Jesus was a two-year-old

By Kevin

This year at Christmas, I'm amazed by the fact that Jesus was once a two-year old. I see him running into a room and yelling, "I'm hiding," then screaming with delight when someone finds him. I find myself picturing Juliana playing with him like she plays with her little friends, running around in circles till he's dizzy, laughing his face off, then tripping over his feet and falling to the ground, crying for Mary to pick him up and hold him. I picture him spread-eagle, sleeping wedged between Mary and Joseph, while they struggle to find an inch of space to sleep.

I see him climbing into Joseph's lap, asking him to tell the story of the Exodus for the hundredth time (what did they do before picture books?). I picture Joseph laughing with Mary about the peculiar phrases he comes up with. "Daddy, I'm Exiting," he says in Aramaic as he tries to play the part of Moses in the Parting of the Red Sea, using a pile of rocks and a bowl of water as his toys. "He's trying to say he's leading the Exodus," they laugh, wondering if he meant it or it was a grammar mistake, after all he has been adding "ing" and "ly" to an awful lot of words lately. Could the Son of God have made Juliana's grammar mistakes as a two-year-old?

All the while he sings Psalms at the top of his lungs while he plays, then pauses, mid song, when he realizes he desperately needs a snack. And they beam with pride as they look at him and wonder just what he will become, just like we wonder with Juliana. I can see him excitedly mimicking the sounds of every donkey, chicken and cat he sees, then laughing when Mom and Dad remind him where he was born. I wonder if he wandered around seemingly unsupervised like the two-year-old in the shop downstairs did last winter, while her parents worked. Or maybe, when Joseph was working with wood and Mary was doing some chore, his grandparents followed closely behind him, forgetting the shame and doubts they had once had about her untimely pregnancy, wondering if her insistence that it was a miraculous conception may have been true.

I wonder if, perhaps, he was like Juliana was this morning -- giddy with uncontainable excitement -- when the Magi came to bring him strange gifts (after all, we don't really know how old he was at that time -- Could have been a newborn. Could have been two -- after all, Herod killed all the kids 2 and under after learning from the Magi that the King of the Jews had been born ). I picture how some Chinese two-year-olds look at a rare foreign face like they've seen a ghost. Would Jesus have been startled if those Magi from the East were Chinese? Persian? Blonde? Or would he have smiled and welcomed them like other two-year-olds, who haven't yet learned to divide people by race. (as a side note - The possibility that they could have been Chinese, which a teammate mentioned reading about, fascinates me. It's for another time, but in Brent Landau's book (which just went on my reading list) Revelation of the Magi: The Lost Tale of the Wise Men's Journey to Bethlehem a Harvard scholar apparently proposed that a recently-translated 8th century Syriac texts suggests they came from China.)


 But more than anything, I'm just as blown away that God would confine himself to the limits of a two-year-old's little body as I am amazed by the fact that he was once a newborn. Maybe it's because I never thought of him as a two-year old before. My mind has followed the Biblical narrative and hop-skipped through his life from the the baby in the manger, to the young boy him lagging behind in Jerusalem making his parents frantic. Then boom, he's about my brother's age, healing the blind and telling people that "blessed are the poor in spirit for they shall inherit the kingdom of God." Then, at my age, he takes the sin of the world upon himself on the cross and days later comes back to life.

I desperately want to fill in those gaps. Not just out of idle curiosity. But because He matters. For the same reason I want to know the stories of what Ruth was like before I knew her. Because those stories shaped who she is. Trying to imagine him at Juliana's age each step of the way is helping me to see all the holes of my knowledge of Him. I pray that He can fill my imagination to give me a fuller picture of who He really is through the eyes of our two-year-old.

Foreign Experts Once Again

It's only been 1.5 years since we were "foreign teachers" (although 2.5 years since I was actually in the classroom), but sometimes I forget how different our life is as foreign students.  Not just our daily activity, but also our status in China.  We certainly still get lots of attention as foreigners, but we live on a campus with close to 100 foreign students, half of whom look noticeably foreign.  People almost get used to us.  As foreign students, we have no prestige.  But as teachers, we actually carry a "Foreign Expert Card," which we sometimes literally use to "pull the foreigner card."

Yesterday we helped with a Christmas program for another university in Yinchuan, and we got a reminder of what it was like to be Foreign Experts again.  We don't know any foreign teachers at that university - there may not be any - but we had a few connections so our team decided to go help out.  This campus was only about a 25 minute bike ride away, but it was pretty far out on the edge of town.  Past long rows of greenhouses and mud sheds.  Past large fields of newly sprouting trees.  Past the fancy new buildings of other college campuses also sprouting up on the edge of town.  No neighborhoods, no shops, no restaurants - just one bus stop down the road and a few fruit sellers by the campus gate.  A group of mini-vans for hire waited on across the road since no taxis come out this way.  Their drivers were gathered around a bonfire, waiting for someone to come along and request their services.

