I am such a bad blogger; it's been forever since my last post. Shame on me. *wrist-slap* But I do have something I have learned, or am learning, that I wanted to share because it's just blowing my mind.
I recently read the best parenting book out there, "Raising Godly Tomatoes". It's completely scripture-based and without all the psychological babble that leads many Christian parents into dangerous secular practices. Essentially, this wonderful lady's parenting philosophy is that you, as the parent, have God-given authority over your child to train and discipline them, that you can and must teach your children respectful obedience, that you must learn to discern your child's heart and discover what motives he has for disobedience so that you can not only correct the behavior but touch his heart and instill in him a love for God, and that you must teach your children to control their emotions, because selfishness and anger at two is no more attractive than the same emotional sins at twenty.
It's this last bit that blew me away. For some reason, no matter how many times I've read the Bible and how much I've studied the New Testament letters specifically, it has never occurred to me that God is commanding us to control our emotions. If you look in Galatians, several of the things Paul lists as works of the flesh are emotions -- fits of anger, jealousy, envy -- and the other things result from these emotions -- enmity, strife, rivalries, dissensions, divisions.
I'm not sure if I'm being clear. This is still rattling around in my head, but think about it -- our culture, especially the psychological influences out there, is saying that you need to let kids express their emotions, that you can't help your feelings, yadda yadda yadda. But God commands us to control ourselves, and how fair is it to treat a kid like he is a slave to his emotions and make excuses for him, then turn around when he's a teenager and say, okay, NOW you need to start obeying God in this?
Anyway, we are teaching Connor to obey us with a good attitude and explaining why selfishness and disrespect make God unhappy, but that's not where I'm really going with this. The idea of controlling emotion just hit me square between the eyes.
I have always said, in a joking manner, that I am not a patient person. I have treated my impatience as a rather cute character flaw, a quirk of my personality, and let it slide at that.
Son of a gun if it ain't a sin after all. God tells us to be patient, so acting impatient is directly disobeying His word, and that's serious business. It doesn't matter if I'm having a rotten day and my nerves are frazzled and I'm trying to do ten things at once and my sweet little boy is pestering me with "why?" questions. My feelings DO NOT MATTER. I am to obey God and be patient regardless of whether or not I feel like it.
Here's another thing. I have always considered myself slow to anger but easily frustrated. Huh. If that isn't the biggest contradiction in the world, I don't know what is. Frustration is just a nicer way of saying that I get angry at small, insignificant things. Or better yet, I get angry when things don't go the way I want them to -- like the jar of pickles just won't open or I struggle with a bag of chips that scatters its contents everywhere when it finally bursts open or every store is out of that one ingredient I need to make dinner. Frustration is ANGER. I never ever thought that I have a problem with anger, but lo and behold if God isn't flashing a big neon sign in my face this week and shouting in my ear, "That right there where your voice was terse with Connor? Anger. Oh and that, when you made that loud disgusted noise because the handle broke off the cabinet again? Anger. Oh, and here's a good one, the power going out right when you put dinner in the oven and you complained about China? Anger."
It is never pretty to face your own sins. And I now realize that you must call them SINS. These are not quirks, character flaws, or part of your personality make-up. There is no justification. This is serious, separating-you-from-God sin.
So. Beginning now until I master it (which means until I die, probably, but gotta try) I am working on controlling my emotions and not letting them control me. Justin is dubious, but supportive. He, of all people, knows how impatient and easily frustrated I am. But God, I think, is cheering me on.
I'll let you know how it goes. If you think about it, pray for me! This is going to be tough.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Friday, June 1, 2012
Flat Broke
It's been a while since my last post, mainly because things have been chugging along at a normal pace with no blog-worthy happenings. Until this morning.
Okay, here's the premise. We have finally settled (we think) on our plans for this summer -- we'll be tackling the GanSu province. We're going to hit Xi'An again (the place with the Terra Cotta Warriors and lots of other great history) since our camera was stolen when we stayed there before and we lost all our pictures. Then onto GanSu, where, among other things, we will be doing some Tibetan camping (yaks!) and overnighting in the Gobi Desert- complete with camel ride. I've always wanted to ride a camel in the desert but never thought I'd actually have the opportunity!
It's the Gobi experience that sent me shopping this morning. I needed to find some linen to sew up some desert clothes -- loose, breathable, and cool, but still long pants and long-sleeved shirts to keep the sunburn away. So, I got up early to exercise, fix breakfast for the family, throw shopping bags (you have to pay for plastic bags when shopping in China, so we carry cloth ones) in my shoulder bag, grab wallet, keys, phone, and Justin's old IPod (for music purposes), kiss my boys, and run out the door. The fabric place is a solid hour and a half away by bus, so I was hoping to save myself an hour and taxi it. I think my time is worth the extra $4 to take a taxi.
So I head out the door with IPod music in full swing and a bounce in my step. Shopping for fabric is one of my favorite activities, and I restrict myself to once a semester (generally) for Justin's sanity. I walk the ten minutes to the campus gate, hoping for a taxi. No taxi. So I hop onto the bus, the very last person. The doors squeeze shut right behind my butt. I see a taxi stop and pick up a student and sigh to myself for not waiting longer, but figure I'll grab a taxi across the river -- hopefully.
