My family is all girls. Typecasting, bigoted but usually somewhat truthful, is brought to a new level of failure here. Where are the alpha male, the housewife, and the child? My 45-year-old mum has been working a nine-to-five accountant job to provide for the family ever since my dad left in 1991–but she also loves to decorate. My grandmother cooks and cleans, but she also weeds the garden. </p>
<p>I qualify as the child by virtue of age; I study at school and receive the obligatory stream of constant reminders about homework and chores. However, I double as the resident menial laborer, although any other family would think a scrawny 110-lbs girl weak. Assembling an IKEA pine-veneer bookcase? Sure. I also own a keychain screwdriver, and nearly qualify as a mover.</p>
<p>I also work on the technical jobs. Recently I replaced the keyboard on my Dell laptop in order not to pay 40 dollars–“Too expensive!” With an eHow.com guide (step-by-step!) I meticulously unscrewed every one of the 24 screws on the metal chassis before realizing that I only had to remove a plastic bevel above the keyboard. Doing stuff for the family is usually fun, but frustrating. My mother and I once painted an entire master bedroom in seven hours–I couldn’t stand the aroma of turpentine for weeks.</p>
<p>My grandmother, true to stereotype, is a domestic expert. Grandma still alters the curtains with her 1960s Singer. On the same machine that she used to sew my mother’s school uniforms, I’ve learned how to thread a needle and oil the gears, and press the pedal just so that the machine purrs away happily without sticking. Now that her eyesight’s deteriorating, I do some of the sewing; not with the machine, but simple darning and mending.</p>
<p>Apart from sewing skills, my grandmother has taught me real thrift–not just sending used clothes to the Salvation Army, but avoiding waste by extracting full utility from everything. I’ve learned not to throw away dragon-fruit peel; it makes an excellent rejuvenating mask to rival Olay’s best offerings. Led by my grandmother, my family tries to recycle as much as possible–old clothes become rags and worn bed sheets become pillowcases. Much to my chagrin, most Singaporeans still don’t recycle. My friends still throw away aluminum cans despite my reminders: every recycled can saves 300 kcal!</p>
<p>Though my mother supports the family, pays the taxes, and fixes the heaters, she’s not any ordinary worker bee. She’s also a closet wannabe Martha Stewart with a vision for decor. The beautiful cut-rate antique vase (cut-rate, because of the crack on the bottom) in the corner, she bought from eBay. My mother picked out all the knick-knacks and potted plants in the basement, which is wonderfully kitschy and eclectic.</p>
<p>Truthfully, I’m not as close to my mother as my grandmother. When I was young, my grandmother cooked my meals, saw me up the school bus, and oversaw my homework. On the other hand, my mother had to work late and usually came home after I had gone to bed. Still, I see and appreciate her sacrifices; she perseveres for us. I try to contribute too–I tutored a secondary-school boy in Math, Physics and Chemistry, but somehow the $200 I brought in a month didn’t make much of a dent when gas alone was $300. </p>
<p>I love my mother for what she does (a lot!), but I love her more for why she does it–for the woman who brought her up, and the girl she’s bringing up.