The sun shines in Shanghai

Over the past four weeks, I've had a total shut down and reboot experience here in Shanghai.

A series of random frustrating events (many captured in my last poem - apologies to anyone who I offended), led me to spend nights on end dreaming about Brooklyn. I woke on Saturday mornings dreaming of walking down Park Slope's Fifth Avenue, picking up a bagel with cream cheese and a coffee, popping in and out of little boutiques, spending a few hours at my desk at the Brooklyn's Writer's Space, and then going home to my snug apartment and having a cup of tea with my daughter and nanny.

Like all memories, the visions were lovely, sepia toned and selective. They excluded standing wall-to-wall with commuters on the subway. I didn't remember carrying grocery bags in one hand, a folded up Maclaren on my shoulder, and an uncooperative child on my hip. My 1,000 square foot apartment felt palatial when in reality, toys were always falling on my head when I lived there. And most importantly, my friends and family were always around - when in reality, we often had to plan to see each other weeks or months in advance.

My mind started to come back to the present around Thanksgiving. This year, because I'm pregnant, I can't go home for any of the holidays and so I did my best to recreate a festive atmosphere in my apartment by hosting a 12-person dinner complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, pumpkin squares and apple cobbler. I spent two days cooking, hired two women to help with the setup and dishes, scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom and then, waited for the feeling to come. The warm smell of cooking fruit didn't quite do it. The sight of a beautifully laid table just made me wish my brother and sister-in-law were coming to sit at it. The guests started to arrive - a wonderful mix of people from all over the world. That started to warm me up. Here in one place were Italians, Kenyans, Americans, Indians, all celebrating turkey day together. However, a UN-like gathering wasn't really it either, and none were my family.

Then China decided to surprise me, or kick me, depending on how you look at it. All of the sudden, the lights started to flicker. It happened three or four times. We unplugged all the appliances, computers, and televisions. We left on only the lamps. These flickered one last time and then went off. The oven died. My hallway started to smoke up. We called emergency services and the guy said I'd "overused the electricity." He said it would take at least two hours to come back on. By then, I had a houseful of hungry, expectant guests, many who had conquered hours of parking-lot like traffic to be there. I tried to explain this in my frenzied Chinese, to which he replied, "Use candles." "But I have a turkey to keep warm!" I said in English. Of course, he didn't understand me. He and his buddy just laughed at the silly American who had overcooked. I was about to cry...and curse Shanghai forever. Next flight back on Continental - anyone have a ticket?

Then my wonderful, understanding, also-living-in-China friends came to the rescue. Little by little, we located and lit every single candle in my apartment. My ayi did what she could to finish dinner on the gas stove. Manika (thankfully) sat patiently in front of my battery-powered laptop. People started laughing again, and no one seemed to mind anymore, and some actually seemed to find the whole thing atmospheric. My italian friends said everything felt romantic, which totally adjusted my perspective my vision. My friend Ruth took charge of helping me bring all of the dishes out to the table. The turkey was (by the grace of God) perfectly done. In the best moment of the night, Manika started to get stressed out and cry, so someone gave her a candle. She said, "happy birthday?" Everyone - all eleven of the adult guests - sang Happy Birthday to her in response. She was thrilled! Miraculously, no red wine spilled on my cream carpet or sofa, and everyone could see enough to sit down at a table. The lights came back on right after dessert. By then, everyone was happily full. In those two hours, I finally felt at home in Shanghai, and I was truly Thanksgiving-grateful.

The sentiment spilled out into the days that followed. Manika has been stressed out since August it seems, first with our trip to the US, then with the transition from a crib to a toddler bed, then with the start of school, followed by my efforts to potty train her, and lastly, the beginning of dreams. My daughter, who used to sleep through the night, has spent eight weeks waking me up every day at 1:20am and then 5am, causing me to either get up and pat her back to sleep, or just surrender and bring her to my bed. All along, I blamed the terrible twos and the lack of logic skills to adjust to new circumstances. But after Thanksgiving, in desperation I downloaded a book on sleep solutions for toddlers, and inside, one of the first things I read was how stressed out parents can lead to stressed out children.

Well, that equation certainly seemed to apply in our house. I began to realize that my own inflexibility in adjusting to Shanghai was still causing me to be very inflexible with my daughter, even though I thought I was having both up and down moments but was overall getting better. I was still mostly saying: no extra book at bed time, no nighttime hugging, no sleeping in my bed. Pee in the pants was yucky, awful, not okay. No one should cry at school. As I reviewed my own behavior in my head in the light of this book's advice, I began to see that I had equal, if not greater responsibility for my poor daughter's uneasy soul.