Now, here's something you should know about buses in China, in case you've forgotten. They pack people in like sardines. Worse than sardines. You can't breathe, much less speak, the smell is overpowering (Chinese don't use deodorant!) and there's no circulation whatsoever. This bus is, of course, packed to the hilt.
And then we stop. And more people crowd on. Now, instead of being squished next to the door, I'm perched on the hand rail, holding on for dear life and praying for no sudden stops.
We go to the next bus stop. I'm certain, after three years in China, that the driver cannot possibly expect to get more people on this bus.
He does.
Not only do people get on the bus, but two very large (fat, actually) Chinese men lumber on. Chinese men have this habit of rolling their tee shirts up to expose their stomachs for what we call "Chinese air-conditioning". So I'm staring at rolls of sweaty blubber. To top it off, the man closest to me raises his arms to hold on to the rail above my head, leaning close and giving me the joyous opportunity to drink in his overpowering scent.
This was not a pleasant bus trip for me, as you can imagine.
It gets better.
We motor over the bridge, me looking down and breathing through my mouth. The bridge has never seemed longer, but we make it, and I vault out the door.
At this point, I can get another bus (after that experience, not looking forward to it) or a taxi. Glory be, a taxi pulls up! It's tricky to get one sometimes, so this is a huge blessing. I jump in and tell him where I want to go. He grunts and starts the meter.
This is where panic sets in.
Did I bring my money? I know I have my wallet with a couple yuan in it, but my shopping/taxi money?
I frantically search my pockets and my bag, all too aware of the road rolling by under the tires. The soundtrack of Les Mis pounds in my ears. Luckily, there's lots of traffic, so we've only gone about 20 feet when I know for sure that I don't have the money to pay this guy. He stops behind a bus and, out of desperation, I throw a 对不起 (sorry!) over my shoulder and leap out of the cab. I don't look back to see how he takes this.
Thinking back now, I probably should have given him some kind of money, but trying to explain the situation is beyond my current vocabulary - especially in the frantic state I was in - and I needed the pitiful bills in my wallet to get a bus home.
I feel vaguely guilty for my desperate act, but oh so thankful that I didn't take a taxi from the school gate and get all the way to my destination without money to pay him, or get on the second bus and ride another hour to have no money to get home. God was watching out for me, I'm sure!
Anyway, here I am, stuck on the side of the road without money to do much of anything except maybe get home. That's when I realize that -- uh-oh -- the bus stop moved recently. They do this sporadically, I think just to keep us on our toes. I have no idea where to get on the bus that will take me back to our school. I could wander through the streets all morning and never stumble across the right place.
I stop in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and look up at the bridge. The pride and joy of our new mayor, who has a special place in his heart for bridges and promises to build something like four or five more, is a little over a mile long and has a fairly steep incline.
And I have to walk it. It's the only way home.
I crank up the music, adjust my shoulder bag, and stomp on. And I do mean stomp. I am out of sorts, frustrated that my whole day is shot. By the time I cross the bridge, walk to campus, and go all the way to the back corner of campus, where our apartment is, there's no way I'll have time to get the shopping done today, even if I want to -- and I increasingly think I just won't want to.
It's about halfway across the bridge, sweating under the glare of the bright sun, that my sense of humor kicks in. Personally, I think this is one of God's greatest blessings. If I didn't have the ability to laugh at myself, life would be miserable. This is a ridiculous situation I've placed myself in, and blamed if it isn't starting to earn a chuckle or two. Just being so all-fired mad is enough to make my mouth twitch into a smile, plus I'm getting stared at in my foul temper by passing cars and bicyclists, not to mention the pedestrians I'm booking it past. I hate getting stared at on my bad China days, and this was a bad China day indeed.
So I gave them something to stare at. I found my Hairspray soundtrack and belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs, complete with expressive gestures and a few poorly executed dance moves. They still stared, but at least they had a legitimate reason now.
Down the bridge, across a construction site, and onto campus. 15 more minutes to my door, which I flung open with dramatic flair, strode across the room to the desk, and picked up the envelope of money. I held it above my head with exhausted triumph.
So. I have learned a few things.
1. Take a water bottle everywhere. You never know when you might be broke and walking a couple of miles.
2. Take an umbrella. It didn't rain, but it could have. That would have been many times worse.
3. Learn how to tell a taxi driver you left your money at home. I could have come up with something garbled, I'm sure, but I will learn and memorize the correct sentence so that it will be handy whenever I need it in the future.
4. Double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure that your money is on your person. 'Nuff said.
I'll try this trip again tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me -- and pray!
Okay, here's the premise. We have finally settled (we think) on our plans for this summer -- we'll be tackling the GanSu province. We're going to hit Xi'An again (the place with the Terra Cotta Warriors and lots of other great history) since our camera was stolen when we stayed there before and we lost all our pictures. Then onto GanSu, where, among other things, we will be doing some Tibetan camping (yaks!) and overnighting in the Gobi Desert- complete with camel ride. I've always wanted to ride a camel in the desert but never thought I'd actually have the opportunity!
