my mom

This is my mom. Day and Dee's grandma. When she was a (very) sweet young thing.


I'm nothing like my mom, apart from the cheeks and the reproductive organs.

* She's beancurd-white and till this day, has thighs as smooth as marble. I'm muddy brown with dry eczema-prone pores.

* She's plump and soft. I'm thin and bony.

* She's got lots of hair in the right places ie on her head and none on the body. I have limp, thin hair on my head which takes forever to grow, and I have plenty of arm and leg hair.

* She's (compared to me) vain, the sort who tried on lipstick when she was seven. Me, makeup is something I apply annually and all I own is one lipstick for gigs.

* She doesn't have a temper to speak of. Once a day on average, I clench my fists so I don't end up throwing something on the floor.

* She believes in spending money once it's earned and eats at hotels several times a week. I hoard like a squirrel.

But so what? She's my mom! And since it's Mother's Day, I reckon it's the best time to dredge up a few of my most enduring memories of her (when I was a child) and put it on the record. I'm sure some of it would surprise her since children tend to remember the strangest things.

* I burst into tears when I was a seven-year-old child in class, scaring all the teachers silly, because I imagined myself at my mother's funeral and the image of her funeral photo refused to leave me.

* I remember mom cooking a delicious (but unhealthy) meal of very fried crispy chicken, peas and something else (I forgot) one Children's Day and here's the highlight: Served it on a beautiful glass platter. She promised to cook it again for us, but NEVER did.

* Taking the bus with mom, clutching my pink rabbit, to por por's apartment and refusing - despite all her exhortations - to look at or talk to the bus conductor who was coo-ing away at me.

* Growing up to the sound of piano scales and Bach, as my mother would teach her piano students at home.

* Banished out of the house one dark night by my father as I refused to swallow my garlic pills (I still can't swallow pills), I bawled my heart out thinking that I would die on the street. Mom quietly opened the gate and without a word, led me in. I remember thinking that my dad was going to kill her for that supreme act of compassion.

I wonder what my children will remember of me!