My son gave me a book, “Mom, I Want to Hear Your Story,” after he heard me share my essay about mothering last year. I was flattered he finally showed interest in me. Up until then, I think he saw me only as an opportunity, a provider, and a vehicle. I provided opportunities for him to grow and thrive academically, physically, and mentally. I provided lodging, sustenance, clothing, and money. I transported his ass everywhere.

I was surprised he finally wanted to know me as a person, not just a parent or giver-of-things. But I’m having a difficult time answering the prompts in the journal he bought me. It asks me things like:

-Did your family have pets growing up?

-Did your family have special traditions on birthdays or holidays?

-Did you have hobbies growing up?

No, no, and no. Well, that was easy. And an amazing waste of money buying that journal. The answer to most of the questions is a resounding “no” because my immigrant parents didn’t have the time or resources for these things. So many of the prompts are completed with “No’s,” that I took to drawing little emojis next to them to fill up space and make my childhood look less pathetic. Growing up, I did really want a cat, but there weren’t any questions for unrequited desires.

I understand my son wants to hear more stories about me to better understand from where he came, and because my family is not a talking family. We are silent, stoic, and secretive. This sounds mysterious, romantic. But it’s not. It’s just setting up landmines for you to inevitably step on, so you say less and less, and the cycle repeats itself until you have a dining room table full of people you love, but you don’t know well enough to like. For the record, my daughter could care less about my story, and prefers I stay silent in all circumstances.

I understand why my son wants to know more about me and what forces created who he knows today. So I’m trying to get into the spirit of it all. What do I want my children to know about me? Should I tell them that my minor hoarding tendency stems from a place of fear because we didn’t have much money when I was a kid? So that there’s always a little bit of not-enoughness lurking around every corner?

Should I tell them I’m a little bitter and resentful that growing up, people made fun of me for my Chinese culture and quirks, and now it’s both trendy and appropriated? I want them to be proud of both their culture and quirks because it’s who they are, not because it’s trending on TikTok. And to be clear, re-using Ziplock bags was always a good idea and not a new reuse-recycle green strategy.

Should I tell them that I momsplain so much precisely because my family is so silent and secretive so I overcompensate? Also, I’ve coined the word “momsplain” as the maternal version of mansplaining. The concept of condescendingly overexplaining remains the same, it’s just that I’m a mom and not a man. The unnecessary nature of this also remains the same. See? I just did it again. I momsplain because I want them to use their words and not perpetuate my family of origin dynamics.

Do my children really care what my favorite cake flavor is (It’s chocolate)? Or who my favorite teacher was (I’m sorry to say I do not have one, but I loved my high school journalism class)? Or what my most embarrassing moment was (Not the most embarrassing, but I’m willing to admit there was an incident when I walked into a parked car because I was admiring a rooftop full of fraternity brothers, who all saw me walk right into the parked car)?

I don’t think my children need to know all of that. I do think they need to know that having children has forced me to be a better person. I think they need to know that becoming a mother has saved me from myself. I think they need to know that the moment the nurse placed my son on my chest after a long and difficult labor, I literally felt the axis of the earth shift and my soul suddenly settled for the first time in my life. I think they need to know I suddenly had the answer to a question I didn’t even know I had.

The past memories—they aren’t who I am today. I am only brave and vulnerable and courageous because I know I need to be a good role model for them. I use my words and fight for justice and do hard things because I want them to do these things. I only push myself to be a better human everyday because I want them to be amazing humans living a life of wonder and curiosity. Left to my own devices, I’d likely be a selfish, foolish wanderer. I’d likely be a crazy cat lady.

In my past memories, I had people who wanted more for me, but it came in the shape of someone being disappointed in me. Like most parents, I too want more for my children, so I had to show them what that looked like, and to make sure it didn’t look like someone who was disappointed in them. And that instead, its shape is someone who learns how to make the most out of life.

In my past memories, I didn’t think I deserved better so I sacrificed myself for people who fought dark demons. But I know my children deserve better, so I had to learn good and firm boundaries. I had to learn hope is a powerful thing and that I can hope for what is possible for someone, and also still say “no thank you.” I had to learn that I too deserve better.

In my past memories, I thought generational trauma was a destiny. I had to learn it can be a destination, and that I can change that destination–that I’m in charge of the GPS. Staying in a destination is an implicit acceptance. So I did hard things and divorced my children’s father so that they could see the stark difference between what is appropriate and kind behavior, what is unconditional love, and what kind of life they deserve.  I needed to show them you get what you deserve. And that they deserve respect, kindness, and grace.

I want them to know that I am who I am today because of them. So what is my story, you ask? My sweet children, you are my story.