When I sat at the desk, trying to write the essay, I found it hard to set pen to paper. Staring at the topic I deliberately chose for myself "my mother", I felt the memory of 20 years with my mother suddenly turned into a haze, blurring my eyes to discern the past, with nothing towering, nothing flaring, nothing impressive or special enough as a landmark. The haze gradually cleared away, revealing the image of an amicable woman. 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