Halloween has passed and I am nearly ready to tell the kids that their treats have been consumed in large (garbage-bag-sized) mouthfuls by hungry ghosts. The influx of sugar into the house has meant an ear-splitting spike of hyperactivity and misbehavior.

“He stole my candy!”

“She has more chocolate than me!”

(These are the types of phrases that inspire the imminent arrival of said hungry ghosts.)

“Generosity” or the adjective “generous” have been words I’ve used with the kids since they were babies. I like it better than the typical, urging word “share,” even though we as parents invariably tell our battling kids to “share,” by default, when Halloween candy wars start to invade household peace.

It’s not that sharing isn’t important as a concept; it’s more that generosity, to me, is about having the kindness to give without thinking about oneself. Sharing, on the other hand, is about giving some and keeping some. This may be easier for kids to comprehend and accept, but I’m not one to care about age-appropriateness when it comes to concepts. I tell my kids to “be generous” or “show generosity” because I want them to understand that when we give, we don’t always have to retain something for ourselves. We can just let things go. True giving is without the expectation of getting.

All that sounds nice, but after the overflow of Halloween follows the abundance of Christmas. How can we reinforce this concept of generosity when “getting” is what these two holidays seem to communicate to kids? No matter what, those hungry ghosts better come quick to strike an armistice to the candy wars so my children can narrowly avoid Santa passing judgment on the “naughty or nice.”

Recently, I talked to the kids again about the notion of charities and how there are many children in the world who never get Halloween candy or Christmas presents at all! (And not just because they don’t celebrate these festivals.) For kids, it’s really not easy to imagine the lives of other children who aren’t as lucky as they are.

So, I proposed a deal: with every Christmas gift they’d like to receive, one item from their toy boxes must be removed to be donated to charity. I explained that if some kids weren’t going to be getting presents this year, maybe it was time for my kids to be the givers themselves. They could be like Santa, I said.

This message got through. Already, they have sorted many toys they don’t play with anymore and would like to give away. The arguing about items has been kept to a minimum and they’re keen on making a trip to Roundabout before the holidays. What’s more, both kids are very proud that their stack of giveaway toys are much more numerous than the items on their wish list to Santa. Perhaps this means they’re getting closer to truly understanding the meaning of generosity after all.

Then, my nearly-eight-year-old daughter had a very interesting insight:

“Mommy?” she asked, “You know those hungry ghosts you say are going to come and eat our Halloween candy? Maybe they’re not really hungry. Maybe they just want to give our candy to kids who didn’t get any on Halloween?”

I smiled at her. She continued.

“But then we can’t call them hungry ghosts anymore.”

“Okay,” I answered, curiously. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this as I took in her mischievous smirk. “What should we call them, then?”

“GENEROUS GHOSTS!” she yelled out, laughing.

And so it was that Halloween finally ended. Merry Christmas to me!

KEEP READING: The Pack Off Your Back: Roundabout Announces a Backpack Drive!

Photos: beijingkids

About the Writer

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She has a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article first appeared in the beijingkids December 2019 Giving Back issue

Halloween has passed and I am nearly ready to tell the kids that their treats have been consumed in large (garbage-bag-sized) mouthfuls by hungry ghosts. The influx of sugar into the house has meant an ear-splitting spike of hyperactivity and misbehaviour.

“He stole my candy!”

“She has more chocolate than me!”

(These are the types of phrases that inspire the imminent arrival of said hungry ghosts.)

“Generosity” or the adjective “generous” have been words I’ve used with the kids since they were babies. I like it better than the typical, urging word “share,” even though we as parents invariably tell our battling kids to “share”, by default, when Halloween candy wars start to invade household peace.

It’s not that sharing isn’t important as a concept; it’s more that generosity, to me, is about having the kindness to give without thinking about oneself. Sharing, on the other hand, is about giving some and keeping some. This may be easier for kids to comprehend and accept, but I’m not one to care about age-appropriateness when it comes to concepts. I tell my kids to “be generous” or “show generosity” because I want them to understand that when we give, we don’t always have to retain something for ourselves. We can just let things go. True giving is without the expectation of getting.

All that sounds nice, but after the overflow of Halloween follows the abundance of Christmas. How can we reinforce this concept of generosity when “getting” is what these two holidays seem to communicate to kids? No matter what, those hungry ghosts better come quick to strike an armistice to the candy wars so my children can narrowly avoid Santa passing judgment on the “naughty or nice.”

Recently, I talked to the kids again about the notion of charities and how there are many children in the world who never get Halloween candy or Christmas presents at all! (And not just because they don’t celebrate these festivals.) For kids, it’s really not an easy to imagine the lives of other children who aren’t as lucky as they are.

