nadine jensen

I miss riding in the car with mama.

If you've read about my previous blogs, I've already had a number of posts all dedicated to the love-hate relationship with my mom. If I try to trace back the reason how it all started, it would be really hard to sift through everything we've been through that took us to where we are now. Civil. Yes, me and my mom have been just civil with one another. It feels like we already have lost the mother-daughter connection that every child shares with their mother. It's ironic to think that most children are closer to their mothers, for a fact that our mothers were the ones who carried us for nine cumbersome months of their lives, shared one navel with them, and ate the same food that they take in, them feeling every kick and move inside the womb. They've sheltered and bore us for nine months without any complains, and as of the present they still do and maybe for as long they feel that we are still vulnerable and in need of their protection. That kind of love will never go away. It's true that no matter how crooked we turn out to be, no matter how bad we have become and unbearable our attitudes are, our mothers will always have that soft spot for us, enduring the pain that is caused by our wrongdoings. My mother has been obvious regarding how disappointed she is with me, and for my part, I am as disappointed as she is of how I've turned out to be. I truly understand her sentiments and the treatments that she's been evoking, because I deserve it, and I guess I deserve worse than it. It's a bit pathetic to think that sometimes I even have the guts to complain and feel bad towards her. Seeing things from the retrospect, it'll be me who has been a terrible daughter, and there's no better way to appease with her but to be who I really was. The "self" that I have lost.

Those memories I had could paint a picture-perfect mother and daughter relationship. But I ripped it apart.


I miss riding in the car with her. Talking with her. Laughing with her. And simply being with her.