Sarah Cooper
Brave Acts
In my teens I was very shy. Standing on the threshold of the “grown- up world,” many things seemed to present insuperable barriers to entry. Getting on a plane by myself, going to the doctor alone (never mind the dentist), cooking a roast dinner for friends - I couldn’t conceive of a time when I would feel comfortable accomplishing even such minor tasks.
I dubbed these terrifying activities “Brave Acts” and strove diligently - if slowly and painfully - to master them. Such was their number that over the years the phrase Brave Acts (always spoken capitalized) became embedded into our family’s vocabulary.
It wasn’t just me who suffered in this way. My brother Chris, sandwiched between two sisters and suffering from classic middle child syndrome, spray-painted his bedroom wallpaper with reinforcing, shiny silver messages: “The Amazing C Cooper,” “DON’T PANIC!” and other wise extracts from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Putting Down Roots
November holds a special sentimental place in my heart. Elsa and I first arrived in Beijing four years ago this month. I remember us getting off the plane clad in our thickest coats, scarf and mittens. I was determined to prove I was no naïve English fool: We were prepared for the harsh Chinese winter.
It was one of those crisp sunny days you sometimes get at this time of year and my friend met us in a T-shirt.
I’d only planned to stay in Beijing to the end of my maternity leave, a mere three months away. But before I knew it I had a flat/job/ayi, an insatiable craving for bing and a stock (and rolling) answer to the inevitable how-long-are-you-here-for question: “Oh, another one or two years.”
At some point between our third and fourth year that response changed. I found that living with a hovering end-point made it hard to make decisions or put down real roots. So I took off the arbitrary time brakes. My new reply is, “We are here for dot dot dot.”
Flower Power: Elsa and her mum beautify their rubbish problem
Attentive readers will recall that a few months ago Elsa and I moved in to a courtyard home, a couple of hutongs south of Ghost Street.
Getting to know my Chinese neighbors and their traditional way of life, outdoor dining in a vine-covered yard, proximity to beer and baozi – these were the seductive images that had sustained my three-year search.
On the whole, I haven’t been disappointed. I do have a vine-covered yard, where Elsa delights in playing with her new rabbit Blackie. The local baozi lady is now so well-trained that I don’t even need to get off my bike; she comes out onto the street and plops our steaming breakfast into my basket as we speed on smoothly to kindergarten.
And, the piece de resistance: there’s a hole-in-the-wall fruit shop selling Tsingtao that’s so close to our house I treat it as a remote fridge – just popping outside when I fancy a beer of an evening.
The Grass Is Always Greener
I count myself fortunate that I never experienced the infamous culture shock “U-curve.” Supposedly, the typical newly arrived expat rollercoasters from a honeymoon high, down through disorientation and adjustment before finally climbing back up to a wiser, more stable place. But I’ve never made it out of the honeymoon stage. Off The Beaten Path: Elsa and her mum search for a hutong home
We British are often accused of being obsessed with the weather. Yet I have to say that the people I’ve met here – local and foreigner alike – make us beleaguered Brits look positively disinterested. For three years I’ve toyed with the idea of moving into a courtyard home. Oh, the romance of it. Having our very own red door. The private yard complete with ancient date tree. Living cheek by jowl with our Chinese neighbors (who dote on Elsa, naturally).
Meeting Ayi’s Family
A few weeks ago I received an unexpected phone call. I was running a workshop in Shunyi and we had just stopped for lunch when I saw “Ayi” flash on my mobile screen. Ayi never calls. So I immediately worried that something was amiss with Elsa.
But no. Ayi was issuing an invitation to eat jiaozi that evening at her sister-in-law Baoying’s place. Although I consider Ayi and I to be quite close after almost three years of her taking care of Elsa, I’m ashamed to say that this is the first such invitation I have received. (Unlike me, my daughter was welcomed into the fold long ago, and is a regular visitor at the sister-in-law’s, as she was on this day.) Aware of the honor of this request, I accepted instantly – although with a bit of regret, as I’d eagerly anticipated a vegetative night in with a gin and tonic and trashy DVDs.
The Adoption Question
Does Elsa want a sibling?
For a couple of years now I’ve been toying with the idea of adopting. I would love Elsa to have a brother or a sister. I have one of each, and have developed a theory that as adults we naturally seek to replicate the family size we grew up with. This theory has as its scientific basis my mother’s habit of setting six places at dinner. She grew up as one of four siblings, and obviously felt that in producing a mere three children, she and my father were left one short of a full set.
As a single parent, my options are somewhat limited. I have friends who have gone the sperm donation route, but although I’d love more of my own children, having Elsa has satisfied at least 90 percent of the biological urge. Adoption seems therefore the best solution, but I’ve been finding it hard to decide whether to go ahead. At the moment, it’s relatively easy to balance work with time for Elsa. When I’m not working, I can focus on her in a way that would be impossible with a second child claiming my attention. And we’re actually very happy as things are, so do I really want to tempt fate? As it is, I don’t always feel I deserve such happiness, knowing that Elsa will probably suffer later as she comes to grips with not having a father. Part of me worries that I’m overreaching, risking what we have by seeking more.
Mum's Identity Crisis
Elsa goes to kindergarten
One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mother carting me around to various playschools in the neighbourhood, trying to find one I’d stay at without bawling. So it was disconcerting to find myself introducing Elsa to her local kindergarten last week. My daughter is now doing things I can recall experiencing myself. So if she’s taken on my old role, I must be … the mum.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that I’d have noticed this earlier. Childbirth is not exactly something you forget. But until my faded memories collided with Elsa’s current reality, I had somehow remained in denial. Mothers are responsible. They know how to fix things. They are old. I’m definitely having a delayed identity crisis.
Nappie Time (Again): Elsa wets the bed
Elsa’s transition to sleeping dry through the night started off promisingly, a happy if unexpected result of my poor household planning. Several months ago, I discovered just before her bedtime that I had completely run out of nappies. Too embarrassed to cart a pajama-clad Elsa down to the store for yet another last minute purchase, I instructed my long-suffering child that she would have to manage without. To my amazement, this cold turkey approach actually worked. The bed was accident free the next morning, and – until recently – we never looked back.
Perhaps I displeased some higher power by boasting once too often of Elsa’s talents in the toilet department (“got the hang of it first go you know, and still only two”). Or perhaps Elsa herself decided this had been a premature move. But the events that shortly unfolded held true to the universally acknowledged child-rearing law: Just when you think you’ve got parenting sussed your child will delight in proving you wrong.
Nappie Time (Again)
Elsa Wets the Bed
Elsa’s transition to sleeping dry through the night started off promisingly, a happy if unexpected result of my poor household planning. Several months ago, I discovered just before her bedtime that I had completely run out of nappies. Too embarrassed to cart a pajama-clad Elsa down to the store for yet another last minute purchase, I instructed my long-suffering child that she would have to manage without. To my amazement, this cold turkey approach actually worked. The bed was accident free the next morning, and – until recently – we never looked back. 
