Born in The Big Apple, my mother was No. 8 of nine siblings. Sandwiched between the only two sons in an impoverished and traditional household, she was often overlooked. Her father passed away when she was 2; her mother, when she was 17.

Most of the orphaned siblings wended their way to the Golden State, where my mom, always a sharp student, graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, sometimes surviving on one apple plus half a can of soup a day. Working first as a journalist, then a teacher, she eventually married and became a parent of two.

What I remember most about my mother when I was growing up is her near-omnipresence. She may have been otherwise occupied with chores or a favorite pastime like reading, but her proximity lent stability to our 'ohana. The multitasking queen organized the household, ran errands and managed the finances to a frugal T. Her disciplined nutrition and fitness habits set an example for us all.

It was my mom who instilled in me a love of learning. The former educator would answer my endless preschool questions and later direct me to appropriate scholastic resources. With a predilection for the humanities, she would encourage artistic expression, cultivate music appreciation and take us to museums where exhibits covered everything from King Tutankhamun's treasures to Tiffany stained glass.

Blessed with imagination, the creative genius would help us, as keiki, color Easter eggs, construct gingerbread houses and crease origami. She loved variety and doing things differently. One Christmas, she would enlist our assistance in baking tri-colored bread; the next holiday season, lemon bars. Favorite hobbies continue to include painting, playing the pipe organ and crafting prose.

Credit for my own love of writing, and is due largely to my mom, who early on accompanied me to the library, assigned literary projects and cheered me on during spelling bees. To this day, she still steadily reviews my drafts for this column.

Though it is difficult for my mother to express outward affection or approval, her care shines through in other ways, such as our heart-to-heart phone conversations. In addition, no one has been as solicitous about our 'ohana's health as my mom.

An animal lover at heart, she also has frequently attended to sick and injured creatures.

My in-box is flooded with articles covering topics about which she is concerned (my eating sushi will result in her sending along an exposition on the mercury content of 'ahi).

Strict during our youth, my mother nevertheless was able to let the reins go when my brother and I became adults. While still keeping closely in touch, she did not discourage us from taking on careers, education and travel that would bring us across the United States and eventually overseas.

Now that I am a parent myself, I have a better appreciation of my own mom's sacrifices. If it is true that a mother's work is never done, then likewise, a mother's love never ends. When I contemplate how she has best demonstrated motherhood, individual momentous incidents are not what stand out to me.

Rather, it is her faithful and indefatigable care, day after day, that has exemplified what it means to be a loving mother. Thank you, Mom; today's column is for you.

Monica Quock Chan is a freelance writer. She lives in Honolulu with her husband and daughter.