It's the Gobi experience that sent me shopping this morning. I needed to find some linen to sew up some desert clothes -- loose, breathable, and cool, but still long pants and long-sleeved shirts to keep the sunburn away. So, I got up early to exercise, fix breakfast for the family, throw shopping bags (you have to pay for plastic bags when shopping in China, so we carry cloth ones) in my shoulder bag, grab wallet, keys, phone, and Justin's old IPod (for music purposes), kiss my boys, and run out the door. The fabric place is a solid hour and a half away by bus, so I was hoping to save myself an hour and taxi it. I think my time is worth the extra $4 to take a taxi.
So I head out the door with IPod music in full swing and a bounce in my step. Shopping for fabric is one of my favorite activities, and I restrict myself to once a semester (generally) for Justin's sanity. I walk the ten minutes to the campus gate, hoping for a taxi. No taxi. So I hop onto the bus, the very last person. The doors squeeze shut right behind my butt. I see a taxi stop and pick up a student and sigh to myself for not waiting longer, but figure I'll grab a taxi across the river -- hopefully.
Now, here's something you should know about buses in China, in case you've forgotten. They pack people in like sardines. Worse than sardines. You can't breathe, much less speak, the smell is overpowering (Chinese don't use deodorant!) and there's no circulation whatsoever. This bus is, of course, packed to the hilt.
And then we stop. And more people crowd on. Now, instead of being squished next to the door, I'm perched on the hand rail, holding on for dear life and praying for no sudden stops.
We go to the next bus stop. I'm certain, after three years in China, that the driver cannot possibly expect to get more people on this bus.
He does.
Not only do people get on the bus, but two very large (fat, actually) Chinese men lumber on. Chinese men have this habit of rolling their tee shirts up to expose their stomachs for what we call "Chinese air-conditioning". So I'm staring at rolls of sweaty blubber. To top it off, the man closest to me raises his arms to hold on to the rail above my head, leaning close and giving me the joyous opportunity to drink in his overpowering scent.
This was not a pleasant bus trip for me, as you can imagine.
It gets better.
We motor over the bridge, me looking down and breathing through my mouth. The bridge has never seemed longer, but we make it, and I vault out the door.
At this point, I can get another bus (after that experience, not looking forward to it) or a taxi. Glory be, a taxi pulls up! It's tricky to get one sometimes, so this is a huge blessing. I jump in and tell him where I want to go. He grunts and starts the meter.
This is where panic sets in.
Did I bring my money? I know I have my wallet with a couple yuan in it, but my shopping/taxi money?
I frantically search my pockets and my bag, all too aware of the road rolling by under the tires. The soundtrack of Les Mis pounds in my ears. Luckily, there's lots of traffic, so we've only gone about 20 feet when I know for sure that I don't have the money to pay this guy. He stops behind a bus and, out of desperation, I throw a 对不起 (sorry!) over my shoulder and leap out of the cab. I don't look back to see how he takes this.
Thinking back now, I probably should have given him some kind of money, but trying to explain the situation is beyond my current vocabulary - especially in the frantic state I was in - and I needed the pitiful bills in my wallet to get a bus home.
I feel vaguely guilty for my desperate act, but oh so thankful that I didn't take a taxi from the school gate and get all the way to my destination without money to pay him, or get on the second bus and ride another hour to have no money to get home. God was watching out for me, I'm sure!
Anyway, here I am, stuck on the side of the road without money to do much of anything except maybe get home. That's when I realize that -- uh-oh -- the bus stop moved recently. They do this sporadically, I think just to keep us on our toes. I have no idea where to get on the bus that will take me back to our school. I could wander through the streets all morning and never stumble across the right place.
I stop in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and look up at the bridge. The pride and joy of our new mayor, who has a special place in his heart for bridges and promises to build something like four or five more, is a little over a mile long and has a fairly steep incline.
And I have to walk it. It's the only way home.
I crank up the music, adjust my shoulder bag, and stomp on. And I do mean stomp. I am out of sorts, frustrated that my whole day is shot. By the time I cross the bridge, walk to campus, and go all the way to the back corner of campus, where our apartment is, there's no way I'll have time to get the shopping done today, even if I want to -- and I increasingly think I just won't want to.
It's about halfway across the bridge, sweating under the glare of the bright sun, that my sense of humor kicks in. Personally, I think this is one of God's greatest blessings. If I didn't have the ability to laugh at myself, life would be miserable. This is a ridiculous situation I've placed myself in, and blamed if it isn't starting to earn a chuckle or two. Just being so all-fired mad is enough to make my mouth twitch into a smile, plus I'm getting stared at in my foul temper by passing cars and bicyclists, not to mention the pedestrians I'm booking it past. I hate getting stared at on my bad China days, and this was a bad China day indeed.
So I gave them something to stare at. I found my Hairspray soundtrack and belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs, complete with expressive gestures and a few poorly executed dance moves. They still stared, but at least they had a legitimate reason now.
Down the bridge, across a construction site, and onto campus. 15 more minutes to my door, which I flung open with dramatic flair, strode across the room to the desk, and picked up the envelope of money. I held it above my head with exhausted triumph.