So I launched fullscale operation de-stress Manika. Need six extra hugs to fall asleep. No problem. Want me to give your feet a little massage to relax you in the middle of the night. Okay. Come to my bed. Just don't kick my belly (have to draw the line somewhere). Pee in the pants - okay, wear training pants. It's okay, you're practicing. I cancelled appointments, I further emptied my schedule, and I just focused on her. I bought her classical music to listen to at night. I took her art supply shopping so she could start "expressing herself" right before bed. And most of all, I was forgiving. I was accepting. I actually smiled at her singing Old MacDonald had a farm in her bed for the tenth time instead of getting angry at her for not sleeping.

In the process, it seemed I broke every parenting rule I'd picked up in New York - consistency, tough love, don't create too much dependency, kids should learn to be independent, stretch a little but not too much. I became much more Chinese in my philosophy - children are little happy beings whose happiness should be a topmost priority. Most importantly and very unexpectedly, I became even happier. I let more things go. I felt less rigid. More of Manika's little laughter poured in and for the first time since I had her, the joy of having a child outweighed the extreme burdens of work.

She still wakes up at night a bit. She gave me a three day reprieve this week and then needed me last night from 2 - 3am because of some bad dream about someone not giving her the crayon color she needed. But instead of getting furious and cursing motherhood for lasting twenty-four hours of every day, I laughed to myself at what this poor girl thinks about in her sleep and let her climb in my bed and nestle against me.

After all, who am I to judge? I've been crying over missing round bagels and cream cheese, and Whole Foods, and Jcrew for months - equally silly things that in the end, won't mean nearly as much as the opportunities I got to accept the kindness of friends, or give my daughter late (very late!) night hugs.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Cleaning House

This past week was been all about cleaning house, literally and figuratively. My rampage started with two seemingly unrelated events: I lost my house keys and Manika stopped sleeping through the night.

The house keys wouldn’t have been such a big deal except our neighbors said they saw them on the floor outside our apartment around seven in the evening on the day they went missing, but didn’t bother to knock or pick them. That night, they disappeared. The next day, a stranger came to the house with some story about laundry falling from an upstairs apartment (the number of which she’d wouldn’t provide). She stood at the door peering in to see what the apartment looked like / had. The ayi and I later deduced she was there to see if we were home, and if not, probably would’ve let herself in. I had the locks changed that night. But the whole experience reminded me that it’s every man for himself here in China, especially when you’re an expat.

It’s often the same when you’re a mom. Manika’s new night wakings were a follow-on to her illness. While she was sick, she and I slept in the same bed, and I indulged every bottle and snack request she wanted, regardless of the hour. She is better now, but has decided having me on twenty-four hour call is much more fun than sleeping by herself uninterrupted. So she’s been waking up at two to four hour intervals, and making me feel like my whole world is out of my control (or more like in hers).

So I took back my life this week, or at least tried. I cleaned every corner of the house, bought a larger than life key chain and a hook to hang it on, organized, catalogued, shopped to fill in gaps, cleaned out email accounts, cleaned out my calendar and eliminated all sorts of waste, cancelled events I knew I wouldn’t enjoy, and prepped for the new baby. All of that gave me a vague sense of stability, security, and order during the day.

But nights were a different story. It didn’t help that I discovered my ayi has been bribing Manika to pee in the potty with chocolate chips, about seven to ten a day (far more than my two to three allowance), and one night she confused pumpkin pie filling for pumpkin soup and double-sugared my daughter up at dinner time. At nine pm this week, Manika just wanted to do laps around the apartment. So, all peacefulness earned during the day was spent in the hour and a half it took her to go bed. It was a miserable cycle.

Last night was the last straw. My house was clean, everything was where I could find it, and I was ready for a final standoff with Manika. I took her out all day, gave her a one hour nap only, read her five of her favorite books, and kissed her about a dozen times to emphasize I loved her. Then I closed the lights, and per supernanny’s expert advice, sat down on the floor facing her bed, and tilted my face down to the floor so we wouldn’t make eye contact. Then I waited.

