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!