So. I have learned a few things.
1. Take a water bottle everywhere. You never know when you might be broke and walking a couple of miles.
2. Take an umbrella. It didn't rain, but it could have. That would have been many times worse.
3. Learn how to tell a taxi driver you left your money at home. I could have come up with something garbled, I'm sure, but I will learn and memorize the correct sentence so that it will be handy whenever I need it in the future.
4. Double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure that your money is on your person. 'Nuff said.
I'll try this trip again tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me -- and pray!
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
普通话 or The Common Language
Okay, so as a serious student of Mandarin for more than a year now, there are some things about this language that are unbelievably spot on and some things that make you scratch your head and wonder what these people were thinking when they created this hot mess.
For example. Take 火 (meaning "fire") and 车 (meaning "vehicle") and put them together, and voila! 火车, meaning "train". Perfectly logical. Easy to remember.
And then, there's 牛奶. 牛meaning "cow" and 奶 meaning "milk". Now, the character for milk is actually comprised of "woman" and "fist". Make of that what you will. Anyway, 牛奶 means cow milk, exactly what it looks like, and very unforgettable.
But now let's look at 奶酪. You know the first part, it means "milk". The second part, though, is made up of "alcohol" and "each one" and means "fruit jelly" or "sweet nut paste". Now, that makes no sense. Even more odd, when you put all that together, you get the character for "cheese". I have no idea whatsoever how that works. Personally, I don't think it does.
There are some really cool ones - 妙, the character for wonderful, is comprised of "woman" and "few". Few women are wonderful. Easy and true, if you think about Proverbs 31.
学, the character for "study" is made of "home" and "child", which is absolutely fantastic as a homeschooling mom. Interestingly enough, there is no homeschooling in China (government schooling all the way here, and no choice in it).
"Home", for ancient and rather giggly reasons, is made of "roof" and "pig" - 家.
安 means "peaceful" and is "home" and "woman" together.
泡 means "bubbles" and is made of "water" and "bound up together", which is pretty cool.
上帝 means "God" and is "above" and "ruler" together.
It's really fascinating (to me, probably not to you, sorry) how the origins of some of these characters hold great moral, traditional values. Of course, some of the others (like 妈妈, "mother" made of "woman" and "horse") are pretty much gibberish.
Anyway. I thought of some of this whilst beating my brains out studying. I have no profound thoughts today. My apologies. But this was fun for me.
For example. Take 火 (meaning "fire") and 车 (meaning "vehicle") and put them together, and voila! 火车, meaning "train". Perfectly logical. Easy to remember.
And then, there's 牛奶. 牛meaning "cow" and 奶 meaning "milk". Now, the character for milk is actually comprised of "woman" and "fist". Make of that what you will. Anyway, 牛奶 means cow milk, exactly what it looks like, and very unforgettable.
But now let's look at 奶酪. You know the first part, it means "milk". The second part, though, is made up of "alcohol" and "each one" and means "fruit jelly" or "sweet nut paste". Now, that makes no sense. Even more odd, when you put all that together, you get the character for "cheese". I have no idea whatsoever how that works. Personally, I don't think it does.
There are some really cool ones - 妙, the character for wonderful, is comprised of "woman" and "few". Few women are wonderful. Easy and true, if you think about Proverbs 31.
学, the character for "study" is made of "home" and "child", which is absolutely fantastic as a homeschooling mom. Interestingly enough, there is no homeschooling in China (government schooling all the way here, and no choice in it).
"Home", for ancient and rather giggly reasons, is made of "roof" and "pig" - 家.
安 means "peaceful" and is "home" and "woman" together.
泡 means "bubbles" and is made of "water" and "bound up together", which is pretty cool.
上帝 means "God" and is "above" and "ruler" together.
It's really fascinating (to me, probably not to you, sorry) how the origins of some of these characters hold great moral, traditional values. Of course, some of the others (like 妈妈, "mother" made of "woman" and "horse") are pretty much gibberish.
Anyway. I thought of some of this whilst beating my brains out studying. I have no profound thoughts today. My apologies. But this was fun for me.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Life Lessons
Have you ever had one of those weeks when life lessons just keep hitting you upside the head? It's been one of those weeks for me. And honestly, when I learn this many lessons, I've just got to tell somebody. Feel free to escape before I get on my soapbox.
First - kids are CRAZY on sugar. It was Connor's fourth birthday, and as the birthday boy, he got to choose his meals for the whole day. Breakfast was cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate. Lunch was a peanut butter and honey sandwich, carrot sticks, potato chips, and juice. Dinner was homemade chicken nuggets and fries and chocolate milk. Dessert? Peanut butter ice cream pie, complete with Oreo crust and chocolate syrup drizzled over the top.
Can you tell my son doesn't usually get sweets? But boy howdy, he sure knows exactly what he wants when he does get 'em. By the end of the day, he was bouncing off the walls in a frantic, giggling blur. The next day he was dragging, his head drooped down to his knees when we went out for a walking/shopping trip for his birthday party the next day. He was whiny and tired and flat-out grumpy.
No wonder. Justin and I have decided that the reason our kid is usually so well-behaved is we keep him away from junk. Now that we've seen the results of a sugar high, we are quite determined not to relax our rules.