This is not a top-level or even mid-level school.  The students are almost all from small Ningxia towns.  Many of them have probably never seen a foreigner before and most have never talked to one.  The word about the Christmas program spread and the original 70 students mushroomed into a couple hundred.  The teachers scrambled to move us into a new classroom - a large auditorium with stadium seating and giant screens connected to a computer in the front.  This campus was only a year or two old, and it was still looking quite new and fancy.  The teachers ushered us in, eager to show how much they were honored by our presence and wondrously amazed to find we could speak Chinese.  See what I mean?  Prestige.  Nobody treats students this way.

Our friends who were heading up the program talked about some different Christmas traditions and beliefs, interspersed with the whole group coming up to sing several Christmas carols.  When the students spotted our teammate's daughters (Juliana had stayed at home), a couple hundred cell phones whipped out and started snapping pictures.  Each time we came up to sing a Christmas song, the students clapped enthusiastically and took more pictures. 

After the formal presentation was over we moved to different corners of the room for question and answer.  The students shyly gathered around and awkwardly looking at each other hoping someone would talk.  A couple of brave boys came in a little closer and several girls linked arms for moral support. 

One of the brave boys shook my hand and said, "Nice to meet you!  You are very beautiful."  I had to laugh.  I almost forgot how people used to say that all the time.  I'm not being vain, they really did.  Guy and girl students, random grandmas and shopkeepers.  Usually at inappropriate times like when you are trying to have a serious conversation with them or trying to buy milk at the supermarket.  I would be more flattered but mostly they think I am beautiful because I look so foreign and because I have such white skin, which is enviable in China.  And because I have yellow hair and blue eyes.  I don't have either, by the way, but reality does little to sway preconceived notions.

In between awkward pauses the brave boys yell out mildly coherent questions.  They are supposed to be related to Christmas, but we give that up after a few minutes because really any question will be an accomplishment.  The usual questions proceed, in somewhat more garbled English than normal.  They also repeat their questions in Chinese, which is helpful when the English doesn't make a lot of sense.  When in doubt I just make up my own question to answer and they are happy since they don't understand most of what I respond anyway.

When the awkward silences start to build up, I try asking them questions instead.  Where are they from - that's usually easy enough to understand, what year are they -  freshmen, what do they do when they have free time - sleep, shop, one girl said "farm work.

Over in Kevin's group, the students are even more intimidated by the thought of trying to talk to two guys.  Kevin looms about two heads above the group.  The students are all too shy to ask questions, so their teacher starts ask questions for them.  "These students are not very good," she says, "Their English scores on the GaoKao (the huge standardized test to get into university) were around 30 out of 150pts."  Not exactly a motivating speech, but if the students even understood, they are probably used to hearing that type of thing.  The main education philosophy seems to include "learn through shame and scolding."  The students know this is not such a great school, but probably some of them are just happy to be going to any college.

I've missed students.  I miss their awkward shyness as they stand around forgetting every word of English they've ever learned but still desperately hoping you'll talk to them.  I miss how intimidated they are just by the foreign face.  They are so cute and so young at 20 going on 15.  I want to get to know them better, especially these students who have likely never been to a city bigger than Yinchuan.  I even miss their dumb questions like, "Can you use chopsticks?" (after I just told them this is my seventh year in China), their ever-repeated questions, "Do you like China?  Do you like Chinese food?", and of course the one that never will die, "How do I improve my oral English?"  I miss even that.

As the time ends and the students file out, they stop to mob us for photos.  Once the photo ops start it's hard to end them, with a dozen more students crowding around waiting to grab your arm and turn you toward the appropriate camera-phone wielding student.  I forgot what it was like to be all famous.  Tonight my picture will go up on twenty more qq or renren pages (kind of like Facebook), probably with some caption like, "My foreign friend!!  Did I mention we are very close?  Like best friends!  p.s. She knows Obama."`

Tale of a Nursling

Note: I am not writing this to make anyone feel bad about whether they nursed or how long; I am writing because I want to share my story of what a great experience nursing can be.


Nursling Baby
Juliana nursed for the first time when she was about half an hour old.  It must have been very comforting, after being thrust into a loud, confusing world, to once again be surrounded by a familiar smell, a familiar taste, and a recognized voice.  Her tiny hands flickered over my skin, and she looked up at me with big, bright eyes.  I could hardly believe she was mine, but she obviously knew I was hers.

The first couple of weeks of breastfeeding were very difficult.  Juliana latched pretty well from the start, but she was jaundiced, so keeping her awake long enough to nurse was nearly impossible.  We took off her clothes and annoyed her in every way possible but she still slept on.  Getting enough milk was important to reduce the jaundice, so the hospital lactation consultant recommended I started pumping and giving her extra feeding from a syringe.  Each feeding I spent 30 minutes trying to wake her up enough to nurse her, then I spent 30 minutes painfully pumping while Kevin fed her tiny bits of colostrum from a syringe.  It was so hard to relax, and the high blood pressure I developed just after leaving the hospital didn‘t help.  She nursed every 2-3 hours during the day and we had to wake her up every 3 hours at night, so there wasn't much of a break before it was time to start over again.

