Expensive Preschools Do Not Harvard Grads Make

Yesterday on the cab ride over the driver told me that everyday he goes 15 kilometers to pick up a kid from preschool and drives him back to our complex. I was perplexed, so I asked why the kid doesn't simply attend the nursery school in the complex. The driver said that the parents didn't think our preschool was good enough, and that this preschool is a dual-language preschool with a huge price tag.

I told him that our preschool isn't cheap either, at $300 a month. He said the other preschool costs $1,000 or so. I know for those of ye faithful readers in the US $1,000 for preschool sounds like peanuts, but for most Chinese families $1,000 is their average monthly income. Imagine spending something like $3,000 for preschool in the US, when you could have sent your child to one that costs only $1,000.

Sure, we could easily send Juju to a $1,000 a month preschool, but I refuse to when I can send her to a perfectly good one close to home. I understand why expats send their kids to such expensive schools: they need to be instructed in English and they (more likely probably their parents) feel more comfortable with other (mostly) white kids. I also know why Chinese parents send their kids to such schools, but I think it's overkill.

Many Chinese parents will do just about anything to get their kids fluent in English. They almost see it as the ticket to future happiness and nirvana. Sure, I want Juju to speak English, but I also want her to grow up amongst Chinese kids. I want her to have a sense of ethnic identity so that she views her Chinese heritage as a source of pride rather than shame.

If you've never lived in a place where you are an ethnic minority, maybe it's hard for you to understand how I feel. If you read kimchimamas blog perhaps you'll get a sense why the issue of race is so important to a lot of us Asian moms. I was born in China and grew up in Beijing until I was 12. In elementary school I was always taught to be proud to be Chinese. Now I know a lot of it was propaganda, but as an impressionable young child I fully believed what my teachers said. That pride sustained me through my earlier years in the US when things were difficult.

When we moved to Bethesda, Maryland, where I attended a bit of elementary school, then middle school and parts of high school, mainland Chinese, especially mainland Chinese children, were still a rarity. I knew I couldn't compare to my rich Jewish classmates. They lived in huge houses, their parents drove nice cars, and they wore nice clothes from the Gap. How laughable everything seems now! I have long stopped shopping at the Gap because of its lack of style, but back then there was nothing I wanted more than to wear stuff from the Gap, but alas, it was out of our price range. My parents and I shopped at Kmart and its other cheap chain store cousins.

My classmates made fun of me for my accent, my clothes, my attitude, and my Chinese-ness. However, none it of bothered me for too long because I was convinced that they were wrong and that they werejust jealous they weren't Chinese themselves. Sure, at my worst moments I had sometimes wished I, too, had blond hair and blue eyes, but those moments were rare and fleeting. I always knew I was smart and capable, simply because I firmly believed all Chinese people were.

Over the years I lost a lot of my awkwardness and traces which hint at my third-world origin, but I never lost my ethnic pride. I kept up my Chinese, when almost every other child of Chinese immigrants I knew shed their Chinese when they took up English. I refuse to speak Chinese mixed with English, a common habit carried by many Chinese, in the US or in China. Consequently, I have yet to find someone who has native fluency in both Chinese and English like I do; American born Chinese usually know pathetically little Chinese (Mr. MP is such a shameful example) and immigrant Chinese Americans tend to lose their Chinese but also never quite conquer English. Part of the reason is that unlike, say, French and English, Chinese and English are so dissimilar; to know both is simply a lot of work. The only person whose language skills I truly admire is my dad--his accomplishments deserve a blog all by itself. He regularly publishes in the most authoritative financial journals or magazines in China and his written English is just as good.

Perhaps it is a bit presumptuous of me to say so, but I think I know why these Chinese parents send their kids to such ridiculously expensive preschools--so they can create an artificial English environment so their kids can turn out like me. My command of English can easily fool native speakers into thinking that I must have been born and bred in the USA. I have not one but two degrees from one of the most prestigious colleges in the world. Ironically, I was able to accomplish all that because of my strong ethnic identity, built back when I attended daycare and elementary school in China with classmates who were all poor as dirt like we were. When people were unkind to me because of my race, it didn't confuse me or hurt me--I saw it as their fault, not mine. Back when I was younger and more idealistic, I wanted to succeed, get straight A's and win awards not just for myself but to gain respect for my people.

When Juju was born, how I could give her a strong sense of ethnic identity was always a question lurking in the back of my mind. Her daycare had a sprinkle of Asian kids and almost no blacks or Hispanics. She's smart--sooner or later she would figure out that life in the US is just so much easier as a white person (please, don't just write this statement off--really think about it for a long moment). Then what? I always drew blanks. Would she turn out like her dad, who doesn't really think he's Asian until he's looked into the mirror? Would she turn out like one of my bschool classmates, who is Asian American but refuses to associate with anything such? Would she turn militant or aloof when she suspects people are unkind to her because of her race?

