Mom Story

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From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

^ "นิทานแบบคึกฤทธิ์" [Kukrit-style tales]. Humanities & Social Sciences (KKU) (in Thai). Khon Kaen University. 28 (3): 93–106. September–December 2011 . Retrieved 7 November 2017 .

^ Mahasarinand, Pawit (14 January 2016). "Smiles, tears and unconditional love - The Nation" . The Nation . Retrieved 7 November 2017 .

^ "หนังสือดี - มอม" . qlf.or.th (in Thai). Quality Learning Foundation . Retrieved 7 November 2017 .


" Mom " ( Thai : มอม , pronounced [mɔ̄m] ) is a Thai short story written by Kukrit Pramoj . It tells the story of Mom, a pet dog who is separated from its owners during the bombing of Bangkok in World War II . First published in book form as part of the anthology Ruam Rueang San Kukrit (A Collection of Kukrit's Short Stories) in 1952, it has since been included in the Ministry of Education's standard Thai-language secondary school textbook and adapted into two television series and a stage musical. [1] [2] "Mom" is included in the List of 100 Good Books for the Development of Children and Youth by the Quality Learning Foundation, a public agency under the Office of the Prime Minister. [3]

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One woman's story about how life forced her to swallow her pride to survive—and, eventually, to thrive.
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I'm 38 years old, and my two kids and I have moved into my mother's house. "You are my worst fear come true," an acquaintance tells me as she confesses that she's thinking of leaving her husband and is worried about the financial consequences. I'm also mid-divorce, and moving back into my childhood home was the one thing I thought I'd never do. No grown woman wants to live with her mother. I have my dignity.
Then again, I never thought I'd get into my current financial situation. When my ex and I married 10 years ago, I was a lawyer at a big firm, working long hours and hating the tedium. Back then, we weren't living the high life: I was paying off student loans, he was starting on Wall Street, and we shared a studio with a sliding door between the kitchenette and bathroom. My father joked, "You could fry eggs and piss at the same time."
But my ex was in finance, so eventually we upgraded to a loft with a writing nook for me. I'd made my last loan payment, and his salary was now enough to support us both. I told myself I needed a break from corporate life. I was yearning to be a writer.
Except once I had the time to write, I mostly frittered it away. I looked the part, with my sharpened pencils fanned out in a mason jar like flowers on my desk, a neat pile of leather journals and a corkboard full of pushpinned literary aphorisms. Yet even when I sold my first essay to The New York Times , I felt like a dilettante. After all, the little money I earned from writing barely covered my Visa bill. I wrote the same way I shopped—at my leisure. Soon, without structure to my day—or to be honest, financial pressure—I could barely produce any writing at all.
Then my father got cancer, and my husband and I were suddenly facing challenges that even an investment banker's salary couldn't overcome. I was inconsolable, and nothing my husband could say, nothing anyone could buy, made me feel better. We had tearful rows that left us exhausted. Afterward, I'd escape to my parents' house in New Jersey. Going to the place where my father lay dying felt simpler than coping with my marriage.
My childhood home, with my dad's meatpacking truck parked in the driveway, its familiar painted emblem of a calf's head gleaming, comforted me in a way my adult home didn't. Sometimes, I'd open the truck's rear doors and inhale the inside-a-meat-locker smell—sawdust, animal fat and Freon. It was the scent of striving. My father owned a meatpacking plant in Brooklyn. He liked to tell me that he worked in an icebox so I could go further in life.
Except I felt stuck: On the one hand, I wanted to go back to work and be financially independent, especially now that things with my husband felt rocky. But I didn't love the law, and besides, my dad was too sick for me to be working around the clock. I wanted to spend time with him. Looking back, I see that I suffered from what I can only diagnose as "affluenza." I got massages because I felt anxious; I felt anxious because I lazed away my days getting massages. I didn't get a job because my husband earned a million a year. Instead, I went to museums, took yoga and did volunteer work, but I was merely killing time, dying on the inside. As our net worth increased, my self-worth plummeted, yet I was somehow unable to make the necessary changes in my life.
Then my father died. A year later, I got pregnant with my son. A few years after that, I got pregnant again, this time with a girl. I wasn't naive. I knew that having kids couldn't magically save my marriage, but my husband and I still loved each other, and I believed we'd do our best to make things work. Instead, like so many others, my husband lost his job, a week after my daughter was born. He moved out two weeks later, in December 2009. I was alone with a 3-year-old boy and an infant, the stitches from my cesarean section still in place. The timing of it all stunned me.
It was a dire situation, but the separation also brought some relief. Keeping my marriage afloat had exhausted me. A part of me felt hopeful that I could finally build a more peaceful and authentic life for myself and our kids—on my own terms.