Second - for anyone out there with boys, I highly recommend Bringing Up Boys by James Dobson. I don't agree with Dobson's doctrine on some crucial points, but the man has parenting wisdom. I now understand my boy better. From Dobson's book, I've also had my eyes opened to some things about American culture. That's one of the bonuses of living in another culture; things that I've always taken for granted about the way we Americans think or do things are suddenly things to be considered; these are not things that are universal. For example, over-committing of our time. It is a huge cultural thing that I didn't realize until it jumped up in my face. In our culture, we look at someone who is always busy, running from one activity to the next, with great respect. I hear about someone's packed schedule and immediately think oh, well, they're very impressive and what an important person they are to be doing so many things. I have free time, so I must be lazy or slacking in something. What's amazing, though, is this is a fairly recent development -- people used to take time to sit on the front porch in the evenings, to play more with their kids, to not have to schedule their family in to their day. Mercy. Thus, I have resolved to say NO more often with greater finality and keep time open to "train up my child in the way he shall go" without making it seem that he is inconveniencing me.
Third - and the final one, I know I'm losing my audience here - fridges are not as hardy as they seem. The day before Connor's birthday party, I did all the prep work. I made a cheese ball (the bare-fingered squishing of cream cheese to mix in seasoning/onions/bell pepper is not my favorite thing, by the way, especially when Justin starts talking about body organs while my hands are full of sticky mush) and a few pounds of chicken salad, started rolls rising overnight, and had a couple dozen chocolate cupcakes cooling. Finally, I decided that instead of buying juice, I would be SuperMom and make lemonade myself.
This was a bad idea. I squeezed 16 lemons. I now know exactly what arthritis will feel like in fifty years. This particular recipe called for ginger, which I thought was exotic and exciting. You bring water, sugar, and sliced ginger root to a boil, then turn off the heat, add the lemon juice, and let it sit for 15 minutes. Take out the ginger and let it chill. Voila. It was super important to let it chill overnight because we have exactly 28 ice cubes at a time, which is definitely not enough for a houseful of Americans.
So. I followed all the instructions, let the lemonade cool a bit, then poured it into whatever containers I had available (not many, it was annoying) and put them in the fridge. No big deal. Tired after a full day of teaching and shopping and kitchen-ing, I kissed my husband goodnight and collapsed into bed.
I woke up at about 6:30 when Connor padded past our bed to the bathroom. He wanted to stay up, Justin said it was too early, I rolled over and asked him what time it was, he said 6:30 and oh, by the way, you broke the fridge.
I usually have a tough time waking up in the morning. I jumped out of bed at that sour announcement and demanded details, mind whirling with thoughts of spoiled chicken salad and how we're in China, I can't just order a pizza or something, and what on earth are we going to do, and cream cheese is so expensive here and I just wasted about 12 ounces of it, and-
Justin proceeded to explain, in a voice that barely contained his irritation, that my hot lemonade had forced the fridge to run all night, he'd been up until 2:30 trying to fix it, and he was pretty sure the compressor was blown.
I didn't know what a compressor was (still don't, it didn't seem like a good time to ask) but I was pretty sure this wasn't a good thing. I was also pretty sure that this was one of the dumbest things I'd ever done and that it would never be forgotten by my husband. I could envision winning a big prize for something very brainy in the future and then Justin would throw his arm around my shoulders and tell the reporters eagerly shoving microphones in our faces that yes, he was proud, but more than that, he was surprised because there'd been this time in China when his wife had murdered a fridge because she lacked common sense.
Very luckily for us, an extra fridge has been floating around the foreigner apartments. I called one of the other teachers, begged for the use of it until ours got fixed, and dragged Justin out of bed to help me get it. We transferred food in a panicked flurry. Also luckily for us, the "broken" fridge was cooler than it had been four hours previously, so nothing had spoiled.
Now, my kitchen is about the size of a shoe box. The second fridge sat smack dab in front of my two burners, and I had to squeeze past it to turn on the gas. I now had enough room to turn around - literally - in which to fix breakfast, make icing and frost cupcakes, chop vegetables and make dip, arrange plates and cups and set out food.... and I was about an hour behind.
Justin was a doll. He blew up balloons and hung streamers while I bumped into shelves and multiple fridges in the kitchen (rather like one of those old pinball arcade games), and he never once criticized me for my idiocy.
The fridge recovered in twenty-four hours. Justin nursed it through the worst of its illness. The lemonade was really excellent, by the way. I have copied the recipe into my recipe book and have titled it "Lethal Lemonade".
I'm not sure which one of these lessons is the most important, but I'm positive the lemonade debacle will be the one to go down in the Hill Family history books.
First - kids are CRAZY on sugar. It was Connor's fourth birthday, and as the birthday boy, he got to choose his meals for the whole day. Breakfast was cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate. Lunch was a peanut butter and honey sandwich, carrot sticks, potato chips, and juice. Dinner was homemade chicken nuggets and fries and chocolate milk. Dessert? Peanut butter ice cream pie, complete with Oreo crust and chocolate syrup drizzled over the top.