Once the jaundice started to go away, Juliana became more alert and nursing was much smoother.  I was happy to leave the breast pump behind for the most part.  For the first month or two she mostly ate every 2-3 hours, for 30-45 minutes each time, and I felt like I was nursing all the time.  I read 20 books in the first three months, mostly in the middle of the night!  I also watched a lot of TV, both of which were helpful in allowing me to relax.  Once we both started getting the hang of breastfeeding, it became much easier.  I loved the way Juliana would close her eyes and start rooting around when she was hungry, and she would wail pitifully if she had been hungry for longer than 30 seconds.  I loved the way she predictably drifted off to sleep at the end of every nursing session, too warm and cozy to resist.

I first started nursing in public when Juliana was 5 weeks old and we had a 37 hour flight back to China.  I was a little nervous about it since I still wasn't entirely comfortable with nursing even with no audience, but it went fine.  By the end I felt much more comfortable nursing on airports and airplanes and with people looking over my shoulder.  Nursing isn't as popular in China right now, but people do seem to be a bit more open about it.  When we would have (female) students or teachers over and I was nursing Juliana, they would come sit by me and watch her nurse.

When Juliana was about 2 months old I developed mastitis.  A student took me to see the local doctor and then tried to translate his diagnosis: "He says you have too much milk."  Eventually we were able to translate the word "mastitis" which made things a little clearer, but then he prescribed some medicine I shouldn't take and told me to stop nursing, which I knew I shouldn't do.  After a call to the doctor-aunt of another student and a bit of self diagnosis, I bought some amoxicillin and it started to improve.  Everything I read said that rest was very important…they probably didn't mean "take a 14 hour train to Beijing and then trek across the city on bus and subway."  But Juliana had a 2 month check-up and immunizations, and at least I was able to see a better doctor in Beijing who confirmed that the mastitis was improving.

Once we got past the early days, nursing was pretty easy and I enjoyed it.  I loved the connection I felt with Juliana and the peace I felt knowing I was providing the nutrition and comfort she needed.  She continued to nurse during the night, but a particularly nasty stomach bug forced me to learn to nurse lying down, which was helpful.  She went through several stages of supreme distraction, and there were times when she drove me crazy by picking at my skin.  She learned to do some pretty complex acrobatic moves while nursing, a skill I didn't always enjoy.  But overall, things were going great.  She became a more efficient nurser and started to nurse for 15-20 minutes instead of 30-40, and she wasn't nursing as frequently so it was much easier to schedule going out or being away from her for short periods of time.  She was never on a strict schedule, but she naturally fell into a relatively predictable routine.
 
Nursling Toddler
Shortly after Juliana was born I distinctly remember telling a friend I planned to nurse her until she was about a year old and that was long enough.  I said, "Once she can start asking to nurse, that's a little weird."  Now I have to laugh at how much my thinking has changed.  When she reached the one year mark I thought, "One year is such an arbitrary time.  Just because it's when most people stop nursing doesn't seem like a good enough reason to stop."  So I didn't.  To my surprise, I found that nursing a past-one year old seemed completely normal.

One day Juliana started walking and suddenly I was nursing a toddler, something I would have never seen myself doing before Juliana was born.  But once again, it seemed pretty arbitrary to stop nursing just because she started to walk.  I read more about the benefits of "extended breastfeeding" both for Juliana and myself.  We were both still happy to be nursing, so why stop?  I knew it would seem strange to some people, but fortunately I discovered many friends who had nursed into toddlerhood.

As Juliana started to enjoy drinking cows milk and became less dependent on nursing, I gradually started nursing her less.  By 15-16 months I was just nursing her before bed and first thing in the morning.  It was nice to have more flexibility during the day, and I enjoyed a chance to cuddle with my increasingly active child.  At bedtime when she asked, "Nurse?  Nurse?" it seemed sweet rather than strange.  Sometimes she would stop in the middle of nursing and look up to give me a kiss.  I could tell these times were important to her for a lot more than just nutrition.  In the mornings I brought her into bed with us and enjoyed not having to get up right away at 6am.  Sometimes she would doze off and we'd both get a little more sleep.

Weaning a Nursling
I planned to stop nursing when Juliana was about 2 years old, but it took a little bit to actually get around to it.   I kept thinking, "I guess I should stop nursing," and then I would think, "But why?  We are both still happy with it."  I don't think there is anything naturally strange about nursing a toddler (in fact the worldwide average age for weaning is four!), though I realize it is a bit countercultural.   At some point I think we have to take cultural norms into account, but let's be honest - there is quite a bit about my life that falls outside of the cultural norms!

