Valentine’s Day with Mum

It’s unfair. It really is. The majority of my male friends have Valentine dates while I’m stuck at home watching some crap TV movie about Cupid and all that shit. Now on all my yearly articles about this day, I’ve either been attached or at the very least, been able to find a date. This year, unfortunately, I’m spending money on my mum (Ech! Bokya na, waste of cash pa!).

In the past, I’ve always had trouble buying gifts for girlfriends and lovers. Chocolates and flowers are nice and traditional, but they’re still too cliché for my taste. Bah! How I could spend hours in crowded malls just to see if my weak brain could muster up enough class for a thoughtful gift — all in vain (well, almost).

The days of trying to think where I could use my so-called connections to buy (or ask) tickets and reservations to the most sold-out concerts and trendy eateries sucked brick. And I once even bribed a headwaiter several thousand bucks just to get me a nice table. It’s a total squander of my measly earnings.

In my innocent years, when I was still too young to think about getting drunk or smoking or having sex, I always spent Valentine’s Day with Mum. She would (along with my dad if his schedule permitted) take me shopping and buy me gifts — followed by a delectable evening at some cute restaurant. It was sheer heaven for the social loser indeed, but an appetizing bite for almost anyone on the planet.

I usually muffled around in delight every time she’d pretend not to buy me a toy when I behaved badly while she did her shopping. I would then puff and get ready to cry my bratty eyes out, and she’d roll her eyes to heaven and resignedly whisk me away to "Toyland." Mum would scratch her head while I puttered about each and every aisle — gazing at nicely designed tomahawk choppers and G.I. Joe action figures that could never be mine because of our limited budget.

Slowly, almost embarrassingly, my mother would try to trick me into choosing from one of those toy baskets with significantly-marked down prices. Quite naturally, I’d gag with disgust and try to poke her into buying me something else.

I remember one time when I was about seven and Valentine’s Day came around. Daddy and my baby brother were out of town at the time and Mum looked kinda gloomy. I was probably reading an Archie comic when she told me to put my jacket on because "we were going out." I excitedly hugged her — thinking I was gonna get a real great toy for accompanying her to the mall.

On the way, she told me matter-of-factly that she didn’t have much money and that she only had enough for a new makeup kit she had her heart set on for sometime now. I pouted. I realized that I wasn’t getting anything that year except probably a hamburger for going with her, but I just kept quiet and said nothing.

As Mum examined the blasted makeup kit, I walked over to a nearby toy booth. It sold mini racing cars, Legos, softened clays, and cool robots. I was admiring the view while waiting for Mum to finish buying when my jaw dropped open. At one side, I saw the most wonderful and well-designed yellow toy truck I have ever seen in my life. And it was on discount sale. I stared at it for so long that the saleslady looked at me sternly and put the truck inside the glass shelf (she probably thought I was gonna steal it or something). I sighed and went away, suddenly feeling very irritated that my mother was having the time of her life buying something while I got zilch.

After she bought me my traditional Valentine’s Day hamburger at some joint, we headed home. In-between bites, I couldn’t help but think about the toy truck. I thought about the lucky bastard who got it and I got so upset I that almost choked (literally). I told mum I was tired and climbed unto the backseat of the car to take a nap. I was just about to doze off when I noticed a shiny package wrapped in plastic. It had my name on it. Mum was busy driving so I ripped open the thing and there it was indeed, the yellow toy truck that I fell in love with a short while ago.

I howled with glee and saw my mother’s eyes on the rearview mirror winking and smiling at me. She probably saw me admiring the toy so much that she decided to sacrifice her beloved makeup kit. To this day, I still do not know how she bought the truck without my knowing, but it was certainly one of my happiest February 14s. For the next eight years, I did not miss Valentine’s Day with her.

But alas, time alters everything. It just seems so dull after you get to learn and experience the ways of the cruel world. It snaps just like that. And as I reached my late teens, my thoughts and feelings changed. I felt totally obligated spending Cupid’s date with her. One time, I was so pissed off at Mum that I hurled the basket of candies she bought for me to give to a date into the nearest trash can — infront of her own eyes. I felt totally in control of myself and stood proud, knowing that I pushed her buttons well. Mum tried to stay silent (although she had a tough time doing it), but I knew what I just did broke her heart.

I usually came home drunk after that — reeking of tequila and cigarette smoke. Mother would show that she didn’t care and pretend to be sleeping, but I always caught her shadow going back to her room once I’d walked safely through the door. I knew she waited up for me all those nights and pretended not to. Who the hell did she think she was kidding? Oddly, it pissed me even more.

It was only a year ago (also February 14th) when I was down in my emotional dumps that I realized how much I’d wronged her. I just got back from another night of drinking and all my other vices when I saw Mummy sitting at our butcher-block table looking absolutely annoyed and depressed. I honestly thought that I was going to get into another word-war with her but to my surprise, she just sat there — blankly flipping through one of her medical books. It was quite odd because she usually went to bed after seeing me come home, but she stayed up all night.

It was only the morning after while nursing my hangover that it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t greet her on Valentine’s Day. Since I’ve been old enough to talk, I’ve always made it a point to say "Hey‚ it’s the 14th of February" even if we weren’t on good terms. And last night, I was sure that she stayed up way past her bedtime in the hope that she would hear me utter, "Happy Valentine’s!" regardless of its tone. Mum and I aren’t saps and mushy about these cheesy kinds of sentimental b.s., but I felt really bad about that one.

Almost immediately, I took a wad of cash from my dresser and told Mummy to put her jacket on "because we were going out." She complied, albeit reluctantly and I drove the car so fast that she berated me for it — accusing me of wanting to give her a seizure. When we reached the mall, I took her to a cosmetics shop and told her to pick the nicest makeup kit she could find. She hesitated and looked at me like I was nuts. I swear that I saw the "Oh my God, is my son gay?" look but thankfully, it quickly subsided.

Mum never picks up any object if she doesn’t intend to buy it, so when she laid her hands on a Revlon kit; I took it away from her and bought it. She was absolutely dumbfounded and scarcely contained her delight as I also bought some hamburgers. It could never make up for the terrible things I’ve done to her, but it was a start.

And a few minutes later, we were on our way home. Neither of us said anything, but we knew that the roles were reversed now. I was the one driving and she was the one in the backseat exploring her new makeup kit. But fortunately, one thing remained unchanged. It was still there. I haven’t seen it for the longest time but I was totally sure. I was turning into our village when I caught it at the rearview mirror. And there it was, my mum. My dear, dear mum’s eyes winking and smiling at me just as she did when I was seven.

That’s the story. Quite simple and levelheaded, I know. But what do you expect from something that never happened? (You can take that anyway you want.) So while my buddies will be dining with their potential girlfriends this weekend, I’ll be doing almost the same thing they would — eat out and probably do a little shopping. It’s just that... it’s with my mother and nobody else.

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(Author’s note: This write-up could be about anybody. It doesn’t necessarily have to be me as the lead character here. But what I wrote is true.)

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E-mail: reuben_matthew@hotmail.com (Folks, if I’m still trying to answer all the mail I got from last year. Thank you for your patience. I’ve read all of it though, and I just want to say thank you for the kind and not-so-kind words, although I haven’t seen much of the latter for quite sometime now, though.)