So, this morning, I’ve thought long and hard about my wishing-life-away, and I’ve realised that it may be 5.10a.m. when you receive them, but getting little boy butterfly kisses on your eyelashes beats the empty, echoing hallways of children who have flown the coop, any day.
Now I think I finally understand what MIL means.
Summer Holiday: Day One
The dreaded school-less Olympic period
I’ve just made homemade playdough. Blue, pink and green.
I know, I know. Desperation levels already. And it’s only Day One of nine very looong weeks of summer holidays. We were going to check out the water scene at one of Beijing’s parks today, but this strange summer day has put paid to that. Now we are stuck inside with previous plans sullied and spoiled, and four walls and rained-upon windows to stare at.
I was really enthused about these holidays three months ago. ‘I can do it,’ I thought to myself heartily, partly up for the challenge but mostly just hoping to play tricks on my own mind. I planned so many activities of varying degrees and involvement (with everything from the inside of my kitchen utensil drawer to swathes of school friends also stuck here for the summer) that I was actually getting really excited about how much fun it was going to be. Golly, I’d even convinced myself that it would be a breeze.
Oh foolish woman. I started this last paragraph at 7a.m. It’s now 10a.m. and this is what has happened in our house so far:
5:55. Five-year-old Riley crawls onto my bed (husband currently overseas)
5:55. Riley sent back to his bed
6:27. Riley returns for a repeat performance
6:28. Mother follows through again; Riley retreats
7:03. Scooter wheels begin scuttling across living room floor
7:05. Scooter riders scoot into bedroom and beg for breakfast
7:05. Mother groans and doesn’t move
7:07. Breakfast posse, led by undeterred seven-year-old Ella, hauls chairs across kitchen tiles to reach cereal boxes perched on top of kitchen cupboard
7:07. Mother cringes in supine position, awaiting the sound of broken crockery, and finally decides that getting up beats sweeping up broken shards of china
7:09. Sprinkle of cereal into bowls as mother enters kitchen and rescues extremely heavy bottle of orange juice from Riley’s slippery hands
7:18. Ella begs to use (broken) sewing machine to make clothes for her stuffed toys, Riley begs to go on www.youtube.com (repeat these exact same requests every six minutes until end of this chapter)
7:19. Riley surfs’80s rock bands on www.youtube.com. Ella begins a sudden burst of chores when she realises last week’s pocket money has been cut due to low work production levels the previous week
7:28. Both children want snacks; I cut up fruit
8:10. Scooter riding
8:22. Kids’ Trivial Pursuit with Ella
8:43. Mouse Trap board game with Riley
9:01. Colouring in
9:10. Looney Tunes classics on TV
9:17. Ella has a turn on the computer—www.littlestpetshop.com
9:28. Kids play schools
9:34. Kids play with wooden toys
9:39. Mother makes playdough and ruins another pot
9:48. Kids play with playdough
9:51. Kids start camping game in living room using every sheet and blanket in the house
9:59. Kids come and tell mother they’re bored; mother sends them back to fabulous camping game
10:00. Mother calls another mother to inquire about play dates and sleepovers, then heads to computer to finish a paragraph.
But wait. I don’t want to stop typing right now. I don’t want to go out and look at the lounge room. It’s not because of the sheets, blankets and toys tossed from wall to wall and hanging from the ceiling. It’s because I don’t want to unhinge the joy I am feeling from the silence right now, interspersed with happy chatting and the kids telling each other what to say next during their camping game. I don’t want to go out there because I don’t want to break the spell, though I am gagging to rescue the playdough cowpats which will be hardening into paperweights as we speak ...
Total silence now. For at least two minutes ... hmmm. A kitchen cupboard door opens and closes. Should I spoil their fun? I can guarantee both kids will have chipmunk cheeks stuffed with Oreo biscuits ... Should I ruin it for them? More silence. I wait. Then slowly I creep out ... through the lounge room, into the kitchen where I can hear plastic bags rustling ... little monkeys ... what are they into?
They are stuffing their blue, pink and green playdough cowpats into plastic bags to keep them from drying out.
