Turning My Mother Into a Stump: How The Giving Tree Made Me Question What I’ve Taken
We waited in anticipation on my classroom’s rainbow rug, sitting criss-cross applesauce with our seven-year-old eyes glued to the book in our teacher’s hand. Read-aloud time, the second greatest part of the day after recess, had arrived. She held up a bright green book with the words “The Giving Tree” written in whimsical hand-drawn letters on the cover. It didn’t occur to me at the time that this book would become truly relevant to me only a decade later.
The book chronicles the relationship between a boy and a tree as he grows into adulthood. The tree shows him unconditional love, giving him everything he needs at her own expense. As he grows older, he takes her fruits, her branches, and her leaves only ever returning to claim more of her.
If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was just a boy that turned a tree into a stump; a generic moral fable like the ones we had read countless times before, echoing the preachy sentiments of “be grateful!” and "don't be selfish!” So, I left it alone for a decade, barely thinking about the boy or the tree.
It wasn’t until I read the same book aloud to my seven-year-old sister, curled up in her cozy pink bed, that the words on the page finally resonated with me. The evolution of the boy’s relationship with the tree struck a chord. It reminded me of my own relationship with my mother; my best friend, closest confidant, and wingwoman through life.
Before my mother was my mother, she was a competitive Latin dancer with a serious business career ahead of her and an overall force to be reckoned with. Set to be the first female CEO of a major international enterprise, she was working fifteen-hour days, always rushing to dance training afterwards, and had a full social calendar to boot. She was living a life that many people can only dream of. But all of that changed when I was born.
She had fully intended to take motherhood in her stride and add it to the long list of responsibilities she was already juggling across two cities. She constantly shuttled between Singapore and Jakarta, taking work calls while bouncing me on her knee at the same time. But eventually, stretched too thin, she had to choose: stay at home in Singapore to take care of me, or focus on her career overseas while I was raised by a nanny. She chose me. From that point on, she has always been an active presence.
As I grew older, she started playing more roles in my life: therapist, dance mom, concierge, cheerleader, stylist. As she continued wearing more hats, she was like the tree giving me her leaves, her apples, her branches. I was the boy whose every demand was met with unwavering support. What have I ever given back to her?
Reading the book to my sister, I was overcome with guilt. Each page reminded me of the career she paused, dance competitions she postponed, and the parts of herself she stowed away in the attic to raise me. My mother would’ve lived such an exciting life if it weren't for me. And yet, all I really do is sulk whenever I’m asked to do a simple chore or complain whenever she steps into my room just to talk. Similarly, the tree is repeatedly trying to find new ways to connect with the boy, though he often dismisses her selfishly as he is too consumed with fulfilling his immediate needs. It’s my senior year, and college is right around the corner. I’ve been so caught up with doing well on my assessments and going out with my friends that I completely overlooked that her effort is what got me to this point in the first place. In my mind, I flicked through the instances of snapping at her after a bad day or arguing with her about minutiae. I was overwhelmed with the realization that this would be the last year of my life where we live under the same roof. Realizing this was like finally looking in a mirror and only seeing a selfish brat. All of the moments where I could’ve said “thank you” were met with a locked door. I was puzzled at the fact that she has only kept giving.
One occasion comes to mind when she said to me, “Margareta, having kids is something that requires serious thought and tons of considerations. I gave up many things to have you.” My dramatic teenage self assumed what she said meant that she never wanted me. I could have never been more wrong. It meant she sacrificed the life she lived, so that I could live it.
I relate so much to the person that she was before she had me. Now, I am a dedicated dancer, an active member of my school community, and next in line to become the first female CEO of the same company she was slated to steer. My mother practically gave me her whole life. And just like the tree, no matter how much I take, she is always happy. I asked her if she ever regretted the path that she chose, and she simply said, “when you know you’ve made the right choice, there is no room for regret.”
I may be a self-centered teenager, but revisiting this book has pushed me out of a place of ignorance and passivity. Now, I am aware of the way she gives and to never take her for granted. I want to meet her with the same care and make her feel loved the way she has done for me all my life. When I am in college, she will not be there to drive me to dance or wake me up when I oversleep. But I know her boundless support will come in the form of midnight phone calls and asking if I’ve eaten. Her way of loving me will eventually transition from the tangible to the intangible. At the end of the book, all the tree could give was a stump to sit on. I have no doubt that my mother will support me the same way. And as I get older, I might find myself willingly becoming a stump for something I truly love. I hope that when she is old and tired, I can give her a stump to lean on.