Now, growing up, there were certain aspects of my life that I enacted rebelliousness upon, but for the most part I was an exceptionally “lawful” adolescent. I remember specifically on one of my walks home from school with my older brother, as I was approaching my beginning year of high school, he said to me quite pointedly, “If you ever do drugs, I’m going to beat you up.” And not only did I believe him, but for some reason that interaction stuck with me and it had the exact effect on me that he intended. I told myself that I would refrain from drug and alcohol use throughout high school – and that’s precisely what I did.

When I was 19, which I always attribute as the age when my judgement was poorest, the rebel in me was at full throttle. This rebel was in a great wrestling match with the lawful child in me, and the result was a heavy and unnecessary guilt I carried as the burden of my insurgent behavior. During this internal struggle, I hid from my parents that I had picked up smoking cigars. The longer I went keeping my shameful secret, the more nervous I became about their reaction when they found out.

Around this time, my wisdom teeth decided to shift in some very uncomfortable ways, and as with most young adults, I had to get them removed. I have had a turbulent relationship with my teeth, so mouth surgery was not a foreign concept to me. Because of the nature of my surgery – which, by the way, I ended up having six wisdom teeth removed – I opted for anesthesia.

On the day of my wisdom teeth removal, my mom was the one who drove me. We checked in, they walked me back and put me in a chair, and I had the pleasure of getting that gigantic, terrifying needle stuck in my arm. In a matter of seconds I was out cold.

Fortunately everything went well with the surgery. I don’t remember waking up and I don’t quite remember the drive home. I vaguely remember taking gauze out of my mouth to slurp down a giant shake. When it was apparent that the anesthesia had worn off and my cognitive functions were mostly restored, my mom asked me if I remembered what I had said to her when I woke up from the surgery. I dumbly replied, “Uh… No.”

“You told me that you started smoking cigars.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Apparently I had been so laden with guilt that my subconscious took over in my doped up stupor to relieve me of my burden. “Oh. I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

She just laughed. “No, you goof. I don’t care if you smoke cigars.” She thought it was hilarious that I had worried so much about what her and my dad would have thought about me smoking. She even offered a couple suggestions and invited me to smoke a cigar with her sometime.

It was at that moment that I realized how ridiculous I had been for worrying about my parents’ reactions. The guilt and shame I had carried was all for naught; there had been no reason for me to hide my personal choices from them.

But that’s how my mom has always been. I have made my fair share of mistakes in my life – even well into my adulthood – and my mom has always been understanding. She tells it straight and doesn’t make excuses for me, but she’s always supportive. I feel very lucky to have her as my mom.

I have a twinge of sadness as I talk about how great my mom is because I know that not everyone is given the same fortune. Nobody is perfect, but I like to think that most parents try their best to do right by their children. Even so, I know too many people who are estranged from their parents or have lost them. I hope that you, reader, have had the blessing of a mother figure who has cared for, guided, and loved you the way mine has for me.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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