Darling hearts. Maybe the summer hols won’t be so bad after all...
The Harried BJ Housewife
Ayi or not, the housework is never-ending
Okay, this is going to sound like a ranting whinge, and I suppose it is. Maybe you can relate to it, maybe you can’t. We shall see.
Everyone—whether they are a full-time tai tai, stay-at-home mum, self-employed-dream-job slave, part-time worker, full-time worker, fulltime shopper or part-time waster—has their pet-hate housework Thing. For me, it’s three things: unpacking the dishwasher, putting clothes away and picking up after everyone. My God, I hate picking up. I really, really do. I’d rather iron for twelve hours straight than pick up.
In fact, as of this minute, I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to stoop to collect something from the floor ever again, I hate it that much. I’ll do 30 minutes on the treadmill and trample groups of laowai tourists at Hongqiao. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not lazy. I just hate to stoop down because I’ve been doing it relatively non-stop for about eleven years and I am, quite frankly, over it to the point of mental incapacity. I’ve been doing it ever since I met Xiansheng, really. Hmm.
Pre-Xiansheng, I didn’t need to stoop for anything because, you see, I never threw or dropped anything onto the ground. But my life changed when hubby came along. And it changed even more post-procreation ... because husbands and children have a curious penchant for dropping that is absolutely unparalleled.
Elegantly dumped towels on the bathroom floor. Cracker shards or chips on the kitchen floor or in the creases of the couch. Scooters and bicycles in the doorway, prone or supine, doesn’t matter which. Plops of glop (yoghurt, pudding, mashed potato) on the floor under the dining-room table. Specks of Oreo all over the carpet and cushions like sanding sugar on a cookie. Paper. Wrappings. Plastic figurines. Cards. Dice. Toothbrushes. Playdough clods. Clothes clothes clothes. You name it. Dropped dropped dropped right where it belongs—on the floor, of course. Wardrobe? Ha! Drawer? Ho! Box with a lid? Titter! Rubbish bin? Wa haha ha haaa!
Sometimes the dropsies are so bad, I can’t face them at all. A few times, I’ve had to quite literally launch myself into a frenzy of picking up, in fast motion, like those time-advance cameras. I wait until Xiansheng takes the kids for a swim or a bike ride, take a deep breath and dart from room to room like a laser beam, toting a large tub of junk, stashing items into their appropriate spots at lightning speed before tearing to the next room. It’s wild-crazy but highly effective, not to mention a great workout.
At rare times, I will simply crack it (I’m not a sulker—don’t have time; just get straight to point) and the family freak out and tear around making things better for mad, loopy mummy with the wild eyes and flailing arms. Then Xiansheng runs me a nice warm bath with candles and some sweet yellow grapesque liquid in a stemmed glass (there’s a tip for you, girls; oh—and remember—drink responsibly).
I know, as you read this, some of you may be thinking: ‘Doesn’t this woman have an ayi, for goodness sake?’ Yes (she’s still here). But not only is she busy doing other things that I’m happy to relinquish (washing, toilet-scrubbing, mopping, dusting, cooking), she is also quite useless at putting things in the Right Spot, even after three and a bit years. So I just do it myself. Plus, Ayi can’t multi-task, nor can she move her tiny carcass at more than 0.2 kilometres
per hour.
I guess I have to accept my lot because, honestly, I have many years left of this yet. Despite hefty, daily training in the art of picking up, my three most beloved human beings have still not mastered it.
Am I just flogging a dead clothes horse?
Summer Holiday: Day Fifteen
I’m cracking up
Last week was Week Two of our nine-week (wail!) summer holiday debacle and things went pretty smoothly. This week, so far, not so good. And awful to say but true—it’s Riley’s fault.
Why do boys need the outdoors and sunshine and sports and things to jump on, climb, bash and destroy? Why? Why do they need to swim every thirteen seconds? Why do they need to put on superhero suits and fly down outdoor slides, especially in this heat? You try putting a kid in a polyester suit on a red-hot metal slide in the Beijing ‘sunshine’ and see what happens to the seat of his pants.
