Third Culture Baby

Who’s that tapping at my 23rd floor window?

acceb — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 10:25:46 +0000

It was quite early in the morning when I heard something large thunk against my kitchen window.

That can’t be right, I assured myself, padding over to investigate. What can be banging against 23rd-floor windows?

I was imagining something along the lines of a very large bird and telling myself such a thing was utterly absurd when I came ’round the corner and was greeted by the soles of two large boots. Pressed right against my twenty-three-stories-high kitchen window.

They were window-washing.

The next morning saw their return–this time on the side of the building featuring our bedroom windows.

I was relieved to see that they were still in one not-flat piece. Here’s wishing these hard workers many a day of safe window washing, with gratitude for highly effective baby entertainment.

Where the babies go

acceb — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 12:47:39 +0000

Alec visits several different unofficial baby play groups on his daily rounds with the ayi. Yesterday–my day off–he became very disenchanted with my plan to laze about the apartment and spent several hours convincing me to let him out on the streets where he thinks he belongs.

First he stood by the front door and said cute pleading things that might have been wordless babble and might have been some dialect of Chinese. I can’t tell the difference, which I angst over, just a little bit.

Then he brought me his shoes.

Banging on the door bellowing came next.

Sruck by inspiration, he brought me my shoes.

When all else failed, he pushed his stroller to the door, tried desperately to climb in, then sat on the floor and sobbed. Like all earlier attempts to find indoor amusements to distract him, the stories and toys I offered did nothing to mend his broken heart.

I repented. We went out.

My Chinese co-worker tells me that her baby is inconsolable if forced to spend any fewer than eight daylight hours out-of-doors. Alec is a Chinese baby, I think more and more frequently these days.

Fortunately, I knew where to find the Chinese babies at that hour of the day.

Ringing in 2012 in China

acceb — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 13:18:04 +0000

Our students performed in a spectacular New Years Concert:

This little violinist is in one of my 1st grade classes. He holds a special place in my heart because he asked me to give him an English name in the first week of classes and has very proudly and carefully inscribed ALEX on every single textbook and paper ever since.

There was dramatic dancing:

(Linde was absolutely incredible; she’s one of my 2nd graders and a prima ballerina in the making. Her prince seems a little less that thrilled, unfortunately =P)

All of those cute girls are my students

Aren’t these costumes amazing?

There was a rousing drum solo:

And soulful singing.

Later in the evening we hit up the school New Years party. Alec rang in the New Year in style.

Happy New Year!

Year of Smiles, Part 1

acceb — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 14:01:13 +0000

Getting Creative with Olivia

acceb — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 01:05:09 +0000

Teaching English at a Chinese school is a fascinating experience. One that has inspired more hypothetical blog-posts than I will ever care to write.

This, however, I feel pressed to share.

This adorable worksheet was created by my colleague, from whom I gleefully stole it to torture my own class with. We had just read the children’s picture book Olivia (which I recommend, if you’re not already familiar with) and the point of this activity was to have our students use English words to describe activities they would like to do with the porcine heroine, Olivia.

Cute, right? I particularly like “yo-yo fighting” and “eat ramen”.

And then there was this one. Look carefully at those detailed little pictures.

Bacon’s revenge.

Bittersweet

acceb — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 12:08:29 +0000

Alec loves his ayi. He perks up when he hears the creak of squeaky hinges at the usual time each school-day morning, breath coming in excited little gasps and one chubby hand already waving before she has finished closing the door behind her. She calls out, “Babaa?” and he answers with one if his breathing-in happy-squeals and an enormous gummy smile.

(He has teeth, to my great relief. They are just taking as long to make an appearance above the gumline as they took to make it that far. Which is just fine, as those gums remain as pinkily charming as ever.)