Can you tell my son doesn't usually get sweets? But boy howdy, he sure knows exactly what he wants when he does get 'em. By the end of the day, he was bouncing off the walls in a frantic, giggling blur. The next day he was dragging, his head drooped down to his knees when we went out for a walking/shopping trip for his birthday party the next day. He was whiny and tired and flat-out grumpy.
No wonder. Justin and I have decided that the reason our kid is usually so well-behaved is we keep him away from junk. Now that we've seen the results of a sugar high, we are quite determined not to relax our rules.
Second - for anyone out there with boys, I highly recommend Bringing Up Boys by James Dobson. I don't agree with Dobson's doctrine on some crucial points, but the man has parenting wisdom. I now understand my boy better. From Dobson's book, I've also had my eyes opened to some things about American culture. That's one of the bonuses of living in another culture; things that I've always taken for granted about the way we Americans think or do things are suddenly things to be considered; these are not things that are universal. For example, over-committing of our time. It is a huge cultural thing that I didn't realize until it jumped up in my face. In our culture, we look at someone who is always busy, running from one activity to the next, with great respect. I hear about someone's packed schedule and immediately think oh, well, they're very impressive and what an important person they are to be doing so many things. I have free time, so I must be lazy or slacking in something. What's amazing, though, is this is a fairly recent development -- people used to take time to sit on the front porch in the evenings, to play more with their kids, to not have to schedule their family in to their day. Mercy. Thus, I have resolved to say NO more often with greater finality and keep time open to "train up my child in the way he shall go" without making it seem that he is inconveniencing me.
Third - and the final one, I know I'm losing my audience here - fridges are not as hardy as they seem. The day before Connor's birthday party, I did all the prep work. I made a cheese ball (the bare-fingered squishing of cream cheese to mix in seasoning/onions/bell pepper is not my favorite thing, by the way, especially when Justin starts talking about body organs while my hands are full of sticky mush) and a few pounds of chicken salad, started rolls rising overnight, and had a couple dozen chocolate cupcakes cooling. Finally, I decided that instead of buying juice, I would be SuperMom and make lemonade myself.
This was a bad idea. I squeezed 16 lemons. I now know exactly what arthritis will feel like in fifty years. This particular recipe called for ginger, which I thought was exotic and exciting. You bring water, sugar, and sliced ginger root to a boil, then turn off the heat, add the lemon juice, and let it sit for 15 minutes. Take out the ginger and let it chill. Voila. It was super important to let it chill overnight because we have exactly 28 ice cubes at a time, which is definitely not enough for a houseful of Americans.
So. I followed all the instructions, let the lemonade cool a bit, then poured it into whatever containers I had available (not many, it was annoying) and put them in the fridge. No big deal. Tired after a full day of teaching and shopping and kitchen-ing, I kissed my husband goodnight and collapsed into bed.
I woke up at about 6:30 when Connor padded past our bed to the bathroom. He wanted to stay up, Justin said it was too early, I rolled over and asked him what time it was, he said 6:30 and oh, by the way, you broke the fridge.
I usually have a tough time waking up in the morning. I jumped out of bed at that sour announcement and demanded details, mind whirling with thoughts of spoiled chicken salad and how we're in China, I can't just order a pizza or something, and what on earth are we going to do, and cream cheese is so expensive here and I just wasted about 12 ounces of it, and-
Justin proceeded to explain, in a voice that barely contained his irritation, that my hot lemonade had forced the fridge to run all night, he'd been up until 2:30 trying to fix it, and he was pretty sure the compressor was blown.
I didn't know what a compressor was (still don't, it didn't seem like a good time to ask) but I was pretty sure this wasn't a good thing. I was also pretty sure that this was one of the dumbest things I'd ever done and that it would never be forgotten by my husband. I could envision winning a big prize for something very brainy in the future and then Justin would throw his arm around my shoulders and tell the reporters eagerly shoving microphones in our faces that yes, he was proud, but more than that, he was surprised because there'd been this time in China when his wife had murdered a fridge because she lacked common sense.
Very luckily for us, an extra fridge has been floating around the foreigner apartments. I called one of the other teachers, begged for the use of it until ours got fixed, and dragged Justin out of bed to help me get it. We transferred food in a panicked flurry. Also luckily for us, the "broken" fridge was cooler than it had been four hours previously, so nothing had spoiled.
Now, my kitchen is about the size of a shoe box. The second fridge sat smack dab in front of my two burners, and I had to squeeze past it to turn on the gas. I now had enough room to turn around - literally - in which to fix breakfast, make icing and frost cupcakes, chop vegetables and make dip, arrange plates and cups and set out food.... and I was about an hour behind.
Justin was a doll. He blew up balloons and hung streamers while I bumped into shelves and multiple fridges in the kitchen (rather like one of those old pinball arcade games), and he never once criticized me for my idiocy.
The fridge recovered in twenty-four hours. Justin nursed it through the worst of its illness. The lemonade was really excellent, by the way. I have copied the recipe into my recipe book and have titled it "Lethal Lemonade".
I'm not sure which one of these lessons is the most important, but I'm positive the lemonade debacle will be the one to go down in the Hill Family history books.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Culture
Culture is a very interesting thing.