At first, she yawned hard. I thought maybe, just maybe, she would finally comply, close her eyes and I could quickly tiptoe out. But no such luck. The nightly requests went as follows: “Bottle” (said repeatedly in escalating fervor and volume), “rock please” (followed same pattern of bottle but with the added drama of tears, “mommy’s bed” (accompanied by a chorus of screams and tears), “daddy” (emphasized with a few tugs to my hair and fists to my shoulders), and finally, the heart killer, “mommy hold you” (which means mommy hold me, but she doesn’t have her me’s and you’s down yet). To each request, I gently said no, hugged and kissed her and said “mommy loves you but you have to sleep now. Then I sat quietly until the temper tantrum ended. It was hell, especially because it was like the sixth time I’d done it and I was functioning on less sleep than a mother with a newborn.

So finally, in desperation, I did what I should’ve done much earlier – I prayed. Lately, I’ve been lax in praying for parenting strength and wisdom. In the beginning, it seemed I was on my knees almost every night, begging for the colicky torture to end. But I think my expectations were too high – my child never miraculously stopped crying until the books said she would, and pretty much everything else followed in the same internet-searchable fashion, which made me feel as if parenting was just some script you had to follow. Everyone took the same steps so prayer or no prayer, I’d go forward the same way regardless.

But last night was different. I was following a script, I had a rational plan in my head, but it was my heart that was faltering. I was tired, I was alone, and I was acutely aware that I was also alone in Shanghai. I couldn’t call my mother for help, I couldn’t count on a like-minded nanny to let me sleep in the morning the way I could in New York, and I certainly couldn’t lose my own temper the way Manika was because that would’ve just escalated everything. So I asked for God to help Manika sleep and then, when that was met with even louder shrieks from her bed, I prayed that God would keep me from strangling her. I tried to say the Lord’s prayer to myself, but that was simply too long to remember against the background noise, so finally I hummed in my head on old song, “Our God is an Awesome God.”

It was miraculous. Manika only fought me for thirty five minutes – a big reduction from the previous hour to an hour and a half, I walked away feeling less charred and beaten up, and my husband seemed to instinctively know I needed a hug (never happens!). Most importantly, Manika didn’t wake up through the night at all, and I felt internally cleansed this morning with rest, which was ultimately what I really needed.

I learned my lesson. I may be (or at least feel) alone in Shanghai at times and in motherhood, but I was reminded last night that, no matter what, I still always have God. He is truly everywhere, including my small block apartment in China.

Now if He could just help me get Manika to eat her vegetables.

Manika and I are famous!

Manika and I are on the cover of this month's Shanghai Family!

http://www.shfamily.com/bin/view/magazine/main

Sick in (of?) Shanghai

This week was another butt-kicking seven-day marathon of mommydom. Manika got a small cough on Sunday that accelerated to a respiratory infection and led to a complete bodily shutdown on Wednesday. She woke up over ten times that night, and couldn’t fall back asleep over the fever and cough. So, after a night of no sleep, I took her out in the stroller to help her sleep. We walked to Thumb Plaza (about half a mile away) and I sat and had a coffee while she slept. 

Unfortunately, she woke up midway through my moment of peace, and then proceeded to flip out like I was poking her skin with needles. She screamed at me in the restaurant for daring to take her out, screamed outside for trying to put her back in the stroller, and after I finally agreed to carry her home (balancing her on my twenty-week large pregnant stomach and pushing a not-small jogger stroller with the remainder of my energy), she screamed to every Chinese passerby how awful she felt and how useless her mother was because she was unable to make her feel better.

People stared, and I mean stared. I was in makeshift pajamas. My hair was sticking out above a grey sports headband. My glasses were lopsided from Manika pressing her head against my face. Manika had no pants on and was thrashing around like her legs were on fire. I missed New York where crazy people walk around reciting the Koran in loud speakers and no one even looks at them, and if someone does stare, you can respond back to them in English, glorious English!! So in an effort to conjure up some sense of power so I could to finish what fast became one of the longest walks of my life, I yelled back to every staring, well-meaning, trying to help me with my screaming child, morning walker / commuter / off-to-work-goer, “What the hell are you looking at!” Most didn’t understand me. One Italian man looked like he wanted to hug me. I wanted to cry louder than Manika.

Then I got home and my ayi, who is a truly lovely lady but not so smart, told me that maybe Manika had been watching too much Elmo on Sesame Street (who occasionally scares her with talking window shades and larger than life puppet bugs), and had some “heise de” stuff on her mind, which is the equivalent of saying some grey matter had possessed her little soul.

