Please Stop Beating Our Moms.

I wish you were there those nights, because you would have a better understanding of what I am about to write. You would have looked at her face and wouldn’t have stopped there. You would have looked into her eyes and still, you wouldn’t have stopped there. You would have stared into the depths of her head and yet, you wouldn’t have stopped there. Because you would have been drawn to rummage in her mind, looking for it. Perhaps you would have found it, perhaps you wouldn’t.

What face would you be wearing when a doctor came into your room and began his sentence by calling your first name and saying “…I am afraid you have a tumour condition. It’s called cancer.” You would be wearing a white face. Not necessarily because of the cancer, but moreso because of the fear of death. No warrior’s heart beats the same after the delivery of such news. But that’s the face she (the woman we were talking about in the first paragraph) wore everyday at 9:00PM when there would be a knock on the door and she would open it for the love of her life. He would usually come in from work at exactly 9:00PM, at which point all the Chinese Money Plants around the house would wilt until the following day at 7:00AM when he left. Such was his power.

If you were there on those nights, you would have seen why her children went to sleep at exactly 8:30PM. They would have told you a story they read of a certain ogre who lived in the darkness and who attacked homesteads at night to eat children. They would have described to you how the ogre pretended to be a young handsome man carrying a basket of sweet-smelling fruits while singing charming melodies. He was known to show up on doors precisely at 9:00PM, whereupon the scent of his fruits and the allure of his voice would draw the occupants of the house to open. When they opened, he would lock the house from the inside and devour their children one at a time. So her children preferred to pretend to be asleep by 8:31PM because this whole ogre issue petrified them.

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The love of her life was the thorn in her life. He was her knight in shining amour who instead of sweeping her off her feet, he brandished his sword and pushed it right through her heart. He was her children’s dad, and the father of all her misfortunes. And she loved him and hated him in equal measure. Loved him when the sun emerged from the east, hated him when it dipped in the west. There was no sin she couldn’t forgive him for. Even when he ate her kids. Yet when she involuntarily substituted tears for sleep it was because she could not forgive herself for forgiving him. As her kids pretended to sleep, she would pretend to be brave. Because mothers are like warriors and superheroes. But that’s until there was a knock on the door.

If you were there on those nights, you would have seen how white her face turned when she opened the door. You would have felt the transmissible fear. You would have searched for a glimmer of hope in her head, but you would not have found it. If you live in fear for a long time, hope withers like a rose in winter.

Also see this.

You see, men, unlike cancers and ogres, are supposed to invoke strength and courage and peace and comfort. Love is the feeling, not hope. If you find yourself hoping more than you are loving, then you have yourself a tumour condition, which is usually the beginning of your misery.

In all this I am saying, PLEASE STOP BEATING OUR MOMS. I really don’t like violence against women. It has been there for ages (like cancer) and the only good thing that comes out of it is the relief of death.