If all the women in the world were split into species, Asian moms would absolutely be their own genus—Emotionaldamagus Maximus—whose primary evolutionary trait is emotionally wrecking their children while silently making them their favorite side dish. As I read this book, I became increasingly convinced that all Asian moms secretly graduated from the same secret school of parenting—probably hidden deep in the mountains, only accessible through passive-aggressive comments and making your children feel guilty about all the life choices they have made.
They’ll roast your career like it's their full-time job, unless of course you’re a doctor, engineer, or possibly a doctor-engineer hybrid. They’ll never say 'I love you,' but will cook up that exact same aloo burja you mentioned liking one time five years ago like it’s no big deal. I swear, while reading this book I had a full-on Spider-Man meme moment. 'Is that… my mom? Am I her daughter? Is my mom her?'
Okay, my mom’s not dying of cancer, unlike the one in the book—but the emotional whiplash was real. In my more narcissistic moments (which, let’s be honest, are frequent), I’ve imagined my dramatic cancer movie death where everyone is sobbing over how much they loved me—but not once have I thought about my mom dying. And suddenly, thanks to this book, I was hit with a reality check like, 'Oh crap, maybe I should stop slamming my door every time she yells at me to put my dress in the washing machine'
Sure, I hate her screeching at me to clean my room now, but I also literally can’t sleep if I haven’t been mildly insulted by her at least once a day. This book made me laugh, made me cry, and made me hug my mom just to ask if she could make me some aloo burja.
Solid 3.5/5. Would recommend if you want to cry, laugh, and call your mom out of guilt.
No comments:
Post a Comment