I always revered by grandmother so much when I was younger. It was hard for me not to as she played such an enormous role in raising me, spending nearly every waking minute with me from birth till her death when I was 15. She was an incredibly patient, wise, and loving parent (not just grandparent). I can remember her cooking nearly all my meals when I was a young child, her playing with me, taking walks around the block, and the most amazing way she could tell stories to me (which I can still remember till this day). I even remember a particular time when she was swimming around a small pool while holding me with one arm, and she was 70 at the time!
I truly adored her and appreciated all she did for me. She would politely pass me advice in the form of harmless comments here and there about what it took to be a good man when I grew up, and to appreciate and respect women all the while never stressing things like having to be financially successful or having to excel in my studies. She simply wanted me to enjoy life, learn to be a good person, and stay healthy. And I loved her for that. She is the very reason I have some good traits in my personality and character, and the reason why I do not have even more bad and undesirable traits.
However, there is one consequence of this adoration and immense love that I have for my grandmother. It came at the cost of losing some appreciation for my mother. It mustve hurt my mother's feelings at times, and thinking back now, I think I can only start to realize how she must've felt now that I am a parent. There are times where our son asks sometimes about his birth country, shows disregard and disdain with having to spend time with us (like all kids do) but sometimes it affects my wife and I a little more than other parents since we can't be sure if its just frustration or if its something we've done that is not up to par with his foster family.
My mother worked very hard along with my father to make sure my brother and I had a place to live in, an environment where we didn't have to worry about not having enough to eat and being able to focus on playing and learning at school. Seeing how much I adored my grandmother (which is only natural given the amount of time I spent with her) must've broke my mother's heart at times as she would come home smelling of cooking oil and sandwich meat (my parents owned and operated a small cafe). Perhaps all she wanted was to come home to her kids welcoming her and appreciating her, but we often fell short of that simple task. When we were scared or sought comfort, it was often to my grandmother. But my mother never complained about that, perhaps she knew that was the price she was to pay for choosing to work so hard for nicer things for her family. Even at the time of writing this blog I've not thanked her graciously for all that she did for our entire family.
When I think of my family, particularly my mother and father, they feel like immortals in my mind. Not consciously, but I think somehow I've got this idea that they won't be gone some day, that no matter how old I continue to get, they will be there to give advice, nag me, laugh at me, enjoy a meal with me, and tell me stories (about me or themselves). I think that is an artifact of them constantly and, many times, unintentioinally showing me how diligent, steadfast, and valiant they were while raising two boys thru hardships as immigrants in a country where they could not even speak the language. There is truly no way that I can ever repay them for all that they have done for me, but perhaps its time for me to at least give them proper recognition and appreciation for all the little things my brother and I never even knew they sacrificed and persevered thru all for one goal: a better life for their children.
“I suddenly remember being very little and being embraced by my father. I would try to put my arms around my father's waist, hug him back. I could never reach the whole way around the equator of his body; he was that much larger than life. Then one day, I could do it. I held him, instead of him holding me, and all I wanted at that moment was to have it back the other way.”
― Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Acts