When we decided to move to Beijing, I let out a sigh of relief inwardly. I want her to grow up amongst children who look like her; I want her to never have to question whether she belongs; I want her to be a proud little Chinese girl who someday will bring that pride to her Chinese American friends. If she has problems with her friends from school, I want these children's quarrels to be caused by differences in temperament or silly things such as dolls and toys, not a heavy issue such as race. I have no doubt that one day she will return to America and be a proud American. When she does and encounters racial discrimination, I hope her maturity and pride will enlighten her to the right way to approach such disheartening, confusing and frightening moments.

In the end I feel sorry for these Chinese parents; they want the best for their kids but go overboard at times. Many of the Chinese kids who attend preschools run by foreigners don't really speak English, and from my experience, I know how much angst it causes a child when he/she can't communicate with friends at school. If they really want their children to succeed, let them have a fun childhood and make sure they are proud of their heritage!

What Do You Mean You Don't Like Durians?

My tendency to see the glass half empty has led some to believe that there isn't much enjoyable about life here in Beijing. I imagine that if you really let me go on and on about the pollution, the rude people, and the lack of quality in household products, you'd think that we live in the Dark Ages and that China is without running water and indoor plumbing. Quite the contrary in Beijing (though true in some parts of rural China).

In fact, it's been a rich cultural experience for Jujube, my two-year-old. She understands Chinese perfectly now and says some pretty complex stuff. It's also been a great experience for her taste buds.

Mr. Mouse Potato, born and reared in New Jersey, only developed palate for apples, bananas, and oranges. He considers pears and cherries exotic fruits and won't touch a papaya or its tropical cousins.

Juju, on the other hand, thinks that lychees are a regular household fruit. It's now past lychee season but she'll still ask for the sweet fruit with a juicy and translucent flesh. She didn't like its cousin longan so much as it's much smaller and not as juicy. She had mangosteens yesterday and took to them immediately. Unfortunately I only had six so there wasn't a lot to spare (and I didn't).

Her recent favorite is the dragon fruit. It is about the size of a small turnip and bright pink on the outside (see picture). The flesh is white with many black seeds size of sesames. It's full of nutritions and great for kids. The only downside is that the seeds aren't digestible so they come out pretty much in the same color and consistency as when they went in.

By now she's probably had more species of fruits than most of ye faithful readers. I've really enjoyed sharing my favorite fruits with her and I'm a proud, card-carrying member of the fruit-phile club. My only regret is that I didn't introduce the durian to her properly. Durians stink like swiss cheese and tastes like honeyed potatoes, but it is oh so heavenly. She had one bite and spat it out. I haven't yet given up and will try giving her another bite next week. I firmly believe that a life without a love of durians is a life deprived.

How Did I Ever Manage Without an Army of Help?

I currently employ two nannies, one live-in, one live-out. Soon, I will need the live-out nanny to live in (once my bed and extra beddings arrive). Then, I will have to hire a full-time driver for the family.

By now you probably think I must be the most idle person ever. Not so. Life is as tiring as it used to be in Menlo Park, where everything was DIY and I had no help whatsoever. How could that be?

The answer is that life in the United States is much simpler and much more convenient. I don't need a driver because people drive in an orderly fashion (except in NYC) and there is plenty of parking to go around in Suburbia USA.

Come to Beijing and have someone drive you around once. If this is your first trip here, by the end should you find yourself curled up in fetal position, holding the handle in a death grip, shaking violently and praying to God for the first time in xx many years and promising that you'll start going to church every Sunday--heck, everyday, if you are still alive--again like a good little boy/girl, you'll be pleased to know that you aren't the only foreigner to experience such. Mr. Mouse Potato and I ventured to the supermarket in my dad's car all by ourselves last weekend and we barely made it back home (though mostly because Mr. MP is bad at directions). I, for one, have no death wish to fulfill so I refuse to drive. A professional driver costs $300 a month and I think that's money well spent.

If you've never been to China, I don't really have a good way to convince you why the house needs cleaning and dusting everyday. However, you probably know of someone who suffers from an especially pernicious five-o'clock shadow. The dust in Beijing is like the facial hair on someone who grows a full-beard the next day if not shaved the day of. The house isn't in livable condition if not cleaned everyday. That's why there is a nanny devoted to cleaning the house.

Then of course there is Juju and Jojo. For $300 a month I can hire a full-time live-in nanny, so why not? Even with two nannies, I still have to cook; and I have to cook now for a house of six! That's no small task. Of course I can hire a cook, but I tell you, having to manage a houseful of help is a LOT of work, and one more is really going to break my back, ironically.

