An essay written by my mother who gave birth to me at 19.

My mother became pregnant with me at 18 and gave birth to me in the autumn of her 19th year. My father is six years older, so he was 24 at the time, and I have never asked how they met or how that came to be.

I am the eldest son, and I have two younger sisters and one younger brother. There are four of us siblings in total. We were close in age and every day was fun.

In exchange, my father worked without sleeping. My mother, who was home during the day, would also go out to work at night, saying, "I have a cleaning job." The four of us siblings, with me at the center, would cry and try to stop her, saying, "Don't go."

At the time, Namie Amuro's "Can You Celebrate?" was always playing, and it was on TV at night too. It's considered a masterpiece by the world, but I don't really like it. It reminds me of those days.

Four children. Thinking about it now, I'm sure things were tough at home. I don't have children yet, so I can't even imagine it, but I'm sure it was hard. Both my father and mother were high school graduates, so I sometimes wonder now how they managed to raise us all the way up.

Every day was fun. Our family got along well.
My mother would sing and dance every day.
My father would also play the guitar and sing.
The six of us in the family would sing together.
My father and mother must have been exhausted, but neither of them ever showed it.

My mother cherished us above all else—that is something I can feel and say now that I am 31, but when I was little, I didn't understand it at all.

I didn't want her to come to class observation days, and I didn't want her to come to graduation ceremonies. I even told her "don't come" to the soccer matches I was taking lessons for. But in the end, my mother came to everything.

Children remember these kinds of things.

When I was in the fourth grade of elementary school, at age 10, we had a moral education class where we were given a homework assignment to write an essay about our mothers:
Have your mother write about the time you were born.It was an A4-sized essay. Our female homeroom teacher said, "It can be something simple," but I thought, "I hate things this embarrassing," and at the same time, I had a bad feeling.

I went home and asked my mother to write it. At night, under the dim light of the dining table, my mother was writing the essay with a smile. My father said, "Oh, what's that?" and then added, "I have to write something too," and started writing all over the back of the paper.

As a fourth grader, I received the paper from my mother and submitted it to the teacher without even reading it. I was embarrassed. It was homework to have my mother write it, so isn't it embarrassing that my father wrote on it too?

After that, nothing happened, and the days of school life passed without any
touching on the mother essay.
…Or so I thought.

One day, the female homeroom teacher said,

"The mother essays you all submitted the other day were all so wonderful! So, from now on, every morning during the morning meeting, I will read two of them in front of everyone!"

(Oh no...)
My bad feeling was right!
This teacher is definitely going to read it! Just as I expected! This is the worst!

From then on, every day, the teacher would read out essays written by our mothers, two at a time, chosen at random. We would all listen in silence. For some reason, everyone else only wrote simple things like, 'When so-and-so was born, the situation was like this...' Mine, however, covered both sides of an A4 sheet of paper, and it even included an essay from my father.

Oh no...
Please don't let it be my turn...
I thought that every single day.

Before I knew it, my turn came. The teacher said, 'Guess what! So-and-so's essay was written by both his mother and his father! And look! It's completely filled up!'

My friends reacted with “Whoa!!!”.
I kept my head down. I was embarrassed.

The teacher continued, 'Since so-and-so's is such a massive work, I'll read it on the very last day!' which made it even worse.

Little by little, two by two, they were read every day.
As the final day approached, I became depressed.
What could possibly be written in there...?

And so, the final day arrived.
The day my mother's essay would be read.
The teacher started by reading my father's essay on the back. In front of everyone. Everyone was listening in silence.



Honestly, I was so embarrassed to hear it that I covered my ears during my father's essay. I also covered my ears for part of my mother's essay. But I listened to the end. Why?

Because the teacher's voice stopped.

The teacher was crying.

Not a single one of my friends listening was crying, and I was just filled with embarrassment and confusion about the whole situation. The teacher was crying, and everyone else was silent.

The teacher started reading again.
I listened to just the final part.
What could be written there?

The essay my mother wrote, which the teacher read while crying.
That final sentence.
I was 10 years old then, and now I am 31.
It has been 21 years since then. I still remember it, and I will never forget it.

In the silent classroom, the teacher read aloud:


“Hey, so-and-so, I've heard that children choose their parents before they are born. So, thank you for choosing your father and me. Thank you so much for making me a mother.”

When I was 10, I felt embarrassed.
I haven't even told my mother what I thought of her essay.

But I can say it now. I can write it.

Mom, thank you so much for being my mother. Thank you for everything, past and future.
(And you too, Dad)

*My mother is alive and well.