I blame my mom.
By: A. Gumapac
Tags: Mwc Space, Daughters, Mothers, Family

space (noun): a period of time — Merriam Webster

I blame my mom.

Am I being unfair? Disrespectful? Well, allow me to share parts of what my life was like growing up. Maybe then, some of you would understand why I feel like playing the blame game.

I was born in the mid-80s. Technology was largely still a dream, especially for a middle-class family from a developing country. We weren’t particularly poor, but if there was anything my brother and I wanted or asked of our parents, we knew there were only two likely answers: either “I’m sorry but we just don’t have the budget for it,” or “We’ll see.”

My childhood memories were simple but memorable. My brother and I grew up knowing what it was like to be loved and to feel secure at home. We didn’t go to sleep hungry, we had clothes, we had enough toys, I grew up around tons of books, and even had the privilege of attending private school.

Some of my earliest memories were of my mom teaching me how to read. I believe I can still recall how she looked so proud and happy when I read my first word: the label of the mattress I was stubbornly occupying while she was attempting to change the sheets. My mom put in a lot of effort into making nearly everything a learning opportunity. Puzzles were a given in my childhood. I grew up surrounded by books — some of which I still have to this day. I suppose the early lessons were mostly to prepare me for the admissions exam for nursery school.

Perhaps that’s where it all began.

space (noun): The distance from other people or things that a person needs in order to remain comfortable — Merriam Webster

My mom accompanied me to school for my first three years of formal education: nursery, kindergarten, then first grade. I’m not talking about simply being dropped off at school — my mom stayed in school to wait for me. Every time I’d be done with class, I knew for certain she’d be there to greet me, hug me, and then proceed to ask how my day went. She was always there.

When I reached second grade, my mom finally shifted more of her attention towards my younger brother. Yet, even as I started to finally board and ride school buses alone, my mom would always be there by the front door to see me off in the morning and again to welcome me home in the afternoon. Always there.

I once complained to some of the older girls who rode the bus with me about how I felt embarrassed by her constant presence. I was taken aback when one of those older students — who sometimes tried to tease me to the point of borderline bullying — actually pulled me aside to tell me how lucky I was that I at least had a parent who cared. I carried that moment with me for years whenever I felt like my mother was being a little too much: too protective, too worried, too fussy, too affectionate. I carry that moment with me still.

My mom went back to working in the office for a few years so our schedule in the household got a little crazier. My parents made dinner time some sort of holy hour. Every night, we’d gather around to eat, and my mom would ask how everyone’s day was. I swear some days we could see how exhausted she was, yet she’d push forward to spend that dinner time with us without fail. Years later, I think it’s what led to dinner time being such a loud affair among the four of us. Dinner time meant no phones on the table, holding actual conversations with each other, and debating over all sorts of topics. It was loud, but it was home. And mom was always there.

Years pass by and traditions were made and maintained. Sundays and Christmas holidays were for family and family alone. Holy week is reserved for staying home or going to church but definitely not for going on vacation. We sold my childhood house and rented apartments instead. The front door where my mom used to see me off and welcome me home changed numerous times. Just as our roles changed: some days I’d be the one to see her off when she’d leave much earlier for work, or I’d be the one to greet her by the door when she arrived later than everyone else.

space (noun): Physical space independent of what occupies it — Merriam Webster

Fast forward even further and I was much involved in my job and trying to build some semblance of a career. Maybe it was a gradual thing, but one day, I just realized my mother wasn’t as fastidious about seeing me off or welcoming me home. Some mornings she’d still be asleep, and at nights she’d be in this chair she seemingly claimed as her spot by the dining table. From memories by the front door, to a chair.

Cut to last year, the first day of lockdown due to the pandemic in my country. Mom came downstairs and took her favored spot, the favored chair. I was nearly done with breakfast as I had begun to work from home and had a Zoom meeting to attend in a few. Still, I lingered just a little longer at the table so I could chat with her.

My Zoom meeting started at 10:30 that morning and ended before quarter to 11.

By 12 noon, my mom was gone. Just like that.

space (noun): a blank area separating words or line — Merriam Webster

How does one move on from having so much of their life seemingly filled with the presence of one person in one moment and then have them taken away in the next?

I feel like there’s this vast expanse inside of me I can’t understand. My mom was my best friend. I felt like I didn’t need anyone else so long as I had her. She made me feel so comfortable, so content, so complacent with her presence and now, I have all of these spaces where she used to be and all these spaces in my head that are of her, her lessons, her influence, her voice, her mannerisms, her habits. She’s all there and she isn’t.

I want to blame my mom for occupying so much of my life that I can’t seem to get over the hole she left behind. I want to blame my mom for making me so used to her always being there. I want to blame her for setting me up to feel this way.

I want to blame her and yet, here I am afraid that as much as I dislike how too many memories can hurt, I also fear the day when the memories begin to fade.