Mother's...You Can't Live Without Them

Having spent an entire month with my 'mum' almost 24/7 this September, I'd like to revise that old sarcastic saying that "Mother's...you can't live with them, and you can't live without them." It simply is, you can't live without them.

On the contrary of the last entry I wrote about a goodbye with my 'mum,' I wasn't filled with guilt for all of the arguments we had endured over many months due to stress of my moving and built up tension. Not to say that we didn't even have a single bicker, because that would be classified as abnormal for us, and initially, I think we needed some time to get used to having the other person around again. Plus, we had some factors that instigated our impatience with each other. However, after arriving back into London, I took the advice of a traditional woman and miracously gained the patience I've been asking for years, as long as I've had the ability to have tantrums at my mother, and something, gave that much needed strength and patience in me. I think somehow, she gained much needed patience to deal with me as well.

For the first time in ages, it made me see my relationship with my mother in a different light. I wanted time to hang on for a long minute, and am silently angry at how time rolls on especially when you don't want it to. Tommy's presence probably did our relationship wonders because he offered comic relief when it was needed, and constantly reminded me how much my mum was looking after us (yum, cooking). Over the course of a month, she has become almost the single reason why I want to move back to Canada when the time is right.

Although my 'mum's' life is as social as a butterfly's, I remain feeling guilty because I know I'm wasting time with her not in my life; the wrinkles in her face have grown deeper, some grey's just can't be hidden, and most of all, I think the part where she loses some height with her age has started to happen. She talks about things like retirement, and getting old. And that scares me.

I recently read a book that described crying as having "your bladder at your eye" and I've been like that for a few days in my own privacy. I tried to think of things that have made me laugh over the past two weeks as she walked towards security at Gatwick Airport because I could once again feel the lump in my throat, and I know once I feel that it's the point of no return.

It seems when you're saying your goodbyes, the words you want to say never come out, because when you begin to speak the waterworks are more likely to come pouring out. And which it did. I guess this is life, we can't always have everything we want. But this seems to be one of the most unfair situations, even though it has been my choice.

On the train ride home, I couldn't help but think that she needs me with her, but I know she will survive just fine, this savy and independent mother of mine.

I went home and cried my eyes out, my mother probably went home, dragged her suitcase down the stairs, looked at her basement apartment and said to herself, "these plants need some dusting."