So, I proposed a deal: with every Christmas gift they’d like to receive, one item from their toy boxes must be removed to be donated to charity. I explained that if some kids weren’t going to be getting presents this year, maybe it was time for my kids to be the givers themselves. They could be like Santa, I said.

This message got through. Already, they have sorted many toys they don’t play with anymore and would like to give away. The arguing about items has been kept to a minimum and they’re keen on making a trip to Roundabout before the holidays. What’s more, both kids are very proud that their stack of giveaway toys are much more numerous than the items on their wish list to Santa. Perhaps this means they’re getting closer to truly understanding the meaning of generosity after all.

Then, my nearly-8-year-old daughter had a very interesting insight:

“Mommy?” she asked, “You know those hungry ghosts you say are going to come and eat our Halloween candy? Maybe they’re not really hungry. Maybe they just want to give our candy to kids who didn’t get any on Halloween?”

I smiled at her. She continued.

“But then we can’t call them hungry ghosts anymore.”

“Okay,” I answered, curiously. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this as I took in her mischievous smirk. “What should we call them, then?”

“GENEROUS GHOSTS!” she yelled out, laughing.

And so it was that Halloween finally ended. Merry Christmas to me!

About the Writer

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She has a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article appeared in the beijingkids December 2019 Giving Back issue

Mommy, why don’t you take videos of us?” This is my son, skateboard tucked up under one arm in our compound’s courtyard, a look of curious judgment on his nearly-six-year-old face. His helmet is askew. His knees and elbows are bulging with protector pads, wispy bangs damp with skateboard exertion.

Is this a complaint?

I’ve just arrived back from a job to pick my kids up from their grandparents’ care. Apparently, their father had just left from a spontaneous visit. (I’m always happy to hear that he’s made time for them.)

“Daddy always takes lots of video and photos and then he puts them on his WeChat so everyone can see them!”

A request?

My day has been a kaleidoscope of freelance jobs and my band’s music recording work. Shortly I’ll take the kids back home, make them dinner, help them with homework, get them in bed, and then after the completion of the dishes, the life of a single mom continues into the evening with audio editing work until I’m too tired to stare at the screen. I am their primary caregiver, followed by their grandparents and then random visits from their dad who now lives across town. With this schedule, who has time for video posting?

Social media has seriously skewed our perceptions. It used to be that busy people were just unavailable. Eventually, the result of their hard work was revealed in completed projects or successful benchmarks. But now, in this social media day and age, a busy person is judged by how actively they post about their accomplishments. If you post all the time, you’re seen as busy. In fact, in my music career, it’s simply part of the job to promote and advertise gigs or albums or videos—and, frankly, it gets in the way. The very act of posting itself interrupts the work’s progress! See the catch-22? When you’re authentically busy, there’s no time for social media!

The same goes for parenting. Social media has created an environment in which parental engagement is judged by the frequency of posts that feature the kids. Lots of videos and photos showing a parent with their kids proves engagement. Infrequent posts of this nature suggest parental absence.

“I do take videos sometimes, honey,” I say to my son, trying not to reveal defensiveness. “It’s just that mommy doesn’t have a lot of extra time to…” but he is already over it. He’s on his board again and rolling away. My daughter yells for me to watch her do a crouching move. I smile and clap.

You see, to me, an engaged life with both work and kids is not something that can be proven via social media. It’s proven by living it, by being it. We’re all tempted to view WeChat or Facebook as a reflection of a person’s work or family’s dynamic, but it’s quite often an inverted view. Even in my case, the majority of my “WeChat Moments” are about my music, but the genuine majority of my life moments are about my kids.

My son’s initial question? I’ll go with: observation.

So, I lift up my phone and take a video of my two kids skateboarding. I’ll never post it. Extra time to edit it for length or add subtitles (etc.) is a luxury I can’t afford – too many other important things to do! But, it’s a “life moment” that has at least been documented. And I know that this video contains more than just a record; it’s filled with a mother’s fierce devotion to her family, regardless if it’s ever shared beyond the confines of my mobile phone.   

Photos: unsplash

This article appeared in the beijingkids November 2019 Beijing Baba issue

When the veterinarian haltingly emerged from the back room, a stricken look on her face, I knew parenting improvisation would be coming.

It was just before Christmas, three years ago. One of our cats had recently been put down and the kids, at the time just 5 and 3 respectively, were confused as to why the pet carrier had returned empty.

“But what does it mean to die, Mommy?”

We had two cats. Though their dad and I had already been separated for more than a year by this particular Christmas, both cats still lived with him while the kids spent the majority of time with me. I thought it was a fair deal. The cats were a feature at daddy’s house and, while I sometimes missed my furry friends, I was relieved to be with one less burden of responsibility.

When one of the cats became ill, their dad had been away for work and the moment of intervention came and went. Before long, the poor thing just couldn’t be saved. Sadly, the other cat also seemed to have lost weight and we mutually decided to take him in for a check up.