Money, on the other hand, was a problem. By this time, my children and I were living in a luxury building, in a downtown apartment on the Hudson River. Every window framed the Statue of Liberty, yet I felt anything but free. The rent was $7,500 a month, and now that my ex wasn't working, there was no money coming in. He helped when he could, but I paid our major living expenses from our joint savings, draining the account at an alarmingly rapid rate.
"My door is always open," my mother said when I worried out loud about our situation. The first time she offered, I thought it was sweet, but I was also irritated. Surely my ex would land another high-paying gig and at least be able to provide monthly child support. But as the weeks passed, he remained unemployed. During a meeting with my divorce lawyer, I asked, "What are the kids and I supposed to do? Move in with my widowed mother in Jersey?" I was being rhetorical; back then, I still couldn't imagine giving up my life in the city.
Whenever it was my ex's turn to take the kids for the weekend, I went for runs along the water, toward Lady Liberty. She was a swimmable distance, but I couldn't get to her. Like my own independence, she was close but seemingly out of reach. By the spring of 2011, the savings account was depleted, and I didn't bother asking my ex for more; he clearly had struggles of his own. The lease on the apartment was up in September, when our son would start kindergarten. "I can sign him up for school in New Jersey," my mother offered. I thought of her cluttered kitchen, the plastic cup filled with coins, her chipped coffee mug stuffed with promotional pens. "Um," I replied. "Can you lend me some money instead?" She explained that she couldn't.
A friend passed down summer wardrobes for my children and a few things for me. I wasn't embarrassed to take them. I cut out the babysitter and all extracurricular expenses. With my daughter on my back, koala-style, I ran down the soccer field with my son, simulating the summer camp I couldn't afford.
I began practicing law from home and looking for a one-bedroom in Brooklyn, where the rent would be cheaper. But when I did the math, I realized that I'd barely break even, however much I economized. My tipping point came during dinner one night, when I tried to fax a legal motion with a tortilla stuck to the last page. My 5-year-old pointed at me, cracking up. I stomped my foot and burst into tears. Then I picked up the phone and dialed. "Mom?" I said. "Can we really move in with you?"
Six weeks later, a swarm of moving men in red shirts emptied my home on the river. To pay for the move, I sold my nonessentials: an antique mirror, an imported vanity, my engagement ring. We left one day before Hurricane Irene bore down on the city. I felt as if we'd escaped ruin. As the movers carried my marital bed into my mother's basement, my friend with the difficult marriage visited. "How are you holding up?" she asked. "By letting go," I told her. I was starting with nothing, ready to rebuild my life from the bottom up.
Back in my old neighborhood, kids ride their bikes on the sidewalk, as I once did. My son sleeps in my childhood bedroom. "I dream where you dreamed," he says when I tuck him in. My daughter sleeps in what was once a large closet, now a nursery. When I kiss her good night, she hugs her favorite stuffed animal and flops down contentedly in her crib.
My bed occupies one side of the basement; my desk, where I write legal briefs, the other. Red-and-orange shag carpeting runs not only wall to wall but up the walls, to the ceiling. It's like living in a giant fallopian tube, which is appropriate, because I'm undergoing a rebirth. I thought I was too proud to move in with my mother, but I had no choice. I once lived high in the air, but settling down in a basement has grounded me; I'm discovering what I'm made of. Who cares if my friend thinks I've hit bottom? What I've actually hit is RESET.
My son is now in a New Jersey kindergarten. My daughter is in a preschool down the hall from him. My ex sees them regularly, and he sends money when he can. As for me, I'm practicing law from home and living on a tight budget. I don't have health insurance; I've even applied for food stamps. But I don't have the luxury to fall apart, dillydally or quit lawyering just because it's not my passion. I'm doing what I have to do, supporting my family. And despite everything, I find time to write.
One night, I start dinner while my mother reads the Pennysaver at the kitchen table. I stand at the stove, holding my daughter, who is now nearly 2, and pop a Tylenol. Sometimes, it feels claustrophobic, cooking in my mother's kitchen. She folds up her reading glasses, takes her granddaughter from my arms and taps my hand. "I'll fry the—what is this? Tofu?" I nod and lean my temple into hers. "Go for a run," she tells me.
I try to run every day, a healthy vestige of my old life. I run to escape the sadness of my divorce and my mother's occasional nagging. "Lift the handle on the toilet after you flush!" (Clearly, the move has been an adjustment for her, too.) I try not to look too far ahead, but I do set goals. In two years, I want my own place. In three I want to write a book. I've learned I need deadlines to thrive. I remind myself that I'm not back where I started. I may be in a familiar place, but I'm in a very different mental space.
And so I work as a lawyer, I write, I parent, I run. I run on the streets of my childhood neighborhood, which are named after writers: Longfellow, which is perpendicular to Whitman and near Poe, a cul-de-sac. I cover this familiar ground, finally refocused on what matters. Loved ones. My independence. A roof over our head. Finding my voice. Finding my way.
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