I went into hibernation. For the next two days, Manika and I slept off dueling coughs (she generously shared hers with me). We slept curled up together, we slept on opposite ends of the floor of her room, we slept in her small bed, we slept on a queen sized air mattress, we slept with my back to her and her hand lodged under my sweaty armpit, we slept on the couch in front of the television. Of course, at moments there was a certain motherly magic to the whole thing - two female spirits, suffering together, that sort of thing. But most of the time, I smelled like stale milk vomit and wanted to do nothing but check into a five star hotel room with room service and no one else.

On Friday, Manika and I finally went outside. Maybe we were just so starved for outside interaction, maybe we’d been shut-in for so long that we’d forgotten the world existed outside of us, but it was as if Shanghai was trying to cheer us up; it really felt that way. There was sunshine, a perfect breeze, people smiled at us, called Manika beautiful. A shopping trip to the mall actually went efficiently. We passed a group of old ladies practicing a part foxtrot, part tai chi dance routine to Jingle Bells outside (in the tail end of October). Saturday went even better. We went to a Halloween party, and in the evening my husband took me out to a lovely Thai restaurant in a beautiful old French style villa. Afterwards, he and I walked down this long street filled with clothing shops and I got to window shop, sans screaming baby, sans fever, sans cough. I felt almost normal, and like a prisoner who starts to fall for its captor, the rollercoaster experience almost made me love Shanghai – for once, I did not feel abused by it during a crisis and I was so grateful, I almost dared say to my husband, “Maybe I could learn to really like it here.

But I ultimately kept my mouth shut.

Fear and loathing in China?

The world is afraid of China and for good reason. China is big, smart, poor enough to be desperate, governed by fast and decisive Communists, lax in its legal structure, sometimes draconian in its punishments, and rich. It saves and invests, saves and invests, and it knows and is proud of its strengths.

Coming to China as an expat gives you a sense of superiority over all of this though. We feel protected by our American passport, multinational employers, Western education, high salaries compared to locals, Westerner-run grocery stores, and the knowledge that we’re just one plane ride away from home. We feel that by having confronted the beast head on, we’ve somehow conquered it.

However, I’ve recently felt a resurging awareness of China’s strength, specifically over my own life. It was a challenging week for me. My husband and I were engaged in that endless, nobody-wins game of who’s right and wrong, and the crux – China. My husband brought me to here so that I could finally have the life I always longed for in New York – lower stress with time to just write and be a mom. He had a classic prince on white horse vision, so he just couldn’t understand why I was not a more grateful princess, thrilled to be rescued. My response: that uninterrupted white beach of peacefulness my prince thought he dropped me off on – it is indeed beautiful and full of potential, but the shoreline is also dirtied with litter, the beach has too many visitors during the day, and no one is able to sell me a decent umbrella in English.

We finally agreed to a truce of understanding around three in the morning on Thursday, after which my mind had time to reflect. He is right – here in China I have everything I want. I have time, money, help, and his work lets him come home every night to support and comfort me. I never had these things in New York. It should feel idyllic.

Yet, I’ve continued to be bogged down by a sense that I should be doing more, specifically, I should be working, for money. (For the record, motherhood is work, horrifically underpaid work. Make no mistake about that.) This weekend, I finally realized it’s partly because I am afraid of the same thing other people are – the bigness of China. I am afraid of not learning enough Chinese, not continuing some sort of money-earning career, and not meeting enough professional people outside my mommy-circle because I worry China will take over the economic world in ways we can’t yet imagine. I don’t want to wake up on my second child’s first day of school and feel I missed an immense opportunity to prepare myself for the endless hours ahead of me.

However, likewise, I’m afraid of committing to too much work outside of writing and motherhood. I don’t want to lose this precious time with my children and my creative self. Plus I’m pregnant; I want to be relaxed and accepting of the gifts God has given me in the now. So where to draw the line? Find balance?

I still wasn’t sure until last night when my husband and I went out to listen to some jazz music together. A few years back, when I used to live in London and he in New York, we met in Paris for a long weekend. It was winter and grey, but it was still Paris – French, adorable and painfully romantic. We were still just dating, hadn’t yet changed one diaper, and we finally had enough money to really enjoy the city. We drank hot chocolate at cafés where great writers used to sit, walked through art museums hand-in-hand, ate warm stews in fire lit cafes, drank at expensive cocktail lounges, and walked endlessly through the streets stopping occasional for coffee or crepes whenever we needed a snack, and listened to jazz, lots of jazz every night. In Paris, living well is a purpose unto itself.