When I did everything myself, everything was done to my satisfaction. Now I must train the nannies to clean the way I want and care for the kids the way I would. They never really quite live up to my standards and I have to settle for good enough. I have to interview several drivers before deciding on The One and I have to think of ways to prevent the driver from running away with our car or taking it out for joy rides. Every month I must remember to pay everyone the right amount, plus bonuses as appropriate. I also have to think of ways to motivate them to do a good job while looking for signs that they may be derelict in their duties. I so much prefer when good old meself was all the help I needed.

By the way, I get really irked when people say "I want to stay home because I want to raise the kids myself". So, what are working moms doing? Throwing their kids to the wolves? And staying home does not raise your own children make. I stay home now (before going back to work in September) and I cannot say I raise my own children all by myself. The kids are with Auntie as much as they are with me, and when Jujube is upset or hurt, she will just as often run to Auntie instead of me. I'm not bothered. As long as the kids grow up healthy physically and mentally, it's not important that I am the one with whom they spend the most time. I need to work. You might as well kill me before asking me to be a stay at home mom.

Stinky Diapers Be Gone!

At the risk of turning off some of ye faithful readers, I must dedicate this journal entry to Jujube's potty training success. She doesn't wear diapers during the day anymore. When she needs to poop or pee, she knows to go to her Dora potty, and then does her business. She loves her Disney undies.

Since we've been showering her with compliments every time she uses the potty, going to the potty has always been a pleasant experience for her, all around. When she's done, she summons all of us over and then proudly presents her products. After we are done viewing, she bring each of her stuffed animals for them to take a look as well. Sometimes she puts them so close to the potty that I get nervous the animals may come back with a brown nose. A few times her poop smelled something vicious, and we had to applaud her while holding our breaths.

We owe our success to Chinese people's tolerance of diaperless toddlers. In China, even before kids can start walking they start getting potty trained. When they are out with parents and need to go, instead of frantically looking for public bathrooms, parents can simply lift them by their legs and let them go on the side of the street. Nobody bats an eye, and this is true on a dirt road in rural areas as well as on the most expensive real estate in Beijing.

Any parent who's gone through the saga of potty training his or her children knows that consistence is important. If you want them to go diaperless, you have to keep them that way as much as possible. However, in the US, the pressure of having to find a bathroom prevents parents from being that daring. It's often much easier to keep the kids in diapers simply because outings can get too hard to manage.

Here in Beijing, when we are out with Juju and she needs to go, we just pull her pants down, help her squat, and she goes (only pee. Poop is not that easily accepted, but ye wise parents know that it's the pee that's a bitch). Let's see...she goes on the playground regularly; she's fertilized the lawns around here almost on a daily basis. The most outrageous was probably last week when I took her to a chic kids' bookstore in a very yuppy complex, and she just went under a tree on a major street...twice. Nobody cared. Kids peeing in trashcans when indoors is also a fairly common sight.

These days, Juju is fond of peeing outside and drowning ants with her pee. Potty training her has been a piece of cake. If by now you think it's ridiculous that kids (and we are talking about little kids, kids under three. Juju's almost two) pee everywhere, people here think it's outrageously ridiculous that many American kids still wear diapers past the age of three. You can't go to preschool here without being potty trained and you can't find large size diapers anyway.

Chinese Doctors, Grow A Heart

I've long held a bias against doctors. I dislike them intensely and I dislike seeing them. This is not in anyway mitigated by the fact that my maternal grandfather, two of my uncles, one of my cousins and one of my aunts were/are doctors, popular ones even, last I heard.

I dislike doctors because of my family's experience with them in China. They are completely desensitized and hold not a care for their patients. They are condescending and rude towards patients, and that's when you, the patient, are lucky, because at least they didn't use their quackery to kill or hurt you. Then again, why should they care? They are paid peanuts and see way too many people to care. In China, the healthcare system works in a way that you don't really get a regular doctor. You go to the hospital, buy a number, and when your number is called, you see whomever is the doctor on duty. You have no personal history with him or her. He or she is probably tired, disgruntled, and disgusted by the patients, many dirty and uneducated from the countryside.

I'm not the only one who feels this way. Many, and I might even venture to say many many, Chinese are resentful towards hospitals and doctors. Let me give you an example of how cruel these so called medical professionals can be.

In the US, a hospital will pick up a maimed, injured or sick person in an ambulance and then treat him/her regardless of whether he/she has insurance. In China, if you can't cough up 100 grand RMB en route to the hospital, the ambulance will simply stop, and dump you on the side of the road. Even if you are rich, but can't produce the money or proof that you can pay at the moment, you are effed. Then again, with so many people, if hospitals were merciful, they'd be already full of sick people, none of whom can pay. In terms of the pay pyramid, doctor pay is like teacher pay in the US. Many of them accept monetary gifts (i.e., bribes) from patients--for many doctors it's a regular form of income. To be fair though, the best hospitals in Beijing strictly forbid bribes from patients, but less organized hospitals are much less scrupulous.