It reflects a fundamental difference in the way people think, in what
makes a country's morals and traditions. It's what makes the
distinction in what's polite or rude.
For example, in China it may not be an
insult to call someone fat. Americans would be up in arms, but to
the Chinese, you are calling them healthy and strong, hearkening back
to the days of famine when people didn't have enough to eat.
Chinese people push and shove, jump in
line, and in general look out for number one. I have never seen a
Chinese person hold open a door for someone else or give up their
place in line. Americans are outraged by line-jumpers and consider
pushing past someone for the elevator an outright sin.
China is also full of spitting,
farting, and multiple other actions we Americans find abhorrent.
But. Culture is not just about
countries. I learned something this week. Culture can also be from
your family.
For example.
I don't usually say “please” or
“excuse me” to close family members. (My mother is dying of
shock and embarrassment right now, but hang in there, Mom, I have a
point.) To me, based on my family experience, “excuse me” is
very formal. Very polite. Something you absolutely do with people
you are not as thick as thieves with, but not necessarily with your
dad or sister or husband.
Dad and I cooked a lot in the kitchen
when I was a teenager. If I was chopping onions at the counter and
Dad needed something in the drawer I was standing in front of, he'd
pat my hip in a nonverbal “hey I need to get in there, would you
mind stepping aside for just a moment? Thanks” and yes, I got all
that from a flick of his fingers. Did this insult me? Nope. It was
a sign of our closeness, evidence of our understanding of each other
that I didn't find this rude or annoying. It was normal.
Acceptable. And frankly, when you're carrying on a conversation,
it's nice not to have to interrupt each other for a social nicety.
I do this with my sister too. Mom, not
so much (here ya go, Mom) because she always tried to teach us
etiquette. I even seem to recall the purchase of a book on the
subject that she read to us at the dinner table. Poor Mom, she had
an audience who were talking with their mouths full, leaning on
elbows, and reaching across each other for butter or salt and pepper.
But she never stopped trying. (Props to Mom, you can stop blushing
now!)
“Please” has always been a kind of
understood thing with me, too. I think it's in the voice, in the
tone, in the phrasing of the request. If said correctly, “hey, can
you pass the potatoes?” is as polite and unoffensive as “pardon
me, but my plate seems to be lacking in the potato area, would you
mind ever so much passing them this way when you have a moment,
please? They are currently residing at your left elbow.”
That's my family culture, despite my
mother's best efforts.
My husband disagrees.
“Please” and “excuse me” are
non-negotiable to him. It's pushy to budge him out of my way in the
kitchen and disrespectful to leave off the “please”. What I take
as signs of closeness, to him are not only irritating but possibly
relationship-damaging. His favorite argument is that if you need to
hear an “I love you” even though you know good and well that
person loves you, then you need to hear a “please” or “excuse
me” even when you know that person is not intentionally being rude.
Family culture. Who knew?
This came up in a...um,
conversation...this weekend and has instigated a great deal of
thought on my part. Living in a completely different culture exposes
us to opposite ways of thinking on a daily basis, but it's still
somehow surprising to see it in each other.
I'd love to end this post with a really
deep thought or genius conclusion. I have none. However, I do know
that I will be making an attempt to finally make my mom proud and
re-learn the p's and q's of etiquette.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Never Talk to Strangers
One of the things about Chinese culture is their obsession with children. Especially foreign children. I'm not sure how things were before the one-child law, but children are treated royally here. Thus the term "little emperors".
But even more than the shameless spoiling of Chinese children, Connor gets doted on everywhere we go. Shouts of "hello baby!" plague us whenever we step foot outside. Old women come up and touch his hair. Shop owners give him candy and call him handsome. Chinese parents perpetually tell me that he is too cold. Old men take him by the hand. Students try to pull him away from me.
This is not good. Yes, I like that he's liked, but really it's just that he's a novelty. One of my students told me that Chinese people see foreign children as little dolls because they're so different. She didn't understand why Americans don't see Chinese children that way. It took a long time to explain that it's because our culture is diverse. We have plenty of Asian babies in America.
Anyway. I do not enjoy having people I don't know come up and try to take Connor away from me. I don't believe that anyone would do him any harm, but it's a matter of respecting a parent's wishes and the child's feelings. They don't do this to Chinese children, so why do they think it's okay to do it to mine? Connor does not like this unless he's in the mood to meet new people. Most of the time he freaks out when someone tries to take his hand and pull him away, and rightly so! Besides, I would never allow this in America, so I certainly won't allow it here just because they think my child is a doll.
So there's this book that I remember from my childhood called Never Talk to Strangers. It's so cute, with different animals that you don't talk to because they're strangers, like the camel hanging from a trapeze by his bony knees or the whale driving the automobile. Of course, the book goes on to explain that you can talk to your parents' friends because they know them and the Easter Bunny's okay too because everyone knows him. It doesn't sound special, but it is. We bought this book for Connor when we were in America this winter, and he loves it. We were walking through campus today and a group of students came up and "hello baby"d him. Connor grabbed my leg and buried his face into it, saying, "Strangers! I don't talk to strangers!" The students were instantly discouraged to try anything further.