At the time, I was a banker and I left the city with a longing (as so many others do) to just stay there forever, to never return to my drearier office-bound life in London with the stiffer English. I vowed to myself that after that, whenever given the chance to enjoy life’s beauty, I would drink it in as I did that weekend. The vow stayed for years – I soon quit my job to be a writer. I took a month off to travel to Spain with my brother, I got massages, I walked New York with no purpose, I didn’t worry about anything, and I absorbed enough sunshine daily to give my face its life back.

Yet somewhere, between my first abrupt move to and from China and my second uprooting, I lost that attitude entirely. I became afraid for my mortgage, my nanny’s salary, and my ability to guide my daughter through all the changes. I blamed China wherever I could. First it sent my life into turmoil and then, right when I’d gotten resettled in New York, it sucked me back. It made my life harsh, cold, and difficult. But while I sat in the music on Saturday, I realized that those were all excuses; I’d just given in to the difficult circumstances. I’d let too much fear in - fear that if I don’t live in fear, something big will surprise and take over my life again. Worse, I’d come to believe that with fear, I would be protected.

But it simply isn’t true. In fact, I see now that fear has been doing the opposite. As a motivator, it has been tortuously illusive, making me think one route is a solution and then, once I choose it, pointing out the flaws and spreading me thin in another direction. It has served to exhaust me, and make me pursue nothing wholeheartedly. It has made me believe, time and time again, that as a writer, I will ultimately fail because it is not practical, most people cannot do it, and that with more money (that one cannot have with writing), all problems can be avoided.

So I’ve vowed to turn back the clock in my mind, and with that in mind, I actually see China in a different light. China is not to be feared, it is to be embraced because it is a shining example of what a country can do if it is not afraid. China does not run on fear. It runs on adrenaline. It’s in the frenetic shopping mall lights, the all night construction efforts, and the grand displays of pride every chance it gets. It uses the hardships of its past (damaged culture, poverty) as opportunities to create a brand new future. It knows what it wants, its people see the possibilities and it is making all efforts it can to get there. I think we can all learn from it. It as an example of what a nation can do when it puts its mind to it, and what can be accomplished when people look forward and not backwards.

To pee or not to pee?

Sidenote before blogging: For those of you who started seeing my blog feeds on Facebook (this is one of them) - that's all my brother's doing. My Facebook access in China is spotty at best. So many thanks to the new followers' messages that have been forwarded to my email, and please don't be offended if I don't respond back on Facebook. Email is the only surefire way to get me.

Second sidenote: If you are squeamish about potty talk, stop reading. This post is not for you.

So for the past three weeks, I've been potty training in China. The "in China" part will be explained later. First of all, I underestimated how absolutely nerve-wracking and annoying this would be. I imagined one week of continuously drilling and then it would be all pink heart underwear and "mommy, I have to pee." But what I'm finding now is that it's mostly me checking my watch every hour, announcing that it's potty time, and if we're out, I get to add a new page to what is becoming my "Shanghai Bathroom Guide." (To my Shanghai followers, so far Wagas and Element Fresh are the most reliable for cleanliness). My daughter has now touched tops of and sides of dirty toilet bowls, has nearly fallen into one at a mall, and has experienced her first Chinese park restroom squat hole.

Sadly, talking about this no longer seems strange or disgusting to me; in fact, these are the stories I tell my husband over dinner now. But why share all this here? Because potty training has revived the deep-seated fear in me that I share with many expats in China - that every single thing we (and our children) touch is completely and utterly poisonous to our inner being. Thanks to Manika, I've had to stare that fear down. I've had to look deep into Shanghai's filthy eyes, face it's middle finger flipped up at me and say, "Bring it on."

The germ war is now being waged.

