Personal Narrative- Bonding Experience with Mom

Personal Narrative- Bonding Experience with Mom

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Personal Narrative- Bonding Experience with Mom


Summer was coming to an end, the night air grew brisker and the mornings were dew covered. The sun had just started to set behind our home; my father would be home soon. I walked into the kitchen only to be greeted by my mother cooking dinner. She stood there one hand on her hip, her one leg stuck out at her side, knee slightly bent, stirring the pot holding the spoon all the way at the tip of the handle. She looked as pissed off as could be. My mother always felt she could be doing a million other things besides cooking dinner. We sat there talking until I heard a familiar soft rumble in front of our house. The rumble was accompanied by my father fidgeting at the front door. His old noisy Bronco always made his presence known. He plodded down the hallway into the kitchen to greet my mother with a peck on the cheek. After one more quick stir she plopped a hot pad on the table followed by a pan of sliced meatloaf in sauce. The smell of the meat, potatoes, and veggies filled the kitchen instantly and the family gathered around the table. The meal was a typical one in our household, my mother who had a million other things to do that day, including having her own personal time did not feel like cooking a twelve course meal. However, my father who always came home expecting steak did not see the meal as appetizing as the rest of us.

When my father blew up at my mother we were all expecting him to. The argument of "I want steak" and "I was working all day" was common in our family. I immediately took my mother's side like I usually did because no one in our family appreciates or respects what she does. My father would later grow to regret what he said and apologize. Tonight was different though. My mother usually took my father's comments in stride knowing he really does not mean what he says. But, this time they both exploded at each other and my mother ended up running out of the kitchen upset, retiring to her room.

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No one is ever home to see how hard she works. They don't see her writing for hours every week in her room, or the drafting, typing, rewriting, and revising over and over again on the computer. They just yell and say that she's taking up their time and they need the computer more. My brother and sisters don't remember all the times she took us to the post office when we were kids so she could mail out manuscripts, only for them to be returned with rejection letters. They don't see over a decade worth of work put into something that she believes in so much, even through all the hardships and rejection. They don't see her passion.

I believe it was that moment that exact moment when I wrote that letter to my mother as she sat in her room and I told her how they all will be jealous when her manuscript sells. How when she is on Oprah they will start believing in her when the money starts flowing. I told her how I believed in her now and that her hard work will pay off. At that moment I saw how much someone could have a passion for writing. How through everybody's bullshit and negativity, through all the folders stocked with rejection letters she still kept writing. It was then I gained a new respect for my mother and her work, her writing, my writing. I had never known writing could be so intricate and creative. How writing was not just research papers in school, or essay's on a test, but personal feelings and emotions that you may be to scared to share otherwise.

My mother and I still share a bond since that night. People still rant and rave, but after she signed a contract with a huge agent in California and her manuscript was sent out to publishers such as William and Schuster and Random House their rants were calmed to just whispers. I guess all some people want is to see the money. We just look at each other and snicker knowing one day I will be her guest on Oprah.
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