Why can’t five-year-old boys sit quietly and stare into space dreamily for hours on end, colouring in quietly or watching documentaries on the oceanic life of the Antarctic? Why? And like his dad did when he was a child, why can’t my son spend an entire afternoon lining up little soldiers and cavalrymen until dinnertime? Why?
We’re not very compatible, me and my son. He likes to leap, I like to bounce lightly. He likes to thunder maple drumsticks on the drum kit, I like to tap a tune on the (computer) keyboard. He likes to spin around the room like the Tasmanian devil, I like to, er—lie down on soft cushions. I’m talking polar opposites here.
Some of my girlfriends who have sons love to wallow in the mud. They get dirty, sweaty, exhausted and appear to enjoy it. I exercise most days but then the rest of the day is dedicated to a variety of placid pursuits like writing, baking and crafts with the kids, films, reading and brain-challenging games; i.e. nothing muscle-stretching, limb-bending, heart-thumping or lung-expanding.
I’m sorry, but I’m just not a roustabout-boy-active kind of mum. I’m the one who’s folding eggwhites into passionfruit pulp while they jump on the trampoline, snapping photographs of them as they ride their scooters downstairs at twilight, cataloguing their lives into lusciously fat scrapbooks and taking them on fantastical journeys via the pages of a book.
Yes, the kids get physical. We go swimming ... well, they do. I stand on the side and take photos or type on my laptop with one eye on the keys and one eye on the splashing. We dance ... well, they do. I play DJ and laugh my head off at their antics. We go bike riding ... well, they do. I stand in the shade shouting encouragement with a large skinny latte in one hand and more than likely a camera in the other. We play rumble tumbles ... well, Dad does. Isn’t rumble-tumbling what dads are for?
Gosh, I sound like a coffee-addicted slug. Right, I’m getting up off my silk cushion to get a latte and supervise some physical exercise for my son.
This Blasted Beijing Heat
Oh, Cat in the Hat, what can we do? Stuck inside while the sky is blue
We love Beijing in autumn and winter. They are our favourite times of year.
In autumn, there is a thinning but palpable change in the air. Foliage gets crunchy, leaves turn and tumble to the ground, the air temperature drops (surprisingly fast—if you have lived in Beijing more than a year, you’ll understand what I mean), jackets and boots are hauled out of mothballs, seasonal fruit and veg shift and change welcomingly, school starts again and the kids are raring to go. The evenings are divine and there are more people on the streets, creating that pre-winter-hibernation buzz. Halloween drops by to give us a creepy jolt, and the heart-warming countdown to the Festive Season begins.
It’s just luverly.
In winter, we love the nip in Beijing’s air—it has a faux freshness to it. We love the skeleton nakedness of the trees, the bluish white frost of the frozen lakes and canals begging to be slipped on, the knitted beanies and puffy coats, the steamy hotpot restaurants and Sichuan spice, the occasional flutter of snow, and the excuse to escape somewhere tropical for a week to thaw out before returning to make our tragic but awfully charming snowmen, smooshed together from the slush at the bottom of our building.
Summer I don’t like so much. Nor spring, as it heralds summer and the thawing of lakes and canals until they become dribbly. The only good thing about spring is the blossoms and magnolia buds that poke their sweet bonnets into the sky like delicately crafted candy, and the gentle release of winter’s most icy grip.
I’ve already ranted about the difficulties of a Beijing summer. There is no beach to escape to. No strong sea breeze. No darkly wooded parks to hide in. There just seems to be no shade. And for a place that can get so bitterly cold, this town can sure heat up.
The heat of our first Beijing summer actually shocked me, and it seems worse each year. The heat is burning—I mean, a rivers-of-sweat burning that even the old 180-beats-per-minute aerobics class can’t provoke. You just can’t go outside.
Much of summer is also heavily polluted, but lately we’ve had a remarkable stretch of blue sky-ish days in Beijing and it’s actually quite depressing sitting in our ivory tower, gazing at that blue sky with iceslushies in hand, pining for a small ocean and a couple of grains of sand, pawing at the windows like puppies at a seaside pound.
