Mothers are always seen as the strong ones, the ones who protect their daughters from all danger and heartbreaks.
“Don’t date that guy with the spiky hair, he’s up to no good”, “Don’t cross your leg when you sit, you’ll get spider veins”, “Don’t stop in the middle of the road, you want to get killed?!”.
Mothers know best, right?
All my life (and probably most your life) you have been watching over me attentively. Sometimes (rarely) I happily accept your advice, most of the time I reply with a glare or a grunt.
Mom, this doesn’t mean I don’t want you to give me advice. Yes, of course I wish you would just disappear in the heat of the moment when you lecture me. When you doubt me. When you think I’m not good enough. Yet I thank you. Wholeheartedly, mother. With a daughter like me, I think you’re allowed a minimum of three complete mental and emotional breakdowns per DAY, yet you tolerate me and guide me through without any complaints.
Mom, I want you to be there to witness all these moments in my life with me. Both happy ones and sad ones.
I want to tell you about how I’ve dropped my ice cream before I could taste it. I want it to be you when I tell you about the guy with the spiky hair that you’ve warned me about. Even though I hate it when you say, “I told you so”, I want it to be you more than anyone else.
I want to know you’re always there for me. I want to still crawl into bed and tell you about my day each night, whispering my darkest fears whilst you calm me down by braiding my hair. I miss having you and dad hold me tight at night when there’s a thunderstorm. It’s not the same not having you two calm me when I cry my heart out, thinking how the thunder and the lightning can kill me in an instant.
I try to be like you. I try so hard.
I look at old photos of you and have decided to grow my hair out, just like how you’ve had your hair right down to your belly button. I’ve learned to get used to waking up at 5 in the morning to shower. I’ve started putting perfume in my hair, just like the way you do it.
I know I don’t say this enough. I want to be you. I want to be the mother my daughter can look up to. The cool mom that always looks glamorous in front of her schoolmates. The mother who teaches her daughter how to do a proper pinkie-promise. I have discovered long ago what I want to be. I want to be a mother a daughter can be proud of, just like you.
Don’t worry, Mom. I will live. I will learn to breathe. I just don’t want to do anything alone, without you there holding my hand.
Your Daughter and Your Number 1 Fan.