Around 26 months I decided to stop nursing at night, since Juliana was only nursing for a few minutes.  I usually prayed for her as she nursed, so instead I just held her and prayed with her.  For a few weeks she sometimes asked, "Nurse?"  I would say, "No, we'll just pray together," and she was fine with that.  A few weeks later she randomly, wonderfully started sleeping much later in the morning, so the morning feeding disappeared rather naturally.  Since her entire weaning experience was so gradual, it was never difficult for either of us. 

I admit that I am a little sad to think of this sweet part of our relationship coming to an end.  It is just one more milestone to show how quickly Juliana is growing.   But mostly it seems like the right time for us to let it go.  I am so grateful for the opportunity to nurse Juliana as a baby and a toddler.  I am grateful for all the support from friends and family and doctors who never doubted my decision.  It has been a beautiful experience.

On Gratitude and Growing Green Stuff

This Thanksgiving Day was not the greatest.  We weren't planning to celebrate until the weekend, since we still had class on Thursday, but it still seemed like the day should be a little special, since it was actual Thanksgiving.  I thought maybe I could at least do a little Thanksgiving craft with Juliana.

I picked up a few things around the house and was emptying the trash in Juliana's room when I saw it.  Nasty growing green stuff.  My eyes traveled along the edge of Juliana's windowsill and everywhere I looked the mold was sprouting up again. 

The window in her room is already not the best part of the house – the ridiculously thin inner windows aren't enough to keep out the cold and the landlord is unwilling to fix the broken outer windows, so we constructed our own window replacements with old window screens, thick plastic, tape, some wooden supports, and yes, chopsticks.  The room has been much warmer, but every day the windows cover with condensation...water which drips down into the old windowsill boards.  We re-varnished the boards a few months ago, but they are so cracked and warped that the moisture keeps soaking through,  The radiator is directly underneath the window, so we have our own mold breeding ground.  And it was certainly breeding again.

On Thanksgiving morning as I stood looking at the mold I felt frustrated and defeated.  I was pretty sure that no matter what we did, the mold would just come back.  Suddenly our apartment felt like a giant, toxic mold breeding factory.  The bathroom has no ventilation and is covered with water every time we shower, so it molds.  In the wintertime all the windows cover with condensation (or ice, when it's cold enough), and all the radiators are directly under the windowsills.  Even the kitchen windowsill, which is tile and generally stays pretty cold, manages to produce mold.  Our stupid little stove alcove is almost impossible to keep clean, so in the wintertime it forms frozen mold!

I grabbed my vinegar (the strongest cleaning supply I have around right now) and scoured Juliana's windowsill and then moved on to attack the kitchen.  As I cleaned I thought about what we could do.  Move!!  No, not really.  We have no place to move to, and anyway have already paid rent through July.  But this would mean we'd need to move Juliana out of her room.

Juliana has been coughing for the last two months.  I don't know if the mold is the cause, but I know it's not helping.  When I took her to the doctor the other day he said he though she had an infection and gave her antibiotics.  I hope it is an infection.  I would like it to be that easy to clear up!  But I know doctors like to give antibiotics for just about everything here, so I remain a bit skeptical.  Besides, if you only have to pay 60 cents to see the doctor, doesn't that make you a little leery of their medical advice?

As I spent my Thanksgiving morning cleaning up mold, I did not feel grateful.  I felt frustrated and overwhelmed and angry.  The kind of angry that spreads from one specific area to encompass every wrong recently experienced.

I was angry with this old building that is a mold machine.  I was angry with Chinese builders for not making better buildings that wouldn't turn into mold machines.  I was angry at the landlord for not having higher standards.

I was angry at the doctor for prescribing Juliana medicine that was banned in the US because of possible liver damage.  It's probably the third or fourth time that's happened to us.  I was angry at the whole Chinese medical system.

I was angry with all the people who keep telling us that Juliana is coughing because she's not wearing enough clothes or not drinking enough warm water or that we would dream of giving her cold milk and yogurt.  Doesn't anyone understand germs – and mold?

I was angry at the roaches who have taken us up on the “our home is your home” mentality though I'm quite sure we never extended that invitation.

Of course mold and roaches and poor construction and well-intentioned advice can happen in any country, but somehow this all seemed like CHINA'S FAULT.  This is what we call a “bad China day,” and I hadn't had one of those in a long time.

So here it was Thanksgiving and I was feeling less grateful than I had all year.  I knew I should feel grateful, but that wasn't helping.  Even in the midst of my terrible mood I could recognize that old familiar feeling: entitlement.

It's not enough to have a warm, mostly comfortable home nicer than most people in the world – one large enough that we had another room to move Juliana into – I want a better house.  It's not enough to have medical care when many people have none – I want the standard I am used to.  It's not enough to be surrounded by caring people who are concerned about Juliana – I want their concern to be scientifically accurate!  All these expectations seem entirely reasonable because I am American.  If I just lived in America I could have all these things (more or less), so even though I choose to live outside America I still feel like it is my due.

