My mom is sleeping on my couch. Full from the heavy dinner and buzzed from the light cocktails, she is out ladies and gentlemen. It’s confirmed I do get my lack of tolerance from my mother. She had a Pina Colada, and really only ate the whip cream before she turned red and fell asleep in the car during a 15 minute drive home. I had to bribe her with a Will Smith, Martin Lawrence duo to entice her upstairs and from falling into deep slumber in my car. I said, “Mom, I got the Bad Boys DVD.” I have no idea how a conservative, first generation Asian woman came to love black comedy but the woman cannot get enough of the brothers and the Kings (pronounced Kangs, she corrects me). It worked, she came up. Then, she resumed her sleeping position, feet curled and body balled.
Her irregular snoring pattern is what I have been listening to for the past hour on this warm Saturday night. It is half past midnight and it must be 80 degrees out. It would have been a perfect night to have spent out in the city- stroll around North Beach, bar hop in the Mission or the grab a cocktail and a slice a pizza, at Pizza Orgasmica- yum, in the Marina. But nope, I’m listening to momma Jun saw wood (Jun- she finally decided to take my stepdad’s last name; I’m glad I didn’t take after her stubbornness).
I wonder how many countless nights she stayed up to tend to my cries, whines, tantrums, or just to listen to me snore. I don’t think I have ever seen my mom sleep. I want to say that she looks so peaceful and pretty in her sleep but she mostly looks disfigured and sounds wheezy. But that’s what must be love…to hear and see undesired sounds and sights and still want to cover them with a blanket.