I recalled a line from the famous movie "Sleepless in Seattle". The radio column hostess asked Sam, "What's so special about your wife?" He answered, "That's millions of small things." Right,trivial and commonplace, like obscure beans, yet woven into the most spectacular necklace by the power of love. My mother is ordinary, but in my eyes she is special. My mother gave birth to me with exceptionally difficult labor. Father received an emergency notice and was faced with a choice between the adult and the infant. Of course,the adult. So my coming into this world was an unexpected fortune at the price of Mother's painful insistence. Thus my 20 years began like this my mother exerted every effort to give me love, but I returned her with a deep scar that was to stay with her all through my growth. My mother is a senior high school English teacher. Under standably, she wanted her daughter to pick up English early to give her an edge to later study, which I did not understand at the age of eight.
I was so obsessed with fun and games that I hated to stay peacefully with all those strange phonetic symbols and odd words. I wondered what pleasure Mother seemed to have found in teaching me A,B, C. Wasn't teaching at school tire some enough for her? I went on strike, refusing to spell a single word no matter how tender or severe Mother tried to be with me. For the first time in my life, Mother beat me, imprinting on my mind. The physical pain was gone long, long ago. But I have finally come to understand how it pained my mother to beat me for my obstinacy and disobedience, and I ache at her pain. Mother never gave up evoking in me an interest in knowledge. She placed the most emphasis on my education and took the most pleasure in my gradual formation of self-discipline in preparing myself for future development. Thanks to her effort and influence, I have been doing well, not only in English, but also in my positive attitudes and conviction towards life. Now I am so grateful to my mother for everything she has taught me, but at that time it was far beyond my comprehension. As a little girl, I thought of my mother as meticulous and my father as a best playmate. I still remember I wrote in my elementary school a composition dedicated to my father about how he cared for me.
Naturally Mother felt she was ignored, so I wrote another one for Mother, intending to tell her she was so good a teacher that she sometimes had only students on mind and neglected her daughter. Unexpectedly, Mother was gloomed and her eyes went wet. I am so sorry now for that affected composition. I am Mother's daughter, and I am Mother's student. I could never be neglected by Mother, because I am the forever scar on her body, the forever pain on her mind, yet the forever bliss in her life. I did not write much in the past about Mother's love for me. Today, this essay is for her, and for her only. I wish to let her know my regret and gratitude. I wish she could hear, "I love you, Mother."
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