If my Umma knew I was posting this video, she’d be mortified.
Whenever she sees pictures or videos of herself, she’s always quick to point out her age lines and wrinkles. “I look so old!” she always says, shaking her head disconsolately at how the years have robbed her of her smooth-faced youth.
But to me, she is stunning.
And she only grows more beautiful with age.
I see all the old scars on her hands and arms, from making incredible restaurant-ready Korean meals. Now that I’m an adult living far from home and in an area with limited Korean food, I want to go back in time and flog myself as a child for requesting stupid bologna sandwiches just so I could fit in with my classmates in the cafeteria.
Given the choice now, it wouldn’t even be a second’s thought - I’d throw that package of Oscar Meyer mystery meat into the disposal and wait gratefully and hungrily at the table for another taste of Umma’s kimchi jjigae, bindaetteok, and soojaebi.
I see her strong arms. They carried unthinkably heavy grocery bags onto subways, and up the stairs of our old apartment building. As kids, my sisters and I always wanted to carry them for her, not so much because we wanted to help, but because we wanted to prove how strong we were.
But Mom never let us help.
“If you carry heavy things when you’re younger, your arms and shoulders will hurt when you’re older,” she warned as she adjusted the heaviness of all the bags in her worn hands. It’s only now as an adult that I realize she was subtly making mention of the aches and pains that were already creeping stealthily into her joints.
I wish I’d been more stubborn about taking those bags from her.
I see the dark circles under her eyes, reminding me of all the sleepless nights she spent bolting up from her bed to kill spiders, reminding me to put the book away already, or waiting up for us to come home as teenagers when we would rather spent all our time with friends.
She was a light sleeper and I seem to have inherited her chronic insomnia as an adult. It’s a problem, for sure, but I can’t help relishing the way my body wants to be just like Umma’s.
On our wedding day, there were lots of tears. James and I cried at our first look. We blubbered like hanky-wielding babies while saying our vows. We cried, laughed, and smiled as my youngest sister and James’ brother gave their toasts.
But it was in the middle of the salad course at our reception that I realized something that sprung some serious solo waterworks. It was enough that I had to suddenly excuse myself from the ballroom to dab my eyes with paper towels.
Now that I was married, I wouldn’t be eating my Mom’s food as often.
No more being called to the table to her bowls of anchovy broth noodles. No more savory tofu pancakes. No more perfectly peeled fruits. I was a married woman now, which meant I'd be moving out of the nest and away from her cooking. Away from her love.
Ignoring all the happy chatter, music, and even my salad plate, I chose that moment to look over at my Umma’s table where my mom was sitting. I was overtaken by the sudden need to close the distance between us, sprint over, heels and wedding dress be damned, and give her the biggest hug in the world.
I didn’t, afraid that I wouldn’t want to let go.
Now I wish I had.
Our mothers are precious people. Even when we can acknowledge mistakes, cultural divides, and harsh arguments that we could’ve gone without, our childhood nostalgia places permanent halos around the women who sacrificed everything, gave everything, and love with everything they have.
Every Mother’s Day, Umma spurns the gifts and flowers. The few times my sisters and I have bought her flowers, she’s exclaimed with loud disapprobation over all the money we spent.
“Flowers are way too expensive on Mother’s Day!” she frowns, not realizing I’d happily spend my whole monthly take-home on flowers if it meant I could even fractionally show her how much she means. She does the same with gifts. Instead, she’ll gleefully accept all the candies and chocolates my students give me that I’d rather not have around the house. So sometimes I’ll get sneaky and buy her artisan snacks that I think she’d enjoy. “A first grader got it for me, but I don’t think I want it,” I’ll fib, as she curiously opens the box for a taste.
Of course, she eventually caught on and proceeded to cast suspicious glances on any snack I brought home afterwards. Moms always know.
So this Mother’s Day, I won’t shower her with flowers and gifts. Instead, I’ll give her my words. I’ll string words and sentences together, hoping they’ll somehow convey this inexpressible depth of love.
Thank you, 엄마.
I could never thank you enough.