Time for personal stories.

Last Friday I took Jojo (the baby boy) to an expat clinic for a well-baby checkup. The doctor on duty was a local Chinese doctor, which explained his localized attitude towards us. Back in the US, Dr. V, our pediatrician, always examined the kids from head to toe, sometimes admonishing us for not cleaning the kids' crotches and fat folds thoroughly. She always listened to what I had to say, even when I meself knew what I said wasn't exactly sensible. I'm bit of a perfectionist (which is really OCD in disguise), and always asked Dr. V if she were sure whether the kids were not 1. retarded; and or 2. autistic.

The Chinese doctor didn't even so much as look at Jojo, much less examine him. He sat an arm's length away from us the entire time and prescribed Cetaphil for Jojo's eczema, never asking me what I was already using. He kept telling me that I should keep breastfeeding him even after I start work, saying his daughter pumped, not minding that I kept telling him I travel for work immediately after I start, and for fuck's sake Chinese companies don't provide lactation rooms (people would laugh if I asked where it was). Readers, please don't leave comments saying I should freeze it and then Fedex it home because 1. I'm traveling overseas and you cannot ship human secretions and 2. it's just not going to work. At the end of the visit he told me to come back when Jojo turns one-year, which was eight months away!

Unfortunately for us, the next morning, Jojo woke up with a red rash on his knees, hands and feet. I panicked and called my parents over, and my dad, Mr. Mouse Potato and I zoomed to a children's hospital in the city. On a Saturday morning, the hospital lobby was as full of people as a popular NYC club on a Friday night. I first had to go to information to get a slip that said which department I needed to visit, then stand in line to get a number for that department, and then trek upstairs to the said department to wait to be called. The process was arduous, confusing, and long. We stood for an hour to be seen.

While waiting, I asked the nurse at Dermatology how long we needed to wait and what if the baby were in serious trouble or dying. She said as quickly as she could while not even bothering to look at me that if that were the case we should just go to emergency, then added promptly that the wait there was just as long. So, Chinese children and their parents, if you need immediate medical attention or if you can't cough up 100 grand, you are truly shit out of luck.

The numbers were called in 10's. Once called, the parents lined up outside the examination rooms and the doctor spent at most three minutes with each; even a Stanford-educated industrial engineer would be awed by these doctor's efficiency. If it's not necessary for the doctor to take a look at the cause for the visit twice, you can bet your house and kidneys that she won't.

Next, I'm going to tell you just how bad these doctors can be. If you can't cough up enough money to see an expert doctor, you'll have to do with a regular one, likely a twenty-something new grad who probably hasn't finished high-lighting her textbooks. We had enough to cough up to see an army of expert doctors, but the wait would have been too long, so we settled for a regular one. First upon seeing Jojo, the doctor frowned and said what he had was bad news, that it was likely foot and mouth disease. I was deliriously worried, at the moment confusing that with West-Nile, as both were in the news a lot just previously. Fortunately, she was sensible enough to take us to see the expert doctor, who took a peek, and said it wasn't anything worrisome at all, probably just mosquito bites.

In my haze of worry and anxiety, I bombarded the doctor with questions, a tendency that hinted at just how spoiled I was by our doctors back in Silicon Valley. The expert doctor stopped telling me about what Jojo might have and lectured me on my manners. She called me "one of those typical parents these days" who asked too many questions and never listened to the doctors and that I should simply take what the doctors say as truth and not give subjective information such as my observations, assumptions, opinions, etc. In other words, I should listen and only speak when prompted. What a kick to my ego! Woman, I only met you--how would I know what kind of doctor you were?

By the time we got home from the visit, I was exhausted and swore to never visit a Chinese hospital again if I didn't have to. Only expat clinics from now on but not at the aforementioned one.

I felt melancholy, terribly missing my doctors back in California. My pediatrician seemed to be right-on about everything and always took time to make the kids comfortable first; she continued to see us even when I idiotically told her I didn't want Juju's jaundice treated and didn't nebulize her as I was told when she was sick. And my OB; sure, with all the time I spent in his waiting room I could have biked across the country and back, and he was late to both of my deliveries, but that man always spoke to me as if I were the most important of his patients and always respectfully answered my questions, treating me as an equal and not as if he were my god (though sometimes I worshipped him as the Holy One). When Chinese doctors can treat their patients as my American doctors have treated us, China will truly have been civilized and developed, and I will then discard my distaste for doctors (doubtful it'll happen in this lifetime).

To be fair though, now several days later, we realized that the Chinese doctor was right: the "rash" on Jojo really were just mosquito bites. I guess they aren't bad at diagnosing because they see so many cases, but still, grow a heart and give a little care to your patients!

