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But once again, the happy days became sad. On June 15, I stayed home from school to take care of her. Once again she was admitted to the hospital. At first, no one could figure out what was wrong. She remained in intensive care for a week. She began to do better. Then on July 10 she became very sick, and on the eleventh she almost died.
It was getting harder and harder to deal with. Every time she got really sick, she would always come back and do even better.
When the doctors finally realized why she was so sick, they put her on dialysis, a treatment for her kidneys. It seemed to work on August 17, we visited her and she was doing extremely well. When I left, I kissed her and said, “I love you, Mom. See you tomorrow.”
At 6:30 the next morning we received a call telling us she had passed away during the night.
Today, a little over a year since my mom left, I am closer to my father and sister. And along with accepting my family responsibilities, I have gained respect for my mom. I still don’t understand how she managed to accomplish all she did.
As for being adopted, I have no desire to find my real parents. The ones I have had are the only ones I’ll ever need. They taught me to be strong and follow my heart. Watching my mom smile through all her pain taught me that I can accomplish anything. I know she’s with me through this important time in my life, and she’ll guide me in the night direction.
“Thank you, Mom! I love you and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You誰l Never Regret It-the Essence of Motherly Love
永不后悔--母爱的真谛
Time is running out for my friend. While we are sitting at lunch she casually mentions she and her husband are thinking of starting a family. “We’re taking a survey.” she says, half-joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?”
“It will change your life,” I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. “I know,” she says, “no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous holidays...”
But that’s not what I mean at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be vulnerable forever.
I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without thinking: “What if that had been my child?” That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die. I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting, and she will think her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her child is all right.
I want my friend to know that every decision will no longer be routine. That a five-year-old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s at a restaurant will become a major dilemma. The issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the lavatory. However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the added weight of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her own life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. She would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years-not to accomplish her own dreams-but to watch her children accomplish theirs.
I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to hit a ball. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real it hurts.
My friend’s look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. “You’ll never regret it.” I say finally. Then, squeezing my friend’s hand, I offer a prayer for her and me and all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this holiest of callings.
The Dress
一件连衣裙
“Do you like my dress?” she asked of a passing stranger. “My mommy made it just for me.” She said with a tear in her eye.
“Well, I think it’s very pretty, so tell me, little one, why are you crying?”
With a quiver in her voice the little girl answered. “After Mommy made me this dress, she had to go away.”
“Well, now,” said the lady, “with a little girl like you waiting for her, I’m sure she’ll be right back.”
“No Ma’am, you don’t understand,” said the child through her tears, “my daddy said she’s up in heaven now with Grandfather.”
Finally the woman realized what the child meant, and why she was crying. Kneeling down she gently cradled the child in her arms and together they cried for the mommy that was gone.
Then suddenly the little girl did something that the woman thought was a bit strange. She stopped crying, stepped back from the woman and began to sing. She sang so softly that it was almost a whisper. It was the sweetest sound the woman had ever heard, almost like the song of a very small bird.
After the child stopped singing she explained to the lady, “My mommy used to sing that song to me before she went away, and she made me promise to sing it whenever I started crying and it would make me stop.”
“See,” she exclaimed, “it did, and now my eyes are dry!”
As the woman turned to go, the little girl grabbed her sleeve, “Ma’am, can you stay just a minute? I want to show you something.”
“Of course,” she answered, “what do you want me to see?”
Pointing to a spot on her dress, she said, “Right here is where my mommy kissed my dress, and here,” pointing to another spot, “here is another kiss, and here, and here. Mommy said that she put all those kisses on my dress so that I would have her kisses for every booboo that made me cry.”
Then the lady realized that she wasn’t just looking at a dress, no, she was looking at a mother... who knew that she was going away and would not be there to kiss away the hurts that she knew her daughter would get.
So she took all the love she had for her beautiful little girl and put them into this dress that her child now so proudly wore.
She no longer saw a little girl in a simple dress. She saw a child wrapped... in her mother’s love.
Mother誷 Hands
母亲的手
Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
I don’t remember when it first started annoying me-her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that anymore-your hands are too rough!” She didn’t say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.
Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, “Don’t do that anymore-your hands are too rough!” Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had forgotten-and forgiven-long ago.
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.
A Mother誷 Eight Lies
母亲的八个谎言
As a child, the little boy was born in a poor family. Even for eating, the family often got lack of food ,whenever the time for eating, the mother often gave the children her portron of rice in her bowl. She always said, eating this rice, my children, I’m not hungry.
-His mother’s first lie
When the boy was getting to grow up, the persevering mother gave her spare time on Sunday for fishing in the rural river nearby the country town, to supply the boy with calcium supplements. The fish was cious and tasted fresh. While the boy was eating fish, mother sat beside him and ate the bones. Boy was touched, then passed the fish to mother’s bowl with the chopsticks, and asked her to eat. But she refused and gave it back. The mother said, eat it, son, I don’t realy like fish.
-His mother’s second lie
When in junior high school, to collect the boy and his sister’s tution. The mother, and sewing worker, went to the economic enterprise to bring some used-matches boxes, sticking them up at night to cover the needs of the family. In a winter night, the boy woke up from the sleep and saw his mother continuing the work of sticking the boxes in the dim light; bending her back. Boy said, mom, go to sleep, you would work tomorrow morning. Mother smiled and said, go to sleep, dear, I am not tired.
-His mother’s third lie
At the time of final term, mother stood outside the door where the boy took the exam inside everyday to accompany the boy. It was the mid-summer and sun was shining. The strong and perservering mother waited for him under the sunshine for several hours. As the bell rang, which indicated that the final exam had finished, mother welcomed and passed him a glass of tea that put in a bottle, told the boy to drink it. The very thick tea was not as thick as his mother’s love, which was much thicker. Glaring at her cracking hips and sweats full of head, the boy gave the glass back and asked her to drink. Mother said, drink, it boy, I’m notthirsty.