How many of us can call our mother our best friend? Our columnist – whose unconventional lifestyle would give any mother lots of grey hair – never did. Until now.

WE’RE HAVING lunch at Ipoh’s biggest shopping mall when I decide, on impulse, to share my next big plan. “Mum, my friends have been egging me to write a book. What do you think?”

“Good idea!” she declares emphatically, looking up from her Japanese curry rice, eyes flashing with excitement.

“Let me help you by digging up your old diaries. Remember those exercise books you used to write in as a kid before graduating to blogs ...”

“My diaries?” I frown. “Whatever for?”

Heaven forbid if she managed to get her hands on those gushing accounts detailing my teenage crushes...

“I’m sure it’s filled with useful details you can use in your book.”

“Like what?” I persist, unconvinced.

“Well, aren’t all authors influenced by incidents from their formative years? I remember you telling me you wrote about how you made a drastic decision to go for English tuition because you wanted to get Kong Kong’s (maternal grandpa) fattest angpow.”

Oh, yes. My late Kong Kong used to dish out angpow for our academic achievements. In RM10 increments, no less — RM30 for topping the class, RM20 for second position, and the buck stopped at No 3.

“You always played bridesmaid in class, so when you finally took the No 1 spot in Standard Four, he was so pleased he splurged on a bicycle for you,” Mum reminds.

Shame fills me. I don’t even remember. Trust my mother to faithfully record each detail. As if she can read my thoughts, she says, “Mother’s memory is still good now, but don’t know when I get old.”

A lump forms in my throat. I don’t want to think about my mum getting old. To keep the mood buoyant, I steer the conversation to happier subjects. “Yes, I had an interesting childhood. Going to Genting and Cameron Highlands with you and Dad ... and watching an unusual number of movies for a kid my age. Dracula, Poltergeist, the works. Whose bright idea was it to lug me to watch Hollywood movies at the cinema – yours or dad’s?”

“Mum’s of course!” she answers without hesitation. “I am the proactive and talkative one unlike your dad.” Then, as if in an afterthought, she says, “You can write this down too!”

I burst into laughter. Mum’s confidence can border on the cocky, but she’s so unapologetic about it that after a while, it becomes endearing. And it’s impossible not to get infected by her enthusiasm. Once she sticks her finger in a pie, she goes all out to make it happen - whether it’s baking her legendary mooncakes, spring-cleaning her school’s files, or plotting the storyboard of her daughter’s future book.

My mother is the classic perfectionist, and proud of it too, which is why her next remark comes as a big surprise.

“Oh, oh, oh, very important! You must also write about how messy your bedroom is and how mother is unable to convert you into a neater person. That is mother’s failure.”

I gasp. Did my mum just use the F-word? “Are you sure you want me to mention that and let everybody know?” I ask carefully.

“Yes, must write. Also write about how when you became a writer, mother disapproved of your choice.”

Woah. This conversation is really taking some wild turns. “And why would you want me to include that?” I ask.

“You should write because this is the story about your life. It should be truthful. Mother doesn’t know how to put it in words. Mother’s English not so good. Mother’s language is not strong like you and Dad. Don’t worry about whether you’ll use it. Just record the details, and then you can decide later whether you want to include them in your book.”

As I hungrily devour every word, I’m aching to say, You’re wrong Mum. Mastery of a language is not everything when it comes to communicating effectively; it’s sincerity. You’ve delivered more pearls of wisdom than some of the most successful CEOs I’ve met, and I’m dying to type them into my phone, except I would not spoil this moment for all the money in the world.

“Say how nobody knew you loved English. Then when you grew up you wanted to be a writer but mother objected.”

“Yeah, you told people your daughter didn’t have a job after I became a writer!” I remind her with a reproachful glare.

She has the grace to blush, which sends both of us into chuckles. It strikes me then that a candid conversation like this would have been impossible once upon a time. In all the years when we fought like tigers and I struggled to earn her approval, I never thought we could ever talk like friends. But like everything in life, relationships change.

“Then you must tell people, how despite all the objections from your parents, especially your mother, you still persevered. Because of your determination, you achieved your dream of becoming a writer in the end,” she continues.

My throat goes dry.

Suddenly all the fighting, the gnashed teeth, and the tears that came before this don’t matter anymore. As I gaze at this funny, feisty, big-hearted woman who’d raised me with tough love so that I could also be tough, streetwise and independent someday, I’m seized by a sudden urge to reach across the table and enfold her in a bear hug.

Before anything of that sort happens, the waiter appears at our table with the bill. After signing the credit card statement, I turn to her. “Where next, Mum? Empro is giving a promo.”

Her eyes are dancing. “Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

With a knowing smile, I tuck my hand into hers and amble towards our next destination to pluck my bushy eyebrows. You know - the kind of vain, girly stuff you do with your best girl friend.

> Alexandra Wong (www.bunnysprints.com) would like to say: Mum, you’re a rock star. My very own guiding star, solid and dependable, like a rock.

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