It’s been a long, long time since I’ve lived at home. 2020, however, brought me back to the West Coast for longer than a Christmas break. My mom doesn’t work anymore, so I naturally spent the majority of time with her. But don’t be fooled by her unemployment. Her resume has gone triple-platinum: born-and-raised in Hong Kong, bilingual, lived in the UK and confuses chips and fries, moved to Canada for fun, drives stick shift, and raised my disobedient bum.
The past year gifted me with a front row seat to childhood lessons she recites like a song stuck on repeat. Accompanying the old is new, quirky advice as fresh as a Bel-Air prince, jazzing up my perspective and forcing me to take note of it all.
An Average Day
My dad’s burnt coffee lingers through the bottom crack of my bedroom door. The rare winter sun streams through the window blinds and stuns the darkness behind my closed eyes. I scrunch my face as if I were in excruciating pain, feeling around for my sleeping mask. No dice. I crack one eye open and peer out into the light-saturated world. If I squint hard enough, I can make out a bat-like shape across the room. Yikes. I should get my vision checked.
I reluctantly leave my cozy bed and wash up. Hunger makes its daily appearance, guiding me to the kitchen for a small appetizer before Sunday dim sum. My mom is still in bed, but she can hear my distinctive footsteps. “Good morning, Matthew.”
I shudder. I’ve been home for over a month now, but being addressed by my full name still feels foreign. Almost like I’m in trouble. I shake off the childhood trauma and reply, “Good morning, Mom.”
I wrestle with the finicky container and ravage some strawberries. The fruity flavour mixes with my brushed teeth, concocting a yucky mint-medicine after-taste. Bleh. My mom makes her way into the kitchen with a disapproving sigh. “You need to wash your fruit!”
“Sorry, I was too hungry this time. I couldn’t wait.”
My mom clicks her tongue in dismay. “Aiya.”
I take the strawberries to-go for the short trip to the restaurant. We park the car, ascend too many tiring flights of stairs, and are welcomed by groggy employees. My mom greets them with a wide smile. “Good morning, Michael!”
As Mr. Michael walks us to our table, my mom slows her roll and whispers to me, “Remember, if someone has a nametag, always address them by name.”
Her advice reminds me of an eloquent line in Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People:
“Names are the sweetest and most important sound in any language.” — Dale Carnegie
“Mmm. Good point,” I mumble through my strawberry-muddled teeth.
We sit down at the table, which is dressed up with fancy dishware and a steaming pot of tea. It would be crude (albeit comedic) to subject my westernized brain to deciphering Chinese, so I hand the menu to my parents.
Moments after our order is placed, food begins flying out the kitchen. Like at a snap of a finger, the most luxurious spread of Chinese classics congests our teeny three-person table.
I load up my plate and start vacuuming the food as if I were in an eating contest with Uncle Phil. Appalled by my eating habits, my mom says, “Slow down! Chew 20 times for each bite! You should only eat until you are 80% full!” I nod my head in acknowledgment and force myself to put down the chopsticks, allowing both the food and advice to digest.
A scrumptious hour of food-heaven whizzes by and I’m about 80% full. Okay fine, maybe 90%. Please don’t tattle-tale on me. My dad signals for the bill and I take out my wallet to pay. My mom’s eyes light up as she whips out her wallet faster than 2009 Usain Bolt.
“It’s okay Mom, I can pay.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay, we can pay.”
“I’m not a broke student anymore! I can afford a meal!”
My mom quickly sends off her credit card with the waitress. “It’s okay, you can pay for the next one.”
Ugh. She always says that. She’s a Jedi Grand Master in the art of fighting for the bill, schooling a young padawan like me.
We waddle our dim sum-filled bellies to the car and make our way home. My mom trails me as I open the house door, her shrill voice blaring her trademark phrase from behind, “Wash your hands!”
The irritated child within me rolls their eyes as I patter to the kitchen sink. Suspicious of my lackadaisical handwashing, my mom inquires, “Did you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice?”
