Simmering eggs yolk and the sugar, she stirred slowly and gently the paste over selected charcoal. The heat must not be aggresive to make sure her home-made kaya jam taste well. Great patience was writtened all over her face. It was not the first time she made the jam, but surely the beginning was tough for her. She used no preservative nor artificial colouring, yet the kaya paste is durable without refrigeration. In order to see why she was so attentive to the pot she stirred and stirred, I would climb onto a chair. The pot of kaya was enough to last over a week on the breakfast table. I learned how to scoop the paste from the pot so that what remained in the pot stayed fresh and neat. Usually, I swept thick onto the "Sunshine' bread we bought the previous evening carted to our kamping. She would wrap the loaf of bread slices with its wax-paper so that the slices stayed soft for next morning. She would keep vigilant on my morning routine so that nothing was left out. As she observed her son enjoying his cup of Milo, she would swiftly removed the pot and the loaf to the food cupboard.
She was not put into school when young and though she had no idea of education, she made sure her son reached school with confidence. She built his confidence by taking care of his morning meals, his attire, and his trip to school each day. She would qualify whether he combed his hair properly, or whether he tucked-in his shirt neatly to the tying of shoes string. She just did it 5 days a week.
6 years for his primary encounter and another 7 years for his secondary studies. Untiring, she sacrificed for him without expectations. She was a widow. She had no income but she had to do her best for her children single-handedly. I admit that I had not watched her washing clothing but our clothes smell nice under the sun when I returned from school. I could imagine her determination to get rid of my stained shirts with the zig-zag plank she scrubbed with her hands when I tap the sensored-button of the modern washing machine.
All I knew was to dropped the rattan bag onto the floor and lifted up the cai cum (a dialect, the hokkiens use for the food cover) to check what' up for lunch. Not only she had to endure the heat and smoke of the charcoal which was used in the kitchen then, she had to remained alert when warming food or frying fish while she worked on other chores. I did not wander why the flooring wasn't oily nor dusty when she was at home until I fitted a hob over the stove and tried using floor cleaner. Tones of reminder come from my washing machine, rice-cooker, oven, kettle, toaster, and what not for me but not for her. Just one generation, she did memory work much and I do more on search. Not until I benefitted from auto tasks, how could I imagine her manual tasks.
Everyone remember her. You. Me.
Not until I baby-sitted my son on a full-time basis after the Asian financial crisis, when I lost an income, did I realise the supremacy of mums.
Like her, I became a time-keeper for my baby. He would open his eyes in two hours interval, and look at me. Luckily, he is sort of a patience kind, he didn't cry-screamed at me for delays in getting bottled milk. Most he would do, is to stared blankly into my eyes. He watched how I mixed warm water with the evapourated milk powder. Sometime, I'd to touch his bottom jaw when it looks as if he had forgotten the sucking. After bottling, musn't forget is the fun of his blurping with his face over my shoulder. Then, come next, would be the joy of removing the shit, cleaning his buttock with wet tissue and disposing the diaper.Look, there ain't diaper then, so mum had got to use linen that added the load of her washing.
Only on food and hygiene, has taken me hours to back throw the mind to thoughts of yesteryears, what about if I would to describe more ? It might take infinite time to detail her accomplished commiments from pregnancy to motherhood. I can't repay what she spent, not in dollars and cents but in forgiveness, love, and wisdom.
Mum, you're my idol. You do not know I wrote this. And I wrote with your forgiveness, with your love and with your wisdom.
Happy Mothers' Day.
She was not put into school when young and though she had no idea of education, she made sure her son reached school with confidence. She built his confidence by taking care of his morning meals, his attire, and his trip to school each day. She would qualify whether he combed his hair properly, or whether he tucked-in his shirt neatly to the tying of shoes string. She just did it 5 days a week.
6 years for his primary encounter and another 7 years for his secondary studies. Untiring, she sacrificed for him without expectations. She was a widow. She had no income but she had to do her best for her children single-handedly. I admit that I had not watched her washing clothing but our clothes smell nice under the sun when I returned from school. I could imagine her determination to get rid of my stained shirts with the zig-zag plank she scrubbed with her hands when I tap the sensored-button of the modern washing machine.
All I knew was to dropped the rattan bag onto the floor and lifted up the cai cum (a dialect, the hokkiens use for the food cover) to check what' up for lunch. Not only she had to endure the heat and smoke of the charcoal which was used in the kitchen then, she had to remained alert when warming food or frying fish while she worked on other chores. I did not wander why the flooring wasn't oily nor dusty when she was at home until I fitted a hob over the stove and tried using floor cleaner. Tones of reminder come from my washing machine, rice-cooker, oven, kettle, toaster, and what not for me but not for her. Just one generation, she did memory work much and I do more on search. Not until I benefitted from auto tasks, how could I imagine her manual tasks.
Everyone remember her. You. Me.
Not until I baby-sitted my son on a full-time basis after the Asian financial crisis, when I lost an income, did I realise the supremacy of mums.
Like her, I became a time-keeper for my baby. He would open his eyes in two hours interval, and look at me. Luckily, he is sort of a patience kind, he didn't cry-screamed at me for delays in getting bottled milk. Most he would do, is to stared blankly into my eyes. He watched how I mixed warm water with the evapourated milk powder. Sometime, I'd to touch his bottom jaw when it looks as if he had forgotten the sucking. After bottling, musn't forget is the fun of his blurping with his face over my shoulder. Then, come next, would be the joy of removing the shit, cleaning his buttock with wet tissue and disposing the diaper.Look, there ain't diaper then, so mum had got to use linen that added the load of her washing.
Only on food and hygiene, has taken me hours to back throw the mind to thoughts of yesteryears, what about if I would to describe more ? It might take infinite time to detail her accomplished commiments from pregnancy to motherhood. I can't repay what she spent, not in dollars and cents but in forgiveness, love, and wisdom.
Mum, you're my idol. You do not know I wrote this. And I wrote with your forgiveness, with your love and with your wisdom.
Happy Mothers' Day.