Last summer, around mid-September, my mom and I made the daring trip from San Diego to Eugene, Oregon. While it was our third time doing so, this 800-mile drive felt a bit different. This time around, I wasn’t moving into a dorm or a sorority house, but a real-life, grown-up townhouse. It meant a total shift in responsibility – I would soon be cooking all of my own meals, housekeeping, and staying up-to-date with bills.
So, our road trip largely consisted of my mom sharing dozens of tidbits of advice about cleaning the refrigerator, grocery shopping and whatnot. But I, being cruelly stubborn and eager for more independence, didn’t give her the patience she deserved. Instead of listening, I hemmed and hawed, counting the miles until our arrival and meticulously organizing the queue of alternative tracks I played on the car stereo.
Tensions only heightened as the drive progressed, so much so that we had entered “The Quiet Zone.” It was towards the end of the first day of driving, about halfway through our journey, and neither my mom nor I were speaking a word to each other. Just pure silence except for my downloaded Spotify playlists.
But then- it happened. I played Alanis Morrisette’s “You Outta Know” and, together, through the rolling hills of Northern California, we belted every single lyric. After that, I blasted Pearl Jam. Both “Jeremy” and “Alive” because I knew how much those songs meant to her in high school. Next up was some Notorious B.I.G., of course. After that, I let my mom take full control of the music. I wanted to hear her recommendations, but most importantly, I wanted her to be happy.
And that’s exactly what happened. While our road trip and move-in process was far from flawless, the spirits were much higher. Our karaoke session reminded me that while we may be working through different phases in life, we share so many things in common. These similarities should be appreciated and harnessed to strengthen our relationship. Because after all, my mom’s discipline and instruction will always come from a place of love, not competition.
So nowadays, I choose to continue listening to moody rock and classic hip-hop of the 90s. Not just out of preference, but out of appreciation for my bad-ass mom who, thank God, is just a phone call away.
P.S. I should share that I may have grown a little sappy in the last six months or so. With the dark cloud of college graduation rapidly approaching, closer ahead are the days that I can no longer spend a ten-day-long spring break with my family or procrastinate with finding a job. While the home in my heart will always be with Mom and Dad in SoCal, my real home will be where my career is, and I won’t be able to spend nearly as much time with them as I currently can. So I have vowed to make more of an effort to get to know them better, and ’90s jams are just the starting place.
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