My mom was always someone you can randomly hug when you had an overflow of emotions. At times she would think that I love my dad more because I spend more time with him, honestly I love them equally. Dad is dad and mom is mom.
She calls out to us every Sunday in the afternoon, just after they had taken their siesta.
And for a while it would be silent, but then the smell of whatever mom had cooked would fill the air and we would come rushing down the stairs.
She does not cook for the most part, although these days she is learning a lot of recipes. But when all is hopeless or lacking she would stir up these different dishes often called “tsambs” or sometimes “tsamba” meaning her cooking style involved a lot of guessing just to create a reasonable dish.
Strange how I like it more when she does this type of cooking even if sometimes they end up sort of mutilated.
And when it does end up that way, we would look at her asking, “What does it taste like?”
She would say this phrase as early as when I was a toddler: “Taste it to believe it.”
Before, we would just start to dig in because we were hungry. Nowadays, we’d laugh and joke on about that book about mom I was going to write entitled “Taste It To Believe It.” I assume it’d be a cook book, but who knows what will happen.
Because of all the people in the world that I really admire, my mom was the one who could never let you down. She looked at us in a warm way, and I knew that she means it when she tells us, “My dreams are for my children.”
When I was a kid I had a habit of going into my parent’s room waiting for her to get out or just seeing if she was there, because just looking at her made me feel lighter. I don’t know how mothers do it, but I’m glad they do.
I know, it’s obvious that I am still very immature and I never honestly believed in that saying, “Mother knows best,” but apparently they do. Strange, I think my mom has some sort of device that lets her know the things that happen to me because she knows the things that I wanted to say immediately before I was about to say it.
She would talk to me sometimes in a professional, almost-holy tone, sometimes in that “I’m holding back because you might get hurt” tone, but for the most part she’d say things honestly and it wouldn’t hurt. Not the way she would explain it. Then she would say “Of all the people in the world, we as your family, as your parent, want the best for you.” Relaying the number of reasons why and what to do, in a superbly vague manner so you get to learn and be safe. I tell you, these people do want me very protected, and sometimes to the point where I actually get a little mad at them but in the end. But I love them to the bones.
Recently we would talk openly about things, and these things made me think of how I should do things properly. And how I am still a kid, still learning but at the same time an adult, a very questionable adult, trying to get ahead of life because that’s what they do. She knows me more in ways that a daughter can never fully understand, but at this point I just know she does. So as my mother says for food, I will try to use in life “Taste it to believe it.”
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‘I know that she means it when she tells us, “My dreams are for my children.”‘ | essay and illustration by Hazel Marie Bien
— Ibalio Stories (@IbalioStories) May 20, 2018
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