I can't think of much that is less conducive to gratitude than a sense of entitlement.  It’s pretty ugly, but I find it creeping in much more often than I would like.  For some reason it’s so much easier to recognize the things you don’t have.  This summer we heard several messages related to gratitude and generosity that have been on my mind ever since.  Erwin McManus said, “It is a life of gratitude that makes us whole, overwhelms us with love and moves us to live generous lives."  I really do think that gratitude and generosity are intimately linked.  When we become so busy looking at the small lacks in our own lives, we lose sight of the genuine needs of others.  Entitlement leads to bitterness and stinginess.  Gratitude leads to joy and generosity.

So I’m still working on the generosity thing, trying to keep my small problems, like mold, in perspective.  It may not be ideal or good for our health, but it’s not going to kill us like starvation or unclean water.  I may have spent the day cleaning up mold and rearranging the house, but I have a whole lot to be thankful for.  Like thankfully we got the house moved around before I sprained my ankle! :)

Thanksgiving jiaozi and noodles

By Kevin

She called at 3:30 to ask if we were home and if she could come to see Juliana. The woman we affectionately refer to as the “Bike Lady” (because I met her last year while riding my bike back from a supermarket in the old city 40 minutes away) wanted to bring some instructions for making Chinese medicine for Juliana's cough. She used to just show up at our door without any notice (like a typical Chinese person), but after coming a few times while we were out, she's started calling to make sure we'll be home. I almost said that we were busy because I knew Ayi was about to arrive and take Juliana outside to play. But this was the only day of the week we didn't have tutor time. I was looking forward to a little bit of a break in a busy week, but it was really the best time for her to come.

Twenty minutes later, just after Ayi arrived to watch Juliana and Ruth returned from class, The Bike Lady knocked on the door. We invited her in and she started playing with Juliana, excitedly recounting to Ayi the story of how we met. She marveled at how far along our Chinese has come since we met last spring. She laughed as Juliana sang and danced. “She is so clever,” she said as Juliana sang the words for “Are You Sleeping?” in English, Chinese and French. “It is difficult for adults to learn, but very easy for young children.”

Within twenty minutes, the conversation turned to food. The Bike Lady was asking if Juliana likes to eat Chinese food. “Of course,” we said. “We all love Chinese food.” She made up her mind. “Do you like noodles?” she asked. “Yes.” “Then I will cook you some noodles. I make some good noodles.” Before we could say no, she began making a list of things for Ayi to go and buy at the vegetable market, running down the list of things we had in our kitchen and things that were missing. “They usually don't have many vegetables at home,” Ayi said.

Then she wandered into the kitchen, spotted the dirty dishes leftover from lunch and went straight to work cleaning them. Ruth tried to get her to stop, because she was our guest, but the Bike Lady would have none of it. “We are all a family,” she said. “I want to help.”

We were overwhelmed by her generosity. I couldn't help but be reminded of the ways we are called to care for one another. And I was challenged. How often do we go out of our way to help those around us, even just with a simple thing like washing the dishes for them or offering to make them a meal? Even more, how often do we in turn let someone else serve us? How easy it is for us to get so busy and schedule our time so tightly that we have no room for hospitality. How easy it is for us to feel inconvenienced when someone shows up at our door and miss out on both the chance to bless them and give them an opportunity to bless us.

When Ayi returned, the Bike Lady started going through our cupboards, trying to find the right ingredients for the noodles she wanted to make. I pointed her to the salt, the vinegar and the soy sauce. “Do you have 酱?” she asked. Since 酱 generally means “sauce, I asked,”“What kind of 酱?” “ 酱”she replied. Clearly I was missing something. I told her I wasn't sure. She said it didn't matter. Then she shooed me out of the room and set to work on making the meal, making everything from scratch.

 She laughed at our miscommunication and smiled, “You have both made a lot of progress, but one day we will all be able to understand one another very well.”

With us, Ayi is generally not very talkative, but with the Bike Lady she opened right up, marveling at the way everybody adores Juliana and communication difficulties with us. She eagerly noted how she thought Juliana was “像洋娃娃 (“like a foreign doll”) - a phrase Chinese people often use to describe particularly cute babies.

In think I found out more about Ayi in 10 minutes than I had in the last six months.

The Bike Lady smiled as she placed huge bowls of noodles in front of us. We invited her to join us and she reluctantly agreed, constantly suggesting that Ruth hadn't eaten enough and marveling at Juliana's attempts to use chopsticks.

When the clock struck 6:40, she blew right back out the door. She'd made plans to visit another friend who also lives on campus. A day that began with the strong jolt of an earthquake (4.7 on the Richter scale -- thankfully no damage) ended with a whirlwind.