Bravo! Lesson learned. Although, perhaps it was learned a little too well. I was explaining to Connor why he could not play with something yesterday and he didn't like what I was saying, so he said, "No, Mama, you can't talk to me, you're a stranger. I don't talk to you. Stop talking, Mama."
Sigh. Sometimes I wish he wasn't quite so clever.
But even more than the shameless spoiling of Chinese children, Connor gets doted on everywhere we go. Shouts of "hello baby!" plague us whenever we step foot outside. Old women come up and touch his hair. Shop owners give him candy and call him handsome. Chinese parents perpetually tell me that he is too cold. Old men take him by the hand. Students try to pull him away from me.
This is not good. Yes, I like that he's liked, but really it's just that he's a novelty. One of my students told me that Chinese people see foreign children as little dolls because they're so different. She didn't understand why Americans don't see Chinese children that way. It took a long time to explain that it's because our culture is diverse. We have plenty of Asian babies in America.
Anyway. I do not enjoy having people I don't know come up and try to take Connor away from me. I don't believe that anyone would do him any harm, but it's a matter of respecting a parent's wishes and the child's feelings. They don't do this to Chinese children, so why do they think it's okay to do it to mine? Connor does not like this unless he's in the mood to meet new people. Most of the time he freaks out when someone tries to take his hand and pull him away, and rightly so! Besides, I would never allow this in America, so I certainly won't allow it here just because they think my child is a doll.
So there's this book that I remember from my childhood called Never Talk to Strangers. It's so cute, with different animals that you don't talk to because they're strangers, like the camel hanging from a trapeze by his bony knees or the whale driving the automobile. Of course, the book goes on to explain that you can talk to your parents' friends because they know them and the Easter Bunny's okay too because everyone knows him. It doesn't sound special, but it is. We bought this book for Connor when we were in America this winter, and he loves it. We were walking through campus today and a group of students came up and "hello baby"d him. Connor grabbed my leg and buried his face into it, saying, "Strangers! I don't talk to strangers!" The students were instantly discouraged to try anything further.
Bravo! Lesson learned. Although, perhaps it was learned a little too well. I was explaining to Connor why he could not play with something yesterday and he didn't like what I was saying, so he said, "No, Mama, you can't talk to me, you're a stranger. I don't talk to you. Stop talking, Mama."
Sigh. Sometimes I wish he wasn't quite so clever.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Blow Me Away
So I think we've established that this semester thus far has been rough. We've lost some of the kids who've been Studying with us, we've hit roadblocks in the form of big exams, and we've been discouraged.
Here's the good news.
One of the Sisters, Cen Zi Lin, and one of my favorite Seekers, Hao Hao went with me to eat some barbecue tonight. Cen Zi Lin is the only Family member to date who's been able to stand up against peer pressure. She is such a strong kid, especially for still being a babe in Him.
Hao Hao is the girl who, when studying one of Paul's letters with me, saw the reference to Timothy, asked questions, and came back the next week having also read Paul's letters to him. Just because. And when a lot of the kids show up having not completed the chapter or so I asked them to read ahead of time, that's a big deal.
These girls have been super busy preparing for the crucial TEM-4 English exam and haven't been able to commit to a weekly study with me. I had, up until tonight, been super frustrated and upset about that, feeling like I was wasting all my time while all the girls I'd been studying with spent their time in the library.
And then, while we were walking to the restaurant tonight, they tell me that they've been Studying TOGETHER. They took the initiative to find time together when they couldn't commit to a study time with me. They told me all about how they were studying about Ruth and what they learned from this woman of faith.
I was blown away. Here I was, moping and stressing about the situation, and they've been doing exactly what they should be. The Sister is out there producing crops of her own. The Seeker is dedicated enough, even in the frantic exam-preparing mode, to take the time to learn the most important things.
Maybe we have been doing our job, after all.
Here's the good news.
One of the Sisters, Cen Zi Lin, and one of my favorite Seekers, Hao Hao went with me to eat some barbecue tonight. Cen Zi Lin is the only Family member to date who's been able to stand up against peer pressure. She is such a strong kid, especially for still being a babe in Him.
Hao Hao is the girl who, when studying one of Paul's letters with me, saw the reference to Timothy, asked questions, and came back the next week having also read Paul's letters to him. Just because. And when a lot of the kids show up having not completed the chapter or so I asked them to read ahead of time, that's a big deal.
These girls have been super busy preparing for the crucial TEM-4 English exam and haven't been able to commit to a weekly study with me. I had, up until tonight, been super frustrated and upset about that, feeling like I was wasting all my time while all the girls I'd been studying with spent their time in the library.
And then, while we were walking to the restaurant tonight, they tell me that they've been Studying TOGETHER. They took the initiative to find time together when they couldn't commit to a study time with me. They told me all about how they were studying about Ruth and what they learned from this woman of faith.
I was blown away. Here I was, moping and stressing about the situation, and they've been doing exactly what they should be. The Sister is out there producing crops of her own. The Seeker is dedicated enough, even in the frantic exam-preparing mode, to take the time to learn the most important things.
Maybe we have been doing our job, after all.
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