"My Perfect Mother" Mother's Day Contest Entry

Here is another great entry to our Mother's Day Contest from Anthony in NYC. Thanks for sharing your Mother with us!


“Look! Over there! Run quick and grab that ball!”, my Mother screamed, pointing.
I obeyed her instructions and scooted over to where she spied the multicolored ball. It was the evening of Christmas Eve in the islands and my Mother and I had been desperately looking everywhere for a ball. All the stores were sold out, and our last hope was the street vendors. “How much for this ball, Miss?” I breathlessly asked the vendor as I picked up the ball. But before the vendor could respond, a pair of big hands, snatched it out of mine. Stunned, I looked up and saw a giant boy hugging the ball with a triumphant and malevolent grin on his face. He proceeded to inquire about the price. But before the vendor could respond, I heard my Mother’s voice. “Hey you big bully! Give the child back his ball!” She was now approaching the stand. Her shoes pounded loudly on the pavement like a soldier’s trumpet. “I said to give my son back his ball!”
“I-I picked it up first,” The boy stuttered. A sheepish look was on his face. He was feebly clutching the ball now. My Mother approached the boy. “Haven’t you any manners? He had the ball first. I saw when you grabbed it from him. Give it back to him. First come first served!
Embarrassed, the boy thrust the ball toward me and ran off. “These children!” my Mother said to the vendor who wore an awkward smile. “They have no respect!” Then turning to me, she threatened, “If I ever see you behave like that. Lord help me!”
Ever since I can recall, my Mother was always taking people to task for what she perceived were injustices. Where my Dad was contemplative and conciliatory, my Mom was quick to tackle a wrong doer with unbridled indignation. She watched over her six children like a lioness watching over her cubs. Bullies and bad johns she detested. If one of us came home and told her that a stranger said an unkind word toward one of us, my mom would immediately abandon her task and diligently investigate the matter. If we were in the wrong, we were accordingly punished. And if the injustice was done to us, mother made sure she received reassurance that it was not going to happen again. She was determined to settle any score. But she also implored us to comport ourselves in the best manner. “Anytime you see your friends’ parents or elders, make sure you say, good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, whichever is right, BEFORE, they say it, you hear me?”
My Mother was also ultra protective with regards to our health. If in the middle of night one of us had a slightly increased body temperature, she did not wait until the morning to take us to the hospital as my Dad advised. Instead, she would bundle us up, thrust her feet in the nearest shoes, and head out towards the nearest hospital. My Dad, who would have been tired from a hard day’s work, and finding his advice a vain effort, would drag on only the sparsest pieces of clothing as he dashed out the house to catch up with his wife and child.
Although she was a house-wife, my mother never lacked the time to reinforce in us the virtues of housework and tidiness. “I don’t care if you’re boy. You have to learn to do housework, “ she reminded me. And so from the age of eight, every night after dinner, my elder sister and I alternated cleaning the dishes. At home she was always washing, scrubbing, sweeping and sweating. She did the cooking too, although on some weekends, my Dad helped. I enjoyed watching her while she washed clothes; the squeak-squeak sound her hands made whenever she rub the soapy material had a hypnotic effect upon me. Sometimes she became frustrated with us whenever she returned from shopping in town and discovered we had kept the house untidy. “Look how you have the place like a pig style,” she would complain. “Supposed I fell sick and had to be brought home. What would people think!” Immediately she would drop the shopping bags and ordered us to clean up the mess that we created.
It has been over twenty-five since that Christmas Eve incident which has left an indelible impression about the woman who gave birth to me. My siblings and I knew she loved us, yet she never corrupted our minds with the warped idea that love had to be predicated on a perpetual fawning. It was tough love. And tough love is what I have passed on my children. I have to admit that my Father’s cool, conciliatory and contemplative nature makes up most of my DNA, but at times my mother’s fervent sense of justice prevails when appropriate. I do not hesitate to loudly challenge an unjust act if I felt that it was warranted. I consider myself handy, and although not a neat freak, I like the feel of a clean home with fresh scents. I can prepare a plethora of delicious dishes, and I always do my laundry. Manners and accountability are creeds by which my children live. I can only hope to be as good a parent as my Mother.