“No, only 1.75 times.” I must have given my mom Quiplash because she’s out of witty remarks. Matt 1, Mom 0. I give her the na-na-na-boo-boo face as I head to my room for my weekend Mario Kart binge.
Moments later, I stomp out of my room apoplectic with unreasonable rage. I start muttering to myself, “4 blue shells in one race?! Are you motherfu–”
My mom warns me in a jocular tone. “Are you about to say ‘fuck’ again?”
The irony makes me laugh, purifying my mouth and unnecessary fury. Clever. Mom 1, Matt 1. “Nooooope. I’ll save it for next time,” I retort.
But regardless if I’m disgruntled by a coding problem or video games, it’s all the same to her. As I walk back to my room for more Mario Kart, she says in a sing-song voice, “Don’t worry, be happy!”
Nobody’s perfect. Except dim sum. Well almost. The traditional morning meal is a light one, and I find myself hungry again. I have a much-needed quarantine haircut soon, so I make the usual scrambled eggs with spinach. My mom, however, catches me mid-wilting-as-much-spinach-possible into my eggs.
“Did you wash the spinach?”
It’s a total cop-out, but I try my luck. “The package says ‘pre-washed!’” I profess.
My mom goes on to lecture how even my aunt, a food inspector, washes her “twice pre-washed” spinach. Before I do the nod of shame, she exclaims incredulously, “Eggs again?!”
“Yeeeeeeup.”
A cheeky grin spreads across her face as she says, “You’ve got to learn to cook something better if you want a wife in the future!” She walks away chuckling, padding herself on the shoulder for a well-timed roast.
Fa’ shizzle my yizzle, my mizzle with the extra sizzle! That’s some sass. I wave the white flag. Mom infinity, Matt 1.
The car’s stick shift acts a personal child-lock, so my mom drives me to the hair salon. 45 minutes later, I walk out feeling like the king of the world, but the crisp breeze hits my naked head and fades away my royal mood. I locate the car and scramble to seek shelter. Right as I open the door, she hands me a baby wipe to clear the bits of hair on my face. Another “motherly staple”: she always has baby wipes with her — the most underrated item to carry around of all-time.
It’s been an action-packed Sunday and I’m pooped. After a late dinner, I retire to my room and throw on a movie. Eventually, my mom pops her head in through my semi-closed door.
“You should sleep earlier! It’s already 9:30 p.m. and you have work tomorrow morning.”
I’m in the middle of my Rom Com marathon, too busy falling in love with Julia Roberts. Sleep can wait. I tell her I’ll shower and sleep after the film.
“Aiya. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”
“Good night.”
All-Time Classics to Live By
While home, my mom reinforced her iconic wisdom she’s been preaching since the beginning of time. Here are my favourites:
- Be patient. The running joke is since I’m a sprinter, I must rush through everything at top speed. She doesn’t laugh. I just get the “Aiya.”
- Health always comes first. “Without health, you have nothing.” — Mom
- All you have is the present moment. My mom is secretly the disciple of Master Oogway: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift… that is why it is called present.” — Master Oogway
- No rush. Take it easy! The go-to saying when my coding conundrums cause me to curse at everything in sight. But applicable to all walks of life.
- Be modest. Be humble. Not vulgar. This could be the name of an additional chapter in How to Win Friends and Influence People, while doubling as a futile attempt to cleanse my vocabulary.
Dear Mama
My mom is the annoying (not my words, hers!), yet essential broken record that guides my moral compass and keeps my head screwed on right. It’s near-impossible to express how grateful I am in words. But the late great 2Pac was alright with the pen and pad, so I’ll pass the mic and let Mr. Shakur take us home:
“Pour out some liquor and I reminisce
’Cause through the drama I can always depend on my mama
And when it seems that I’m hopeless
You say the words that can get me back in focus
When I was sick as a little kid
To keep me happy there’s no limit to the things you did
And all my childhood memories
Are full of all the sweet things you did for me
And even though I act crazy
I gotta thank the Lord that you made me” — 2Pac, Dear Mama
Thanks to Jess.