First front: Food. A few weeks ago, I did a brief flirtation with an online organic grocery company to A. See if I could use the consulting side of my brain again (currently going to mush) B. To see if all the rumors I've heard about the food in China being cancer-causing are true. The result? A. I could use that side of my brain if I had fifteen more hours in the day. B. Yes, my food here will kill me and my family in the long run. If you manage to avoid the topical pesticides by buying organic, you risk financial bankruptcy. The cost is more than Whole Foods in the US. If you write the cost off as part of the "expat experience" then you still have to face facts that your veggies and fruits grown in or near Shanghai drink all the lovely metals and factory runoff that flows into the soil from both rain above and ground water below. If you decide that buying outside of Shanghai lowers some risks, then you've got to face the transportation truths. Food in China travels for a long time in non-refrigerated trucks, and often sits and sits and sits. Think eating out is better? Wrong. Shanghai tap water, that lead and mercury and other poisonous metal infested source of hydration, is drunk up daily by pasta, rice, dumplings, stews in most of the city's restaurant. When you eat out, 9.9 out of ten times, you've just swallowed things that weren't meant to be eaten.

So the way to get around it is to just eat at home. Wash vegetables with Evian. Cook everything to certain germ-death temperatures. Maintain blissful isolation to reduce your cancer risk by half and your contact with China by 90%. It's just enough to make you feel like you live in a prison cell made of filtered water and triple washed organic salad leaves.

Front two: Air. We've solved this with two $2,000 hospital grade air filters and are contemplating a third on for the newborn. While these do eliminate all coughing and other allergy related symptoms, they also keep you from ever opening the windows and doors to get "fresh air." As a result, our house is always silent. No sounds of children laughing or playing outside. No wind. No birds singing. But my nose never runs.

Front three: Bathrooms. At first, I tried to repeat my isolationist success by only taking Manika to places with "western toilets." Then I tried using diapers only when outside and sleeping, but she didn't seem to really understand the difference; she thought they were just back again. So finally, I decided to see what the Chinese do. Because of the prohibitive cost of diapers and the fact that, due to Communism, they care far less about the cleanliness of public places than we do in "all for one and one for all" democracies, most train their kids as soon as they can sit up on their own. Their method - open butt pants. You need to go, just squat. No matter that your kids have a constant draft (or more like a wind tunnel - those openings are huge).

At first, I thought this utterly repulsive. I told my friends that my kid would NEVER ever go outside like that, that I would ALWAYS find a toilet no matter what. Then I found myself this weekend in a big park with no public toilets in sight, no change of clothes, no diaper, and a child clearly hoping not to have to endure the disapproval from her mother for having another accident. I recoiled inside, I looked over my shoulder for other expats who might witness my crime against all things clean and Western, I found a bush as far away from people as possible (a long walk given that there are about billion people in this country) and then I told Manika to be as quick and discreet as possible.

Three seconds. Over. Painless, no glares or stares like I would've gotten in the US. In fact, it was kind of liberating. I now have an alternative (in an emergency only of course). And I am also not alone I've learned - a few hours later, my expat friends (with an older daughter) confessed that they too have eventually broken down and gone the same route.

Now, I can no longer judge the Chinese for this. I can no longer look down on their simple uneducated ways the way I have been when it comes to food and air. I can no longer write them off as dirty and disrespectful to public areas (as is popular in expat circles). Shanghai has stared me back down. "Squat on this," it has said, unapologetically (as it always does). I think we've declared a sort of tie on the germ warfare. And in a way, I'm glad. I can relax a little. I can actually see a bit of myself in the people of this country. After all, people are people, parents are parents. No one wants to carry around a kid with wet pants. Now, when I see a child in those open-air pantaloon things, I actually understand and even, maybe just a little, think it might just be a good idea... for emergencies only and for my son of course. Girls are a different story. For them, discretion remains key from the beginning.

I am still an Asian living in Asia.

It's a boy again?

So today I went to the doctor's for a check-up and an ultrasound. According to the grainy grey picture, I'm having a boy. They gave me a clear legs-up shot and I must say, it was pretty convincing. However, I'm still suspect. In 2007, my Shanghai doctor (different one) also circled "convincing evidence" of a boy, and blessed my immediate purchases of blue, green and yellow clothing. Then my daughter arrived and my first thought was: "poor thing." Being a female is tough.

Raising one is proving to be even tougher. I myself haven't decided if I want to lead my life with my soft, warm motherly side or my tough practical womanly side. In New York, I spent much more time in the latter taking care of clients, making sure my apartment didn't get too grimy, keeping my daughter full of homemade baby food, and trying to adequately respond to my single girlfriends' love life problems. I was mind-numbed, purposeful, fully-connected, but also tired and out-of-touch with any sense of inner well-being.

