I know I have reached peak auntie status when the sight of plastic containers in different sizes excites me. Microwaveable, sleek canisters, child-sized. I imagine all the possibilities of displaying them at home to store our half-eaten snack packets. Yet I don't buy any of them because I think I could find cheaper options on shopee, with $1 delivery.
Yet I consider myself still "young mother" because I end up buying pouches for makeup, not for children's toys. Somehow these "aurora" prismatic materials and bright prints will keep me young.
I tried to be that kind of artist for a season. Loud, loud, loud prints, nubile subjects. Holographic stickers and portraits of people who looked like they did nothing but party. While my reality could not be further from the fantasy I drew; I never went out anymore past 8 pm.
It's no wonder then that the world never really accepted me as that kind of new artist. It's as if they could sniff the inauthenticity and shut the door on me. Stay in your generation's lane. Instead, by accepting only the portraits, they kept me a mother, a woman at home, a person whose social circle is her family.
But maybe only this way, through creating the things that fall naturally around me daily, will I have anything of truth to give to anyone. Because all I want is the set of food canisters to make my home complete.
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