Perhaps inspired by the Bike Lady, yesterday, Ayi insisted that she make us jiaozi. I hesitated. I told her she didn't need to. It was too much trouble. But she insisted. “You don't eat enough Chinese food,” she said. So tonight, we'll celebrate American Thanksgiving in style with – what else? – Chinese dumplings Saturday with other foreigners in town, we'll eat 火鸡 – fire chicken – turkey). Tonight will be our little version of the first Thanksgiving, with the locals showing the outsiders what to eat. I am reminded that I need to cultivate a heart of gratitude. I need to be thankful for these blessings and so much more.

Smiley two-year-old

Smiley two-year-old, a photo by kevsunblush on Flickr.

Last week China held their National Party Congress to elect a new leader. One of the results was a big crackdown on VPNs, what we use to access Facebook, blogs, or other websites not in favor in China. The Congress is over and we've been hoping for the VPN to start working again, but so far no such luck. In this week of silence, when we have been effectively shut off from the outside virtual world and had to resort to email to contact others. Kevin can still get to all his fantasy sports web pages, an activity which apparently poses no threat to China, but I'm more of a Facebook/blog girl myself. Something important could have happened in a friend's life and I'd never know since they'd just assume I saw it on Facebook. Of course probably all I'm missing is pictures of the food people ate and some inconsequential moments of their lives, but you never know. Somehow I have survived the internet withdrawal, sitting at the computer realizing there is nothing left to do except...study Chinese. Rough.

In our non-virtual, unrecorded world (sometimes referred to as reality), Juliana has been busy absorbing the kindness/politeness messages she has been receiving.

A few days ago I saw her standing over Dolly, who was lying on the floor. She fastened her serious gaze on Dolly and said, “Do you need help? Use your words. 'Help please.'” To my knowledge Dolly did not use her words, but Juliana picked her up anyway.

The next day I heard her yelling, “Stop! Don't hit!” I walked in to see her slap her left hand with her right, then turn to her left hand and say, “No hitting!” She repeated the scenario with the opposite hand until they were both thoroughly chastised.

Today Juliana was talking and laughing to herself in the mirror. She and mirror baby were having quite a nice time until she gave mirror baby a stern look and said, “No! Too loud!” I don't think it harmed their relationship too much though, because in another minute they were back to playing peek-a-boo.

She may not quite have the actions down yet, but it's funny to hear her mimic the things I say.

(p.s. We can't actually get to our blog either, so this blog is brought to you in a round-about way through flickr.)

Single's Day Wedding

By Kevin

As we entered the church, the pastor was explaining that the bride and groom had selected a special day to get married. "Today is November 11," she said. "It is single's day."

Typically Single's Day -- 11-11, is a day that the single people of the world (or at least China) celebrate their singleness. This couple decided to redefine it as their wedding anniversary - a day when two singles would be single no more.

We hadn't planned on crashing their wedding. We were just trying to go to church. We didn't know that a wedding had been scheduled in place of the normal service. Still it was interesting. It's hard to blieve, but in this, our seventh year living in China, it was the first Chinese church wedding I've seen.

Much like an American wedding, the couple exchanged their vows by responding that they "yuan yi" (agree) to promises to cherish, love, respect, honor and not leave one another for the rest of their lives. After completing their vows and exchanging rings, the bride and groom held their hands up to show off their rings for a moment. They also lit candles, which the pastor explained represented two families that were coming together to create a third family. And, though they hesitated a moment when the pastor told the groom he could kiss the bride, they -- somewhat embarssingly -- obliged.

All-in-all, it was surprisingly westernized. The bride and groom wore Western wedding attire - albeit with a Chinese flair. The bride's gown, for instance, was draped with a thick layer of white fur near the neckline, perhaps because the temperatures outside were in the 40s. The man wore a suit with a red tie rather than a tux.

There were also a few other differences from a typical American wedding. For one, nobody other than the couple getting married and the pastor appeared to be wearing special clothing. Secondly, there was a huge archway of pink balloons strung up across the aisle. And all the children in the congregation stood along both sides of the aisle, undoubtedly to wish the couple success in child-bearing -- a must in any Chinese wedding. Some alternated between standing still and dancing back and forth with impatience. Also notable was the timing. As I mentioned: it was held during the normal church service. And, as is typical in a Chinese church service, prayers were filled with "A-mens" changted in unison after each phrase and the whole congregation concluded the service by reciting the Apostle's Creed. The videographer couldn't help but notice the foreigners standing in the back while scanning the crowd and made sure to spend a considerable amount of time with his camera aimed directly at us.

As the wedding came to an end, we made our way out of the building. At the door, gifts of watermelon seeds, peanuts and candies were shoved into our hands.

 

Dreaming in Chinese

They say a measure of your language progress is when you start to dream in Chinese, but I'm not sure if my dreams really count.  Last night I dreamed about reflexive verb endings.  Seriously.  I recently had a dream in which I was sitting in class making up several sentences trying to use 把 (ba) and 拿 (na), two characters with roughly the same meaning but different usage which I often use incorrectly in my waking hours.  In my dream I kept making sentences and my teacher kept saying, "错了！错了！It's wrong!  It's wrong!"