We walked into the vet’s in a festive mood. We weren’t often together as a four-person unit anymore, but on this drive we’d all been singing carols in the car and the kids were laughing and merry. The remaining cat was agitated to be out of the house, but with lots of cuddling and cooing, the kids and I managed to haul him out of the carrier and surround him with our familiar smells and touch during his check-up. The doctor was extremely professional and gentle. There was no cause for alarm.

A routine blood test in the back room later, however, and out she came with that blanched look of horror.

“He became so nervous that he spontaneously went into cardiac arrest,” she said. “We tried to save him but we couldn’t.”

He just… died. A heart attack. Only a week after the other cat had perished. Surreal.

“Where’s Husky?” my oldest asked, looking at me with her chocolate eyes wide with worry. “Well,” I said slowly, as their dad stormed out of the veterinarian office in a fury, “Seems he wanted to be with ‘Little One.’”

“But where’s ‘Little One’ after she died?” she asked again, still stumped. This is when I knew I had to shift gears—and fast. I turned to the vet and asked to see the cat. Out he came in a blanket. His eyes were still open, his body still slightly warm. He was already stiffening up: the perfect moment for a lesson on death.

The morbidity of our situation is almost funny, in that black humor kind of way, though that took me awhile to see. There I was, alone, with my two little people, both of them up on stools to look at the dead cat while I leaned over the examination table saying gravely: “This [pause]is death.” I explained that he had gone, got them to look in his vacant eyes to prove it, and told them no one really knows where the spirit goes, etc. I even let them touch him. They were fascinated. Not afraid or sad, just accepting of death as just another fact life delivers.

“Seems to me he died of a broken heart,” I said, to no one in particular.

Because, after all, lots of things die natural deaths. Love, marriages, cats. Yet, songs can still be sung in cars and Christmas can still feel festive with or without loved ones nearby, and plus or minus one (or two) with fur.

Nevertheless, I think we’ll stay pet-free for a few years yet.

This article appeared in the beijingkids October 2019 Family Foodies issue

“Okay, you must start with the placemats,” she said, in her lilting teacher voice.

“She” is my mother, standing beside their dining room table with both of my kids at her side. They are looking up at her, rapt, for what she considers to be a very important lesson: How to Set a Table.

This scene is from our Canada trip in July, our first family visit in two years. My mother (their grandmother) used to be a primary school teacher and, even though she is now retired and in her seventies, I never see her in her element quite so much as when she is teaching children. And my two, poised to start both grades one and two respectively, are absorbing her manner as naturally as a cob of corn takes in butter.

In preparation for the trip, the spring was spent talking at length about how dining habits are different in Canada. Iexplained that some Chinese table manners—while not considered rude in Asia—could possibly rile their Canadian grandparents.

Yet, in these discussions, I recognized, too, that (with the exception of smacking noises, which are strictly forbidden in my home regardless of geography), there are some ways in which even I have ceased to be Western at the dinner table: chopsticks and centrally shared dishes are more our default; the condoning of drinking liquid foods, like soup and zhou, direct from the bowl, for example. (In the first week of our trip, I had to remind the kids that Canadians use spoons!)

I don’t see much of a problem with all this, though. In the end, in this merged cultural swirl in which we find ourselves, we take what’s comfortable and reject what repels. Different rules for different countries; different rules for different households within those different countries. A balance.

Back to the scene:

“The napkin gets folded and put to the left of the plate,” my mother says. The kids dutifully fold napkins, racing each other to encircle the table to see who can place more than the other.

“Now, this is very important,” my mother says, pulling the kids’ attention back with a slightly raised volume and well-placed pause. They freeze and re-focus. “The fork goes on the left of the plate,” she says, placing one in demonstration.

“Now, how many letters in the word ‘left’? Let’s count them!”

My daughter is on it. She sounds it out. She holds up her fingers proudly and shouts, “FOUR!” Her grandmother beams.

“Yes! Very good. Four. And ‘fork’ also has four letters, F-O-R-K, so the fork goes on the left. That’s how you remember! Place each fork on top of the folded napkin, like this.” They mimic. The table gets laden with forks.

“The spoon and the knife,” she continues,“both go on the right! Why is that?Let’s count the letters in ‘spoon’ together!” (She does this for my son who is not quite at his sister’s spelling level.)

“S, P, O, O, N” she counts on raised fingers. They exclaim collectively: “5!”

“Now‘knife’ and ‘right’ also have five letters,” she says, subtly gracing over the silent letters in each word.

But, before they can place the rest of the cutlery, my daughter interrupts her “teacherly” grandmother with a very pertinent question that, for her, is the most obvious in the world. And with it, my mother is silenced and I find myself doubled over in laughter because, after all, there are no little English spelling rules to fully set a cross-cultural table like ours.

