Elsa takes a walk on the wild side

With the onset of summer I’ve become increasingly conscious that I should expand Elsa’s experience of the “great outdoors” beyond trips to the local park. I don’t want her to grow up thinking that stretches of grass come automatically adorned with little “don’t walk on me” signs, or that duck-shaped paddle boats are legitimate – if oversized – types of wildfowl.

So when a friend recently suggested a weekend camping trip, I readily agreed. I must confess, however, that although I love the idea of camping – mountain views, sausages cooked on an open fire, cold beers under a starry sky – I fall somewhat short of being a natural camper in practice. In actuality, the whole subject brings back long-buried memories of miserable school trips sheltering under mildewed tents of a particularly nasty shade of orange.

• Read more

Ayi’s popularity calls for drastic action

As I tuck Elsa up in bed at night, I’ve started to play a little game. “What’s the BEST thing that happened today?” I’ll ask encouragingly. Sadly, all too often she comes up with the same answer: “Played with Ayi.”

Make no mistake: I’m delighted that Elsa and Ayi have such a close bond. It’s sweet that some days Elsa wanders into the kitchen just to say, “I love Ayi, Mummy.”  But her unwavering devotion has also brought out in me the slightest hint of insecurity.

This feeling is reinforced by the fact that I can no longer understand what the two of them are saying. Elsa and Ayi jabber away, nonchalantly dropping “ne’s” and “ba’s” and sharing private jokes (which sometimes feel at my expense).

• Read more

Elsa’s eclectic education

When I was about 10, for some obscure reason my parents gave me a small red spelling book, listing words of increasing length and difficulty. This I treasured, immediately taking it upon myself to tutor my unfortunate younger brother and sister in its contents.

I blame this formative childhood experience for my current obsession with teaching Elsa the alphabet. New toys are carefully scrutinized for their educational possibilities. The flat is awash with alphabet puzzles, posters, books and beads – even biscuit cutters. Luckily Elsa is proving a willing pupil, wholeheartedly embracing this hothouse environment and even voluntarily extending it beyond the confines of our flat.   

• Read more

Searching for the missing piece of the puzzle

Pre-Elsa, I recall believing that my friends’ enthusiasm for motherhood surely stemmed from pitifully transparent post-rationalisation. Yet now, here I am, bringing up my own walking, talking, freethinking, miniature human being. Shamefacedly, I must throw my lot in with my old friends and agree that as well as the speediest, this has also been the most fulfilling time of my life. 

There’s an ingredient missing from this Elysian picture, however, and that is a father for Elsa (of course, a soul mate for me wouldn’t go amiss either). Don’t get me wrong: We’re a very happy twosome and I’m a firm believer in appreciating what you’ve got, and it really is something special.

• Read more

Building up the excitement before going home for Christmas

If my upbringing was more firmly steeped in tradition than the British Royal Family, I wouldn’t be surprised. My parents hosted Halloween parties for all the kids in our lane until we were well into our university years. Every spring, my siblings and I would don our Wellingtons and traipse across muddy fields in search of the Easter Bunny. And to commemorate my mother’s North American roots, each successive golden retriever in our family has been named after a Canadian prime minister.

• Read more

Elsa is going through a rather touching stage. I am the center of her universe, and it is her firm belief that I can do no wrong. 

This unexpected adulation first manifested itself in a steely determination to copy everything I do. I recently bought her a pair of jeans in Yashow Market. It was no mean feat finding a pair that had not been desecrated by flamboyant embroidery, such as cutesy princesses or bunny motifs, and in my single-minded pursuit of plainness, I unwittingly purchased a mini version of my own denim faithfuls. Unfortunately my devoted child, accustomed to seeing mine day in day out, now refuses to wear anything else. “Mummy jeans, Elsa jeans,” is her indisputably logical early morning refrain if I try to introduce a little variety. I guess my only recourse is to give my wardrobe its long overdue upgrade.

• Read more

Visiting the folks back home can be a disorienting experience

A seasoned expat friend warned me recently that after spending a certain amount of time overseas, confusion sets in as to what to call home. Having returned with Elsa from a three-week visit to my parents in the UK, I now fully understand what she means.

We’ve made fairly frequent trips back to our motherland, but this one came after our longest spell away. I felt indefinably different tackling the subterranean maze that masquerades as London’s public transport system, an outsider in my own country who no longer knew the rules. Struggling to remember how to put credit on my UK mobile, I turned the wrong way down previously familiar passages, hastily stifling duibuqi’s as Elsa’s pushchair bit into the ankles of dawdling commuters.

• Read more

Two birthdays, one day

In one of those strange quirks of life, Elsa and I happen to share the same birthday. I remember looking up at the hospital clock just under two years ago: It was a few minutes after 11pm on the 19th of August, and I was ten hours into labour and less than an hour short of turning 35. I dimly recall wondering if it was better just to get things over with, or if having come this far I should hold out a little longer for a double birthday celebration. As if it were me who was in control of the process (how we kid ourselves!). Elsa was finally born by emergency Caesarean section in the early morning hours of the 20th – my first birthday present of the year.

• Read more

Elsa develops a mind of her own

Don’t you hate it when your most reliable Chinese stock phrase is met by a look of total non-comprehension? And don’t you really, really hate it when the look is coming from your own, formerly adoring, offspring? Returning home from work recently, I was greeted with the heart-warming sight of Elsa playing with her dollhouse, happily wittering away to ayi on a make-believe matter I couldn’t quite catch. “Ni shuo shenme?” I enquired encouragingly of my little angel. She looked up, her stony facial expression the perfect mirror of a 60-year-old Beijing taxi driver’s. “MEI TING DONG,” she intoned.

• Read more

The trials and tribulations of toilet training

As kids, my friends and I talked about horses. In our teens and twenties we graduated to boys. Now, in our thirties, it seems to be all about poo.

It’s a subject that comes up naturally enough when I’m chatting with other mothers out here – our children are roughly the same age and we want to compare notes on their progress in the toilet training arena. But I hadn’t realized how all-pervasive a conversational topic poop had become until I recently phoned my heavily pregnant best friend in the UK. As we were jabbering away about decidedly non-fecal matters, her eldest child interrupted by trotting up to her and proudly offering his latest bowel movement – palm outstretched. (My friend says that if her third child is another boy, she’s giving him to me; I’m beginning to see why.)

• Read more