping up in unexpected places — like behind the curtains and toilet seats. Sometimes, they even do the jack-in-the-box from behind the sofa.

As you may have guessed, I’m terrified of those pesky creatures. While people in my country have learned to cohabit with their eight-legged visitors, you can hear me screaming from a mile away.

My mother started losing her memory several years ago. At first, it was the little things, but over time, it has become like a sieve. Along with it came the paranoia, irritability, and tantrums better suited to a five-year-old.

I remember we were traveling, and my mother spotted a picture of a coffee with a heart shape at a coffee shop. She immediately insisted on stopping for a coffee right then and there. When I tried to explain that it was in the opposite direction and suggested we get it on the way back, she threw a tantrum, complained, and sulked for the entire ride.

Child experts would say to leave the child be until they calmed down. I tend to do the same and it usually works. You see, she quickly forgets once something else grabs her attention. The key is in distracting her.

Despite the challenges, some things are remembered, even though the brain is becoming cheese. For instance, her protective nature as a mom is still as strong as when I was a little girl.

The last time I visited my parents, we were on the sofa talking when a terrifying spider flew up the wall mere inches from my hair. Instinctively, my mom reached out and casually swept it aside, like it was an annoying fly or something.

At that moment, I don’t think she considered an injury to herself because, let’s face it, some spiders are poisonous. Instead, she acted on reflex.

During difficult moments, memories like these give me the strength to endure without expressing complaints or reacting sharply.

A love affair with books

My favorite photograph of my mom and me was taken on my second birthday with the London Bridge as a backdrop. In it we are both wearing big smiles.

My mom used to be movie star beautiful. I recall being envious of her in my teenage years because people, especially men, would fawn over her each time she walked into a room.

With age and maturity, I realized she meant so much more than just her appearance.

I grew up in apartheid South Africa to immigrant parents. English was not their first language. I couldn’t attend regular school because I was nonwhite and was relentlessly bullied when I was enrolled in an all-black school because I was not black. So, I was home-schooled.

We didn’t have libraries or bookstores in the small town of Fouriesburg. And the internet was slow to arrive in the boondocks.

Parents in my culture usually have an annoying tendency to frown upon reading, unless it is a textbook, of course. But my mother must have sensed how badly I craved books that she made it a point to buy them for me whenever she traveled out of town.

It is difficult to explain to those who haven’t experienced life in small towns during the pre-internet era the role of books in offering a window to the outside world and broadening perspectives in how we view the world.

Later, when my parents separated, she moved out with my sister while I remained with my father. Though I understand why she chose my unwell sister over me, it took me a long time to deal with the feelings of abandonment.

It wasn’t until 16 years had passed that we managed to establish our relationship as mother and daughter but by then the vagaries of age and dementia had already taken a foothold.

Memory like cheese

My mom knows I write. She is proud of it because I have heard that she loves to talk about her daughter, the writer. However, if someone were to inquire about what I write about, she would get confused. She is unsure whether I write novels or poetry.

She just knows, with a mother’s loyalty and conviction, that whatever it may be, I am good at what I do.

Knowing that she is proud of me is more than enough. This is because writing represents a clean break from my old self bound to a set of archaic beliefs courtesy of my culture that restricted me as a woman, daughter, and wife.

Sometimes, I share stories with her that she would find captivating. Like the one about a man who kept hearing a whistling sound in his house and stumbled across a distressed python wrapped around a picture frame in the living room. He later discovered that he had built his home right in the middle of ancient migratory routes that pythons used to travel to their breeding grounds.

At other times, I would tell her a story, hoping to hear how she would weigh in. What if a woman had fallen in love with a married man? After pondering for a moment, she surmised that pursuing such a course of action would only lead to heartache for both parties so it was best to refrain from it.

I miss my mom the most in lucid moments like this, which are hard to come by.

Is it surprising that she thinks of me as a 5-year-old? In her mind, she is more and more somewhere in the past. When she accompanies me to the hairdresser, she fusses over the length of my hair, giving specific instructions on how many inches should be chopped off and insisting on a bowl-shaped haircut, à la Dora the Explorer.

I smiled reassuringly at the hairdresser because I was happy that my mom was having a good day.

She also has a say in what I wear. My mom worries I will get the wrong kind of attention coming my way if I don’t cover up whenever I go out.

As I mentioned, she resides in a time from my childhood when women who dared to show some skin were denigrated. Surprisingly, things haven’t changed much; however, women are not letting that be a hindrance anymore. Since I value my time with her, I make it a point not to let such things bother me but instead enjoy the attention and being in the moment with her.

Yesterday, when we spoke on the phone, she inquired how my writing was going. I told her it was going so-so. She wanted to know why; however, I came up with a vague excuse as I didn’t want her to worry about my health issues. She then asked me to tell her a story — I think she meant the article I am working on.

I told her it is about a daughter who, despite going through some rough patches with her mother, still loves her very much.

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