Please, Don't Teach Our People the N Word

Two weeks ago our air shipment finally arrived.

When I stood by our door to receive the goods, I was extremely dismayed by the sad state they came in because they were so poorly packed.

I complained to the movers that the packers didn't do a good job, and the leader of the crew asked me, "Was it the niggers who packed your goods?"

He said it in such an innocent manner, it was as if we had been chatting whether the name of the United States President really was George W. Bush.

I looked at him incredulously, bewildered by what I had just heard.

I said carefully, “The packers were black."

He told me that on one of his previous assignments delivering goods to an executive at P&G, the goods were also really poorly packed. The executive was very angry, and kept cursing the "niggers". He thought it was simply a regular way to refer to black people, completely unaware of the ugly history behind the word.

I could guess why this had happened. Back in the US, people are very careful to avoid using such racial epithets even if they hold racist inclinations. Here in China, some people think that they are finally free from being politically correct, and start showing their true colors. The guy probably thought the Chinese movers won't know the difference, and inadvertently taught them such an offensive word.

I was so stunned that I didn't do anything at the moment. In retrospect, I wish I had told the crew leader to never use that word again.

This reminds me of another story about the N word.

Back in business school my roommate was from Brazil. When talking about our black classmates, she very casually referred to them as niggers, and kept saying the word.

At first, I was in shock from simply hearing the word being spoken.

Finally, I said, "Manoela, did you know that's not a very nice word?"

Manoela said, "What word, you mean 'nigger'?"

"Yes." I cringed upon hearing her say it so loudly.

"That's bad?"

"Yes."

I told her that she should refer to them either as African Americans, or simply blacks, which is what a lot of my black friends prefer, because they may or may not be from Africa.

She looked really confused and said that in Brazil, "nigger" is the standard way to refer to blacks and the word "negro" is the bad one.

Oy.

Subway Is the Way To Go

I never take the subway if I can help it, but whenever I do, I always see something blog-worthy.

Most expats here probably have never experienced the subway. I rarely see foreigners on the subway and the ones I do see tend to be young travelers with a huge backpack and probably staying at a hostel. It's not a really pleasant experience: it gets really crowded and not fully air-conditioned. Mr. Mouse Potato rode it once to work and swore that if he had to do it again he's packing up and going back to California.

Another reason might be the names of the stations. For example, I can just imagine a John and a Bill perplexing over exactly where Dongzhimen is, or where Yonghegong will lead them. Dongsi-shit-iao might appear a bit daunting, but probably not as much as Fuxingmen.

When I was riding the subway last week, a woman came on the train with a mike and an elderly man in a cane. As she sang into the mike with a completely unintelligible accent and started to solicit money, I wondered why it was necessary for her to sing. It would have been just as effective if not more so had she not been singing. It was so terrible perhaps the point was that once people paid enough she'd stop.

Then today, on my trip into the city, a man without legs went down the isles asking for money. He moved around with the help of his hands and it was just such a pathetic sight that most people including me gave something.

On the way back a man shoved a placard in everyone's faces. The placard explained that he was a disabled person (deaf or mute, maybe both) selling little knick-knacks to make money. Upon close inspection his clothes were made of good quality material and he really didn't seem all that needy to me...but then again who really knows.

A couple sitting next to me on the way on the way there kept kissing each other on the cheeks but never fully making out. On the way back the couple next to me asked me where I got my Tokidoki LeSportSac.

If you ever visit Beijing, I suggest that you ride the subway at least once. If not for your own sake, at least treat the riders with something to look at (especially if you are blond/red-haired, blue-eyed). Don't be offended--they are just admiring your colorings and probably envious of your fair skin.

Woe To Thee, Parents of Beautiful Children

Sometime last week we ran into a pregnant lady ambling along with her mom. Upon seeing the four of us—me, Auntie, Juju and Jojo, they stopped to admire Jojo (the baby boy). They praised him for his fair skin (highly prized by my fellow Chinese), his big earlobes (foretells a life of happiness and fortune), and his lady-killer looks. Then, inevitably, they noticed Jujube. If Jojo merely stopped them short on their tracks, Juju left them breathless. Ok, that was a bit exaggerated, just a bit. The mother was flabbergasted that not only did we have two children, but also that both children should be so good looking. Really, I’m actually being modest here-you really ought to have seen them (the women, I mean; well, and my kids, too; that might help).

Without even asking for our names, she dove straight for what really mattered:

How were the children born? (meaning: vaginal birth or C-section?)

How long were the deliveries?

Did I use contraceptives after Juju was born? (I couldn’t help but blush at that one, but I still answered honestly.)

