I peeked out the corner, into the kitchen. Mother was waving her hands in rapid circles, her eyebrows furrowed, her pink, stained lips moving curtly. I stood confused...was she going craz --...and just before I could finish my thought, she turned around and I spotted the black bluetooth perched behind her golden hair. No surprise there. I scowled.
I remembered that as a little kid, I used to marvel at my mom's multi-tasking ability. With her phone positioned between her shoulder and ear, she would cook, watch TV, vacuum, and still find time to play with me. She would call me down from my room and teach me how to cook. She would do the cutting and I would put the tomatoes, the potatoes, the chilis into the pan and mix, my mother's hand on top of mine, guiding me throughout.
I used to love it when I cooked with my mom. I didn't mind the countless times she forgot I had been waiting for an hour to stir the chicken. I didn't mind when she signaled me to come with her hands because her mind and her words were with someone else across the lines. I didn't mind anyone of it because atleast, I was spending time with my mom, even if it was just listening to her voice or watching her work her magic.
Over time, even this little piece of my mother faded away. Business meetings became more important than school graduations; weekends consisted of being locked at daycares instead of playing soccer. And...I believe it was 6th grade, the beginning of middle school, when the threads of our relationship finally broke off. Mother wanted to conquer the world...I, I just wanted to be a teenager, go to the movies, eat out, have some fun. But in any relationship, whether it be husband & wife, brother & sister, or mother & child, one has to sacrifice. This case...it was me.