‎“I Love My Mom, But…”‎

I love my mom, no doubt.‎‎I love how she always provides for us, even when it means going without something for herself.‎‎I love how she calls me when I'm at school just to find out how I'm coping, even when I never call her first. I love how she takes her time to make sure we are okay, how she teaches us about God and the things she believes are important, and how she reminds us to be kind and respectful to everyone.‎‎She is almost the perfect mother ,maybe too perfect.‎‎Everyone loves her, including my friends, because she is always ready to help, always ready to volunteer, always ready to give, and somehow she does it all with a lovely smile on her face.‎But no one is perfect.‎‎She has a flaw, at least in my eyes.‎‎She can be judgmental, like many of us are.‎‎She believes that piercings, tattoos, and tinted hair are signs of irresponsibility. She says tank tops, ripped jeans, and off-shoulder tops are immodest.‎‎When she sees a guy with dreads, she may not say anything, but I can see the irritation on her face. I can almost imagine the thoughts she keeps to herself.‎‎When she sees a girl with piercings, she makes sure to tell me, “Never try it,” and I always reassure her that I won't.‎‎And when she sees a singer wearing something she considers inappropriate, she immediately starts criticizing their choice of clothing.‎‎Maybe these things simply don't fit into the kind of life she wants for herself or for us. Maybe her generation, her beliefs, and the things she has been taught have shaped the way she sees them.‎‎But because of this, there are so many things I can't bring myself to tell her.‎‎The parties I would love to go to.‎‎How badly I want a belly piercing and a butterfly tattoo.‎‎How much I want to tint my whole hair white.‎‎Sometimes I wonder what she would think if she knew the things I secretly want to try.‎‎I love my mom so much, but I also wish she could understand that wanting these things doesn't automatically make me irresponsible, disrespectful, or a bad person.‎‎And maybe that's the hardest part.‎‎I don't just want her permission.‎‎I want her acceptance.‎‎I want to be able to tell her about the things I like without immediately wondering if she will look at me differently.‎‎Because of that, I sometimes choose to keep these parts of myself to myself rather than risk seeing disappointment in her eyes or being looked at the same way she looks at the people she criticizes.‎‎I know she loves me.‎‎I know she wants the best for me.‎‎And I know that, in her own way, she is trying to protect me from the things she believes could lead me in the wrong direction.‎‎But sometimes, I wish she would see that I am growing into my own person too.‎‎I love my mom, no doubt.‎‎And maybe that's why her judgment hurts me more than anyone else's.‎

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