Did my menses even return before getting knocked up again? (Yes, I even answered that one honestly. What can I do? These people are my neighbors)

Then, what really nailed me was her last comment. She exclaimed, “How is it you are so good at having babies?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at that one.

Fine, I’ll admit that I could barely contain my pride every time someone passes by and tells me just how beautiful my children are. But that pride is always tainted with something disconcerting. They aren’t doing it in the sense that they do it to all babies: my children really do seem more eye-catching than the average Chinese child. Sure, they’ve been praised as cute kids in the U.S. as well, but only in the sense that most people love looking at babies. Here, people are singling Juju and Jojo out for their looks. It worries me. When they are old enough to understand, I worry that it’ll turn on their vanity; a focus on looks can consume a young adolescent. I’ve already told all of my immediate family and Auntie to never praise the kids for their attractiveness.

In conclusion, who would have thought in the land with millions of Chinese kids mine would stand out. There is a common belief amongst the Chinese that good looking children often turn out not to be so good-looking once they grow up, so more reasons for me to teach the kids that looks are far less important than character and personality.

What makes me really sad is that not once did the people tell me how good-looking the kids are and then look at me and say, oh I see where they get it from.

Don't Be, Do Be, Just Be Jujube

The upside of being asked all these nosy and obnoxious questions by my fellow Chinese is that my questions to them are fair game.

The playground was crowded with children today and yesterday. I struck a conversation with a mom yesterday who told me that most of the parents in the complex simply refuse to send their kids to Juju's preschool and those who do complain about it bitterly. I asked her why that was, and she complained that the school only lets the kids play and doesn't teach them anything!

The same complaints were echoed by two grandmas today.

One of them said Untal Robah (Uncle Robert, the English teacher) recites the same stuff everyday and the kids haven't learned any English. She called her granddaughter over and asked what English she's learned from Untal Robah recently. A girl just shy of school age came over, and said in sing-songy English, "I'm hungry; I'm not hungry". Then the grandma looked at me and asked if it made any sense. I smiled and nodded encouragingly. But when she asked her granddaughter what she had said, the girl told her she had no idea. Yeek, strike one against the school.

The other one told me, "Our Precious knew all his numbers and could even recite Tang Dynasty poems, but after attending the preschool, he's only had fun and forgotten everything!" She pulled out two sheets with her grandson's doodling, all jagged lines and scratches, and said, "Look at this, what is this! This doesn't look like anything, and this is what he draws at school everyday! The nursery school across town teaches kids how to draw all sorts of stuff that look like something!" The other grandma clucked sympathetically and re-emphasized that the kids simply learn nothing while their peers at other schools are excelling at all sorts of subjects.

This mentality of stuffing the kids as full of so called knowledge as possible is very common-place. When I was going through Juju's Chinese children's books, I found that aside from the ones translated from a foreign language, almost all of them were self-labeled as some kind of curriculum to teach babies stuff or to smarten them up, and all the art work was computer-generated cartoons. Where's great stuff similar to Eric Carle's Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See and The Very Hungry Caterpillar? My mom had dismissed the artwork in Juju's American reads as too abstract or simple, but Juju loved her books. Now she can't sit through any of her Chinese books and I find myself uninterested in reading those silly things to her. Who really cares if reading this or that will stimulate exactly 400 gray cells on the upper left hand corner of her frontal lobe and boost her score on the college entrance exam? This focus on learning is destroying her love of reading!

While I want to shield Juju from this craziness and simply want her to have fun in school, I am starting to feel a bit of pressure to follow the herd. Sometimes I look at Juju and wonder, what if she doesn't make it to Stanford, beloved alma mater of Mr. MP and mine? Would she still achieve happiness? Or, more accurately, would we as parents be seen as failures and cause me to feel like shit (Mr. MP has already announced that he couldn't care less whether the kids go Stanford, Ivy League or otherwise, as long as it's not Berkeley), since our kids should be well-positioned for admission to these schools of prestige? These Chinese parents would kill to send their kids to a first-tier American college. My uncle, full of envy upon hearing my acceptance into Stanford, said that if jumping off a 10-story building could guarantee his son a spot at Stanford, he'd be more than willing. In China, competition amongst young people is cutthroat simply because there are so many of them, but having well-schooled children also boosts the social status (as well as ego) of the parents.

I was feeling a bit of angst when I found out for $1,300 a month I could be sending Juju to a preschool founded by an American woman with a Masters in Education from Harvard but we won’t because it’s just so ridiculously over-priced when she would be perfectly happy at a $300 one. But if I don’t, am I short-circuiting her chance of going Ivy-league? I’ve learned a while ago that making getting into a first-tier college an end goal in itself is incredibly short-sighted. When I started college I felt lost for quite a while, because I didn’t really know what else to work towards. Besides, having a Harvard, Yale, Stanford degree does not in anyway guarantee happiness. Just look at me: I thought getting into a top business school would propel me into a perpetual state of ecstasy, but alas, no such luck. I was always unhappy about something: my classmates were not inclusive, there was too much drinking, I was, um, pregnant, and last, I had to play single parent while going to school. I don’t want my children to be like me. If they can be productive and happy, that should be enough. Still, I can’t deny my vanity in wanting them to go to some hot shot college.