It's possible that I dream in Chinese more than I realize because when I wake up during the night I often have Chinese phrases and sentence structures running through my mind.  Perhaps it is just my brain frantically trying to categorize the things I shove into it during the day.

I would say my dreams are a pretty good mirror of my language progress right now.  I can speak more Chinese than every before...so I also make more errors than every before.  We are constantly learning new sentence patterns and grammar for me to misuse, and since I can talk about many more topics, every time I try to talk I think of 20 more words I don't know how to say.  It's a little frustrating.

A year ago I was just excited to be making progress.  It was hard to believe how much more I could say compared with two months before.  Starting from practically nothing can really make progress more obvious.  Now as our time set aside for official language study creeps toward an end, I realize that at the end of these two years, there will still be approximately 358,037,464,956 words I don't know how to say.  There will still be whole areas of language I can't use.  Every day I think of another "I can't believe I don't know how to say that" word or three. 

Perhaps I need to look back a little more to remember I am indeed making improvements.  When I started studying my conversations would die out after about 2 minutes, or even sooner if people weren't asking the standard questions.  Now I can talk for a couple of hours with my tutor in Chinese and still have more to say - provided we are talking about interesting topics, of course.  I don't understand everything she says, and I can't remember all the words I want to use, but we are still able to communicate pretty well.

So I guess I'm making progress.  Maybe soon I'll start dreaming correctly in Chinese!

Our China-fabulous Kitchen

Our kitchen (the really nice cabinet on the right was one we added)

The other day our counter broke.  It wasn't the most secure structure - a couple of wooden cutting boards balanced on a thin metal frame, so we weren't super surprised.  We discovered the back of the frame was held up by an old (now bent) cardboard fireworks shell.  Kevin found some old mop handles to wedge against the frame and now our counter is once again fully operational.

Most of the rooms in our house, other than our bathroom which I already described, are pretty much like your average American room.  Sure, the outer windows in Juliana's room are actually made from heavy plastic, window frames, and a bunch of packing tape.  And some of the tiles in our bedroom are loose.  All the outlet boxes in the house are broken and falling out of the walls - but hidden behind furniture so Juliana can't get at them.  And when I sit in one spot on the living room couch, I smell the neighbor's cigarette smoke, even though there are no vents, holes, or windows nearby (It's not just in my head; Kevin smelled it too.  It really is a mystery.)

Our nice view from the kitchen window

But otherwise, our house is pretty “normal” until you get to the kitchen.  The kitchen is separated from the living room by a large sliding glass door and window.  The door is a little small, resulting in a number of banged head and elbows, but I'm still glad it's there.  During the wintertime we keep it closed all the time, since the kitchen is at least 10* colder than the living room.

The outer wall of the kitchen is all windows - from the sixth floor we have a great view out over the campus and most of the year we see the nearby mountains.  In wintertime the coal dust haze blocks our mountain view, but we couldn't see them anyway because our kitchen windows always freeze over.  On the inside.  Instead of a beautiful view we have beautiful new ice patterns every morning!

The inside of our icy windows

Probably the most interesting part of our kitchen is the stove area.  A small box of thin metal has been attached to the outside of the house to hold the single gas burner.  It is closed off by small sliding windows, useful in the winter since the temperature inside the stove attachment is about 10* colder than the rest of the kitchen.  We have the stove burner propped up on an overturned basin and an extra piece of tile so that you can actually reach the stove.  A small hole in the wall connects the burner to the large gas tank under the aforementioned rudely constructed counter.

The stove alcove when we moved in.  We have since propped up the stove and removed the newspaper that is so wisely surrounding the gas burner!

Chinese kitchens aren't equipped in quite the same way as American kitchens.  We have a one burner stove.  The sink and counter are about six inches shorter than you'd like, unless you are Juliana reaching for a cookie left out to cool.  The sink has no hot water.  Most Chinese cooking has no need for an oven, but we have a small one we brought from Weinan.  It is conveinently just big enough for a 9x13" pan.  Unfortunately even though I set it about 50* lower than directed, it still burns the top of anything I don't remember to cover.  We have a blender, a hand mixer, a crockpot, a rice cooker, and a toaster (that was hard to find!), and my little french-press mug, so we're pretty set.  We also have a refrigerator, it just doesn't fit in the kitchen so it's in the living room instead.

I think the green fabric (covering the gas tank and open storage area) makes the kitchen look kind of pretty!  And the cutting board counter tops don't really look too bad.

One thing we were very surprised to see in our kitchen was what appeared to be a dishwasher.  Who ever heard of a dishwasher in China?  Unfortunately it was only large enough for one meal worth of dishes, and more importantly, it was covered in mold.  It was quickly replaced by a dish drying rack.  Much more useful.