We’ve tried to get out in it, to get our dose of sorely needed Vitamin D. We rush out really early and tear around like maniacs on bicycles and scooters but the descending scalding air almost ruins us, even when toting brollies like all the Chinese Mary Poppinses around town. So, until late August (when we’ll have a short, four-day reprieve in Hong Kong), we’ll be house-bound. We’ll cool it. We’ll turn on the air-con and hide.
Praise Buddha, this will be our last Beijing summer.
The Olympic Build-Up
Or lack thereof
What is going on?
There’s an odd, vacant, bald feeling in Beijing right now regarding the Olympic Games. It’s as though it’s not really being held here. Sure, things are being spruced up and spit-polished at a rapid rate, but where is all the celebratory hoo-ha?
Maybe it’s because I don’t watch or listen to local television and radio, nor read the local rags. Maybe it’s because I’m so head-down-bum-up with my writing and all my blog posts for City Weekend. Maybe it’s because the Olympic movement is so tightly controlled and hidden behind scaffolding and closed doors. Whatever the case, it feels strangely un-atmospheric.
Today I saw, for the first time, Olympic flags erected along the freeways and main roads in Beijing. I let out such a gasp in the back seat of the taxi, the driver slammed on the brakes. I then smiled really big—finally something that looks Olympicky. There’s been such a gradual build-up of expectation, it’s kind of nice to see it materialise for all to see—beyond all the Fuwa Friendly stuffed toys, that is.
Of course, all the Olympic venues and sites are still under lock and key. The Bird’s Nest Stadium and Water Cube can only be glimpsed from the edge of the Fourth Ring Road, and I’m still not exactly certain where the Olympic Green lies, let alone the Village.
I wonder if we’ll get to see these historic venues, but with the city up to its eyeballs in scrupulous security it’s unlikely to be soon. I wonder if we’ll manage to snaffle some Games tickets. I wonder if I’ll run into any athletes in the streets. I wonder if this Olympic thing is really truly happening at all.
Like Beijing life in general, it’s yet another Chinese thing that feels somewhat un-real.
My Ayi Doesn’t Love My Kids
And why this is a good thing
Recently, one of my friends left Beijing, taking her husband and two small children with her. Her youngest child was raised with two mothers: my friend and my friend’s ayi. This bi-maternal relationship, while often an enviable situation, is also fraught with Issues.
My friend’s second baby was born in Beijing and she was lucky enough to find an ayi who was somewhat reserved in her attitude to raising baby the Chinese Way. I’ve heard of battles greater than Waterloo between mums and ayis on the
best way to raise baby, and the warring continues all over town, so it was with relief that the ayi/newborn experience for my friend was comparably do-able.
The child was raised bilingual. He was toilet-trained the Chinese way and sleep-educated the Western way (i.e. learning to sleep without rocking human arms attached at all times). It was the best of both worlds. The baby thrived. He had a big brother, a loving dad and two devoted mums. The only trouble with this happy family picture was that one of these mums was semi-permanent.
When the family said goodbye to their ayi, it was the most heartrending, distressing, emotional train wreck to be found outside reality television. I saw their ayi just the other day and she still has dark circles under her eyes and a hole in her heart. She haunts internet cafés for a glimpse of the toddler by email, and clutches a dog-eared photo of its adorable face. Back home, the toddler was initially a nightmare to settle but is adjusting slowly, still reportedly pining quite badly for Mama Ayi. Re-establishing a completely Western routine has also been a problem.
When we hired our ayi well over three years ago, I never expected her to fall in love with my kids. They were old enough to skip that baby-bonding time with her, anyway, and no real relationship has developed since.
Surprisingly, this makes me happy. I used to pine a little that she didn’t love my kids, but as we begin our countdown for Home, I’ve realised Ayi’s love disconnection could be a blessing in disguise. This is especially true after witnessing the terror of my friend’s ayi/baby separation; I’m still not sure that developing a deep, impermanent attachment is the right thing.
Beijing Tai Tai Page 20