I know this will be an on-going struggle for me and I hope to have the wisdom to know when I’m helping my kids becoming kind, content and productive members of society versus mere test-taking machines.

Pee, Juju, Pee!

Back awhile ago I read a post on Silicon Valley Moms Blog where a mom chronicled her trials and tribulations with potty-training her toddler. I thought that was a bit of an overkill but now I'm itching to tell all ye faithful readers the color, clarity and quantity of all the products of Juju's bodily functions. She is a month away from her second birthday and she's finally started to pee in her potty consistently! She now pees in her potty without being prompted and even pooped in it today! I am sure this is against some super nanny cum potty nazi's rules somewhere, but I rewarded her handsomely for the poop after cheering her loudly with Auntie. She's been holding it in for days! Mr. Mouse Potato swore that he could even smell the poop in her large intestines, but it simply refused to exit. I promised her a trike if she repeats her performance tomorrow (the trike is already in the garage--might as well make an occasion of it).

Being in China helps with the potty training. When we take her out, all we put on her is a pair of toddler underwear. If she needs to go, rather than rushing to a non-existent bathroom nearby, we simply pull her underwear down and she just goes, wherever we happen to be. All the kids on the playground do this and we all accept that the kids are running around on each other's dried urine (but it's not acceptable to actually pee on the play structures and slides, though I'm sure it's been done before). I imagine we'd embarrass our pants off if this had been Burgess Park in Menlo Park. Looks like she's on track to be potty-trained before going back to preschool in July.

I won't bore you with all the accidents we've had in the past week. The nastiest was when she got so mad at us that when she screamed with all her might she squeezed poop out all over her little chair and cushion. We rinsed some of it off in the bathroom sink and Auntie said the drain was clogged for days as the poop refused to disintegrate. Oy, I'm feeling queasy just writing this...

Life in Beijing: Always An Odyssey

Back in good old Silicon Valley the only drama to be found in my life was on CSI, Grey's Anatomy or Desperate Housewives. Here, if I want drama, all I need to do really is to step out of the apartment complex. Some days, if we are lucky, all we need to do is to step out of the house.

Jojo Is A Star!

Most Chinese don't take young infants out. We are fairly brazen, taking Jojo out for walks and even to a Honda dealership. I had no choice that day--Juju was napping and I didn't want to leave two kids with Auntie. I didn't want to overwhelm her and burn her out in the first month.
We took him in his infant car seat, itself a rare sight here. Here kids sit on their parents' laps when traveling in cars. Seating kids in children's car seats is too foreign a concept as of now. When Mr. Mouse Potato left the infant seat on the ground, a swarm of salesgirls surrounded him, poking him here and there, making all sorts of comments. They were extremely concerned with his eczema and asked why his neck was all red (from folds of fat chafing each other). I told them that his skin gets better when he's inside with air conditioning, upon which they then asked if such a young infant can coexist in the same room with air conditioning. Most Chinese believe that air conditioning makes infants sick, even when it's 90 degrees out.

As the girls were admiring Jojo, one of them took out a camera and took a picture of him with all the girls. He put on a quite good show: he cooed and ahhed with them. The girls were simply enamored with him. One of them kept taking pictures of him with her phone camera. In fact, they were so busy with him we couldn't get anybody to answer our questions about the Honda Odyssey, which is unfortunately doesn't not come with retractable seat belts. However, it's a much slicker and smaller version of the US Odyssey. Man I need a car! Not being able to go anywhere is driving me nuts.

Je M'appelle ...

Most young people in urban China have an English name. It's one of the few ways for them to show their creativity, but sometimes some of these misguided youngsters have rather ill-advised names. For example, at Mr. MP's office, Apple, the receptionist, shares a cubicle with another lass named Cookie.

What? They Are Both Yours???

Back in Silicon Valley, if people saw me with both Juju and Jojo, they would naturally assume that the tykes are siblings and that I am their one and only mom. Here, since I usually put Jojo in an Ergo Baby Carrier, people naturally assume that he's mine. Then they see Juju bouncing around, and inevitably they point to her, and ask, what, she's yours, too? Sometimes they become too engrossed checking out Jojo to notice (because such a young baby's rarely seen in public) Juju, but when they do, I can literally see their eyes pop and I can feel their irrepressible urge to ask me how I managed to evade the one-child policy. Are Mr. MP and I only children ourselves? Are we ethnic minorities? Are we just so filthy rich that it doesn't matter? Did we pay a hefty fine to register Jojo legally? What, how did I even get maternity leave for an illegal second pregnancy? I usually answer in fairly evasive terms. Better illegal Chinese children than legal Chinese American ones. It's not a good idea to stand out and it feels good to finally fit in within the community, well, sort of.

