My mother and I have been at odds for a variety of things for much of my life, as you’d expect from a Tiger Mom who expected everything a Tiger Mom would expect from a child. I’ve been working as a writer for nearly a decade, but she’ll still call me up and tell me it’s not too late to go into pharmacology (Tiger Mothers are resilient in that way). Even so, she lives in me, and I in her. I keep her in my heart, and she keeps me in hers. I know this because sometimes she’ll say something like, “So, I guess you turned out okay?” That’s her secret code for: I suppose I love you.
Most Mother’s Days, I’ve sent her a check.
“Don’t you dare send me flowers,” she always warns. “They’re pretty, but they’re a waste of money. They’ll just end up dead in the garbage.”
This year, I called her and told her I’ll be flying home in a few days. I’ll take her out to dinner, and she’ll ask me if having a website means I hang out with Mark Zuckerberg (oh, moms).
“And maybe you’ll buy flowers,” she said on Sunday. “I think I want flowers this year.”
Photo by Amy Merrick