Here in China, I have almost too much time to be emotional, loving, creative, and exploratory. I think more, and take slower walks. Sometimes I feel lovely and relaxed, but more often, I feel slack and anxious that I am "sinking" into a less motivated side of me. I tell myself I'm not working hard enough, that I'm going to wake up and regret not being more practical, not making more money, not networking more in such a great Asian city, not doing more in general. Sometimes I push stress into my life just to ramp things up, just to replicate that familiar New York feeling. I set the goal of making the best parisian-like dinner for the day, or searching all over for tahini just to vary my daughter's protein sources, or hosting the best play date Jinqiao has ever seen, or sending out my latest short-story to every literary magazine in America. Then I get tired, and take a few days off to rejuvenate. As my softer self comes back into focus, I wonder if I've always been this hard on it, and where on earth did that bitchy demanding voice come from, and is it possible to get rid of it? (So far, the answer is no)

As a mother, this makes me nurture different qualities in my daughter each day. Sometimes, I want her to be super practical with no argument; I see little room for excuses in life's has to's and so she might as well learn early that bath time, three meals a day (that aren't cookies), and changing her diaper are non negotiable. They are not activities to which she should have to be wooed by bubbles and songs. She should just do them.

But then on other days, I think the world is too harsh to humanity's softer side. Maybe we should all blow bubbles in the bath? Maybe it would make us happier? And so what if she had her third cup of fake tea in her pink tea set right before bed. Isn't that what diapers are for? And she doesn't have to worry about being fat yet. Give her that second cookie.

The end result is what I'm sure is a confused parenting message - poor girl. Like today, I had a lot of real-estate stress related to my still-owned condo in Brooklyn, so I was all no-nonsense, get the job done. Poor Manika - no songs at bath time, no trading eggs for Cheerios, no bottle after teeth are brushed, only one hour exactly of television - she got the complete opposite treatment as yesterday.

She responded as I do at the end of a long overly-scripted, un-fun evening - she wanted a book and Suresh. In the end, he rocked her to sleep and she thankfully ended the day happy. Maybe I should learn something. Hug my husband more, read more just for the pure pleasure of it.

But then I might have to take down the big map of Brooklyn on my wall, my daily reminder of where my home is (and who I still am), my daily motivator? Without it, I'll be without any reference points. Will I forget who I am? Or will I just grow something new and different inside of me - a little masculine selfishness? A boyish energy to seize life by the hair and tug on it (unapologetically) with all my might?

Inaugural Post

In March 2007, I packed up my 400 sq ft apartment in New York and with newly pregnant belly in tow, headed off to an Asian adventure in Shanghai, China. I had morning sickness, air pollution sickness, late night danceathon sickness, and general homesickness. I escaped that fall and flew back home to the safety of small town America where I gave birth. Shanghai apparently didn't take well to the break-up. I returned with my new daughter, planning to make peace with Shanghai's strung-out overly passionate inner self, but it kicked me and my husband right back out. We headed back to New York in Feb'08. I was shocked but not sad. Shanghai and I were like soy sauce and curry: sort of okay together, but really always competing for center stage.

However, my husband was devastated. His dreams of years of dumplings and small happy, non Columbia MBA (read cold, cut-throat and boring) companies, were dashed. "Why? Why?" he kept asking Shanghai, but it was busy turning out the sad unsuspecting pockets of other expats and poor, economic crisis laden companies.

Then May 2009, it finally relented. "Okay. Replay, but this time on my terms. Bring furniture, bring children, settle in for the long haul this time. I'm taking over."

So round two: pregnant again. I'm a mom, a wife, a baby incubator, a writer, a frustrated and uneasy Shanghai grocery shopper, a speaker of very mediocre Chinese, and an anonymous expat stranded in Shanghai suburbs, trying every day to not run to Pudong airport and board a plane and head back to the US where I was a respected freelance consultant, friend to people without children, condo owner, hip mom and energetic wannabe novelist in Fort Greene Brooklyn, regular traveler (without my daughter!), a shopper, an efficient Fresh Direct customer, and an active sister, sister-in-law, daughter and cousin.

What makes me stay: my family. What makes me want to run: my family.

I've been Shanghaied. I wish I could be Shanghaied.

Welcome to my blog (aka lifeline) to the rest of the world!

Shanghai:

Part of Speech:	verb
Definition:	kidnap
Synonyms:	abduct, capture, carry away, carry off, grab, hijack, hold for ransom, pirate, run away with, seize, skyjack, snatch