Up until two days ago, it was clear how much he wanted me to stay. Enthusiastic and cheerful as his greetings to the nanny were, they would be offered with the fingers of one hand tightly fisted in my shirt collar or pant leg or the hem of my skirt, and if all the steps to getting him ready to go out the door weren’t complete, it was me he wanted to walk him through them. The ayi would pick out play clothes; he would run to me, demanding that my hands be the ones to dress him. The straps of his stroller weren’t yet snapped and buckled; I had to be the one to do it, the nanny pushed away (with a bashful smile on a good day and a squawk of angry protest on a grumpy one) if she tried. These rituals completed, he would all but ignore me as twenty-three stories melted away in the elevator, playing Chinese peek-a-boo that I don’t pronounce properly instead, and wave me off with not a hint of regret once we pushed into the mostly-fresh city-air of The Great Outside.

They make their rounds of our neighborhood (chat with all of the local security guards, meet up with three different baby play-groups (that I know of) at various communal courtyards and street corners, frequent at least three different playgrounds) while I go off to do my best with a bunch of other people’s kids for a while.

He is always happy, and happy to see me, when I come back.

But two days ago. Two days ago nothing had changed; there was the simultaneous lifting of lips and eyebrows as the front doors squeaked, the grasp at my shirt collar (he was balanced on my hip, trying to catch my toothbrush as I finished up my own morning routine) and the delighted intake of breath. I spat and rinsed and headed into the main room to greet our ayi, who met us with tiny color-coordinated shorts and shirt in hand (it’s strange what a relief it is to me that she always chooses outfits I would pick myself). And then my world tilted, just a little.

She called, “Babaa?” and held out her hands. And Alec, unlike every other morning, lunged–straight for her, jumping towards her arms and right out of mine, and she had to take a hasty half-step forward to catch him–I froze, hovering with both arms still extended, watching my baby slide one little arm around another woman’s neck, babbling excitedly all the while.

She dressed him and he tilted his chin waaay back to look up at her as she slid chubby limbs through soft sleeves, face alight and full affection lilting the tunes of both their words, none of which I could understand.

I went to school with a lump in my throat.

I prayed for this. Just like I prayed for all of us to enjoy this strange new China-life.

`That prayer is being answered, too. With the occasional lump-in-the-throat.

Still my baby.

There’s an app for that

acceb — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 14:23:38 +0000

Diligence

acceb — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 11:25:58 +0000

For nearly 6 months, Alec diligently brushed daily.

Now, just a day shy of 11 months, there is a tooth to brush! Calloo, callay!

Okay, so it’s more of a sharp edge that just barely breaks the surface of the gum, but I’m sure Alec will continue to scrub it with great joy

What I come home to

acceb — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 13:08:01 +0000

Alec sees me off to work every morning and afternoon with a brisk wave and a cheer for the walk he is heading off on with our ayi. He must play hard, because 9 times out of 10, I come home to something like this:

Or this:

He always wakes up soon after, sweaty and sweet and asking for milk. He’ll nurse for a few minutes, then pull off to turn a smile like the morning sun up to greet me. He slides off my lap and the trail of trouble begins.

Coming home: it’s good–so good. Thank you Alec.

It will make you cry, but you need to read it anyway.

acceb — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 05:57:29 +0000

“But today Ronan is alive and his breath smells like sweet rice. I can see my reflection in his greenish-gold eyes. I am a reflection of him and not the other way around, and this is, I believe, as it should be. This is a love story, and like all great love stories, it is a story of loss. Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today. Now. In fact, for any parent, anywhere, that’s all there is.” -Emily Rapp, Notes From a Dragon Mother

Read the full article here.

I have not been able to get this article out of my head; not just because it is the only op-ed article I can remember making me cry. It’s because these are words that helped me recognize and understand a little more of what my love for Alec is–what being a parent is. Sometimes, when I don’t know how to describe something, I cover it with things that fit into words better.

I’m grateful someone had the knowledge and skill to put words together in a way that uncovers truth, that shares lessons from a grief I don’t want to imagine. I believe in eternity; that does not lessen the power of loving my child today.