Why I Do not Celebrate Mother’s Day and Two Myths About Motherhood

Painting: “Charity” (1878) by William

Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905). 

Image part of public domain. 

Sometimes, I think of myself as a well-adjusted happy Norman Bates living with his perky mother. Therefore, all guests are safe and we are a Woody Allen comedy than an Alfred Hitchcock horror flick. 

It is Mother’s Day and yes, I am sure that you have just posted your heartwarming greetings on Facebook for everyone to see. You have just told the world how wonderful your mother is and how she has been a force of power, good and inspiration to you.  That is what Mother’s Day is all about, celebrating mother in all her glory, and her resiliency against pain.

I have not greeted my mother today and I will never. I once gave my mom a Mother’s Day gift before, but she just put in on display and she never used it. It is now on our shelf collecting dust. However, she appreciates more the monthly bills that I pay, the daily low-sodium / low purine dishes that I cook, the daily monitoring of her blood pressure, the occasional treats that I bring home and so on. For my mother and me, every other day is Mother’s Day, sandwich with “I Hate Mother Day” or "I Hate My Son Day." We fight. We bicker. We get on each other nerves. We hurt each other, but we also stick together no matter what, even if the cheesiness is non-existent. One of the most important realizations in my life as I grow older is that my mother is not just my mother; she is a woman, and a human being.  To treat her as just my mother is to belittle her as a person.

The Dishes that Continually Diss Women or “Why It is All Right to Hurt Your Spouse or Some Family Members If They Do Not Wash Their Own Dishes”

First published in “Sardonique” on May 21, 2011

Our Mother's Day Post: 
The best way to a man’s heart is to his stomach. This is not entirely true.  The stomach is just a stopover, the best way is further south but that is another story. My other theory is the best way to turn genteel women into violent men-killers is to have a messy kitchen and a clueless male partner. 

In my family, the men are always the best cook but we are often the worst people in the kitchen because we are messy and a tad bit emotional and obsessed as amateur chefs.  My mother was not always particularly happy whenever my father cooked.  He would come out with the best dishes but with the messiest kitchen. On top of that, the sink ended up looking like a miniature leaning tower of soiled plates and utensils.  My dad cooked the best Filipino dishes; when I was a little boy, I particularly remember his kare kare or ox tail stew (or ox tail in peanut sauce).  It was the only kare kare that I almost love and that is something considering I have never like this famous Filipino dish.  After my dad passed away, my younger brother wore the family toque and he is a genius in the kitchen.  He can create restaurant-style dishes with just the boring ingredients found in any house full of lazy grocery shoppers.  With just a few pieces of tomatoes, some inconspicuous herbs, onions, garlic and eggs, he can create a sumptuous egg dish that you probably would pay around 300 pesos in an expensive Italian restaurant in Makati.  The drawback is the kitchen becomes messy and that often turns my mom into Glenn Close ready to boil a rabbit.