I have to laugh when I see magazines or tv shows about kitchen remodels.  The “before” kitchen always looks pretty darn nice - is it really necessary to spend thousands of dollars to "fix" it?  I have to laugh too, thinking, “What if we lived in America and taped plastic on our windows or fixed our counter with an old mop handle?  We would seem so trashy!”  But here, it just makes sense.  We congratulate our friends for their ingenious repairs.

Sure, we have a bare light bulb hanging from our ceiling and some of the wall tiles are missing.  It would be nice if the kitchen were warmer or a little bigger, but it's really not a big deal. A second burner would be handy, but I'm so used to having one that I'd probably have trouble using two at once.  I still think Kitchen-Aid mixers are beautiful, but a little hand mixer serves me just fine, and you'd be amazed what you can do with a spoon!  I'm glad we don't have room for more pans or gadgets or a whole knife collection (one large cleaver is as good as 6 fancy knives) - if we had the room, no doubt we'd find a way to fill it.

I certainly like American kitchens.  They are so pretty and large and functional.  When I first came to China I struggled with not having the standard I was used to and unknowingly expected.  But now I like my kitchen.  It reminds me of what is not necessary.  It reminds me that I have everything I need and then some.

When I was younger I wanted to be an interior designer and planned to marry an architect so we could have a really beautiful house.  Until a few years ago my big dream was to own a home.  When we decided to stay in China, I realized that might never happen.  And recently I've also realized I’m just fine with that.  I've got some bigger dreams now.

Mole Hills

(Or part 2 in my little mini-series)

It's funny how parenting a toddler sometimes makes me feel like a toddler.  When Juliana is having a bad day - whining and clinging and generally falling apart, my thought process goes something like this: "I have ruined her.  It will just get worse and worse.  I will lose all control of her by the time she is 5.  I should have made her pick up her toys earlier.  I never should have given her that cracker when she was crying for it.  Now she's spoiled for life." (and I call Juliana melodramatic!)

When Juliana has a "good day" - playing well on her own, sweetly saying thank you, taking a good nap and actually eating dinner, I think, "She is such a great child.  I'm such a good parent.  Why do people parenting is so hard?  Maybe it's just that their children aren't as delightful as mine.  Remind me to tell them that if they just do exactly what I'm doing, their children will turn out great."

It's easy to get caught up in day-to-day moments of life and completely lose perspective.  I don't know about you, but I tend to make a big deal out of little things.  The other day a friend told me about taking her young barely-toddler boys to an event where they ran around enthusiastically.  Nearby another family's six children sat quietly watching the other people, looking exceptionally calm and well-behaved.  The whole way home she bemoaned what a terrible parent she must be that she hadn't taught her one year olds to sit still and quiet.

I tend to react similarly when I hear about people's children who sleep 12 hours straight at night or love to eat vegetables or play on their own for an hour at a time.  I think (and sometimes they say), "If I just parented the right way, surely my child would do that too!"  When we see a glimpse of those "perfect children," it's really hard not to freak out a little.

I remember when Juliana was 2 months old I started to become concerned that she wasn't sleeping well.  Now I laugh thinking, "My goodness, she was only 2 months old!!" but at the time those two months seemed like a really long time.  When Juliana was 8 months old and waking up an insane number of times a night, I was convinced she would never sleep well.  Seriously, I was just holding out hope for the teenage years when I hear people say their kids never want to wake up.  It sounded wonderful.  Now Juliana sleeps really well almost every night.  But when she has a bad night - usually because of a cold or similar disturbance - I instantly become afraid that this past year of sleeping through the night was just a ruse.

Similarly, I make a big deal out of my own parenting choices.  I think that breastfeeding is great and I really dislike leaving babies to cry-it-out, but I really don't think these are the end-all-be-all issues of parenting.  Some people get really, really passionate about these things.  Both sides draw lines and become bull-headed.  "If you don't breastfeed your child she will never get into college!"  "If you don't let your baby cry he will never learn to sleep!"  It’s important to think things through and make informed decisions, but these areas aren't quite as life-altering as people make them out to be.

Here is what bothers me: In America we argue about the ethics of “hiding” vegetables in our toddler’s food while millions of children go to bed hungry every night, some of whom never wake up.  We are so busy judging others discipline styles that we miss the signs of the child in our church or school who is being abused.  We are so embroiled in a “circumcision/no circumcision” debate that we don’t realize millions of girls worldwide are still undergoing female genital mutilation (“female circumcision”) a painfully unnecessary procedure that can cause severe bleeding, infertility, and childbirth complications.

The next time I am frustrated because Juliana refuses dinner once again, I want to pause and be filled with gratitude that I have food to offer her.  When I am tempted to get involved in a petty debate, I want to save my energy and passion for the things that really matter.  There are plenty of issues in the world that should make us angry, zealous, indignant, and grieved; most of them don't even enter our radar.

The fact that we have time to stress about the little things means that we aren’t facing the big things.  We are so blessed.