And Some Have None

Many westerners are extremely misinformed. For example, most people don't really have a solid understanding of the wisdom and the practicality of China's one-child policy before bashing it. Once you've lived in China, you start to see how it makes sense. I would say the government has been very successful at this particular campaign. It's almost as if it's in the air we breathe and the water we drink--once you are here, you really do lose your desire to sire children. If I had any lingering hope of having a third, within the first week of getting here I almost regretted ever having any.

Beijing, as modern is it is, is just not a kid-friendly place. Most public places such as malls and restaurants are not stroller-accessible. Within city center there are very few parks to take the kids around and public bathrooms are not only nasty but most of them only have squatters (where it's just a trough on the ground and you need to squat to use it; could be handy for toddlers, though). If, say, I wanted to breastfeed...scratch that thought--I laughed out loud just thinking about it. I would be flashing tens if not hundreds of passerby's in almost all the places we typically visit.

There are very few choices of minivans sold in China. I have yet to see a double stroller. There is a reason people don't take very young children out. Buses and the subway get so crowded. When the subway train pulls into the station, people swarm to the entrance and start pushing and jostling each other just for a shot at getting a seat. A child Juju or Jojo's size would be squashed to death. Taxis don't always put on air conditioning, so traveling with small children is simply torture for everyone involved. Sometimes I think the one-child policy is almost merciful. It's no surprise that many young people my generation or younger simply opt not to have children at all. To have one child here is an adventure; to have two is extraordinary; to have three is simply unheard of; to have more, people simply assume that you are an uneducated country bumpkin herding your brood around to evade the reproductive police.

Expat Life, Beijing Style

When I was a small child living in Beijing in the 80's, to see a foreigner is more exciting than going to the zoo (for me personally that is). There were very few foreigners then and if you invited one to your home, your neighbors will start talking and your local community committee will come knocking. Nowadays most jaded Beijingers don't need blink at the sight of a foreigner. There are so many expats in Beijing now that they have formed their own little world, a world where the children grow up extremely privileged and where they never really have to learn the language or get to know a real Chinese family.

Yesterday I went to a ladies' luncheon hosted by an American gal. Most of them were nice, but I have gotten the sense from a few that just because they live in China does not mean they don't look down upon the colored race. Also, most expats only come for a few years, maybe for a three to five year assignment, just to try their hands at playing the new "Wild West" in the East. They live in their European style villas, hire a Filipino maid and a Chinese ayi, have a full-time driver, and send their kids to these silly international schools. Aside from sharing the bad air, the traffic jams and the contaminated water with the locals, they have nothing to do with the real China. Once they are inside their villas, they filter the air and the water with their expensive equipment and shop at the local imports store. Most of these expat kids would probably live an upper middle lifestyle back in their home countries, but here, they are serviced as if they are royalty.

From my tone you can tell I have somewhat mixed feelings about these expats. We are pseudo expats ourselves and perhaps I am jealous of the real ones with the luxe packages because we are poorer than they. Maybe I'm just sour grapes because we can't send Juju and Jojo to international schools not just because they are ridiculously expensive but also because they are just too damn far. The bilingual preschool started by these Harvard educators cost more than $16,000 a year; the International School of Beijing charges $20,000 a year. I thought we had left all that ridiculousness when we left Silicon Valley, but I guess things can be just as out of hand here.

From these expats I’ve also learned to be more forgiving to people in the US who don’t seem so friendly to minorities. I remember being frustrated that we seemed to have a hard time making friends in the US and other Asian moms on kimchimamas have voiced that white moms don’t seem to want to invite non-white moms to events. Now I have a better understanding why that happens. Here in China, it is probably difficult for foreigners to befriend upper middle to upper class Chinese. Take my ex-colleagues for example; they are the ones whom these business people really want to get to know, but they are fairly wary of hobnobbing with foreigners during their personal time. Cultural and language differences make these interactions different, and most of these Chinese are fulfilled by interacting with other Chinese already anyway. Here, I am very thankful that our family appears as Chinese as the next, well, except the part where we have two children. It’s almost weird to reach out to other expats—I feel as though I am an imposter, trying to befriend foreigners in the land of my own people. Maybe I’m still struggling to hold on to our former life; sometimes I feel as though these expats don’t really ‘get’ China and that makes me feel frustrated. On the other hand, maybe it’s all in my head and I should just befriend whoever provides good conversation, which is what I desperately need after two weeks of staying home everyday trying to potty train Juju.