We had this thing that I could hardly call a cot because it was so big that my mum could fit in it and she often did, with me in it as well. My brother and sister also used this contraption as babies, but since I’m the youngest, I was still sleeping in it to a ridiculously advanced age. Maybe five or six, I’d say. When I think back on it, it probably resembled a dog kennel more than anything else. Like a bed inside a cage. And when you opened the top front grill, it would lower down to make the space under the bed like a cage. This space under the bed, with the grill brought down, is where I liked to sleep. On the floor. Because I was weird. Because I was a nut.

And she let me. She even came with me sometimes too.

And when I got older, and I heard so many of my friends complain about them going out too much, there was my mum telling me, ‘It’s important that you go out plenty while you’re young. I went out all the time when I was young and they were very happy times.

And there I was, thinking, ‘Cool.’

There was the ugly episode when she told me off about my HSC mark and how I didn’t study enough and how my cousin got a better mark than me. And I told her off back.

But then there was the next day when she came to me and apologised. And I knew then that I had a mother who was able to treat me like an adult and, more importantly, like an equal.

There was time when we asked her why she wears her wedding band on her right hand and she said, ‘Because I married the right man.’ And I knew then where my dorky sense of humour came from.

She has never really been a conventional Asian mum. She used to tell me how she was embarrassed that she was the only one among her friends who had no idea what subjects her son did in school. And when I came home, instead of having a prepared dinner on the stove, she would often tell me to pop some frozen nuggets in the oven for dinner while she would be playing the piano for countless hours.

But when you consider that she redid AMEB grades 3-8 and a couple of subsequent diplomas as a fifty-something year-old mother who had almost completely given up her favourite musical instrument for over twenty-five years, I have nothing to feel but pride and respect.

She infuriates me sometimes by how little belief she has in herself (being raised in an environment where women were never meant to be anything but a homemaker). But to me, there’s been nothing she hasn’t been able to achieve when she’s had to. And for all the humility she displays about her qualities, all I can see is how much loved she is by her siblings and her friends. She’s truly one of those people that everyone just can’t help but like. So much so that it’s annoying sometimes.

I know I rarely show affection to family members and I know that I was never the most helpful son. At least not as much as I could have been. But I’m always out. And you wanted me this way!

But tonight was a rare (for recent times anyway) chance at quality time. Just the two of us for dinner. Bloody expensive! But just what we needed.

Happy mother’s day, Mama.

Thank you for allowing me to be me.

I wouldn’t want you any other way either.