Her little excited voice cuts in:

“So, grandma, where do the chopsticks go, then?”

Photo Credits: Adobe 

This article appeared in the beijingkids September 2019 Family Foodies issue

It’s nearly bedtime and my kids are brushing their teeth. I overhear this discussion from the bathroom:

“My friend Amelia went to another guojia (country) and she’s never coming back ever, ever.”

“Oh! Last year, my friend Fuluolong went to Faguo [France] and he said, ‘Uhm, il ne va pas revenir non plus (he’s not coming back either).”

“Maybe one day we will go away to Canada, Mommy said.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, don’t tu (spit) on my side!…”

I’m listening to this from the kitchen, and since the conversation has deteriorated into an argument, I know I’ll have to intervene any second. But as I dry my hands, my thoughts are on the uniqueness of my children’s “third culture” lives.

They are speaking in their particular combination of three languages. English is their “mother tongue,” or the language I reinforce as the Anglo Canadian, but Chinese is their surroundings and the exclusive language of their grandparents and father. They’re attending the French international school, so they sometimes bounce into a partial French sentence, which I find amusing because of their France-French lilt against my (preferred) Quebecois accent. Nevertheless, with each other, they’re in a perpetual linguistic dance.

But their lives aren’t just unique because of language. They’re living here in Beijing and, like me, they deal with the regularity of friend disappearances. They’re so used to it, it’s just a casual conversation while brushing their teeth, and I wonder at how this will impact their abilities to bond with people throughout their lives. It’s shifted my own instincts around friendship after only a decade of expat living—and not in a very positive way—so I can only hope that my children are more resilient than I’ve been.

According to TCK (third culture kid) literature, children who experience a life surrounded by the transience of ex-patriotism learn to make friends more quickly but at a lesser depth so that the inevitable disappearance of these friends hurts less. This knowledge makes me sad for them. I hope I can always model close friendship even across distance.

But as I sort out their spitting argument and hustle them into PJs and eventually bed, I’m also still thinking about how lucky they are. They’re living a life geared up to be fully proficient in the world’s two most important languages: English and Mandarin. They’re also learning French, which makes them fully proficient in the country for which they hold a passport, not to mention fairly versatile globally, as well. What’s not to champion about knowing a romance language?

But, maybe more important is the consistent exposure to multiple cultures and societies. Our frequent returns to Canada (specifically Toronto: now deemed the world’s most diverse city by BBC radio) and their daily school life in Beijing at an international school that proudly states that in 2019 they “welcome 50 nationalities,” my kids are living a life incredibly rich in humanity.

The unique upbringing of any TCKs will bring challenges, such as a difficulty finding people to relate to, perhaps, or a tendency to think from a non-conventional angle thanks to these different lenses through which they have perceived the world at these young, impressionable ages; but, these skills and sensitivities—things that are second nature to them rather than accomplishments—will certainly provide more lift than burden to their respective futures.

As I tuck my two TCKs into bed, I feel a familiar comfort: they’ll always have each other. Beijing is home now, but ultimately, “home” is where your teeth get brushed, your spitting fights happen, where your loved ones are. No specific geography required.

About the Writer

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She has a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article appeared in the beijingkids May 2019 Identity issue.
Photo: Aleksandar Pasaric via Pexeks

After more than 10-years in Beijing, I’m still discovering it. Sure, when you’re based in the same housing compound for a decade, it’s normal to have some commonly frequented destinations. My beaten paths: it’s called routine. But, that’s doesn’t have to take the fun out of this city.

Weekends with my kids (7 and 5) are a special time. The daytimes, if not filled with play dates or birthday parties, give us a chance to really connect with each other. Even though there’s the weekly domestic work around the house to take care of, I find Saturday or Sunday afternoons always offer a pocket of time for card games or chess (their new addiction) or reading and/or homework review indoors. So, when the air is questionable, this tends to be our pattern.

But, about once a month, there’s an “adventure day.” They’re always so excited by this spontaneous announcement (as it’s weather pending) because we’ve all agreed that adventures have to be to places that none of us have ever been before.

Last spring, we went on a walking adventure around our neighborhood. We entered compounds that weren’t ours and explored their grounds and play areas. We took paths we had never followed, went into stores we’d never entered, etc. In the process, we discovered that one of the ritzy compounds next to ours raises two pet ducks. They’ve created a small water area and a little pen. Those ducks came right up to the fence to sniff our hands for food. The kids were thrilled! Imagine—ducks had been here all along and we’d had no idea! (Since then, we’ve visited these ducks a few times.)

This past fall, one of our adventures took us to a neighborhood north of Gulou to a vinyl record store with sofa-filled listening rooms. (Fusheng Changpian 福声唱片) The basement shop’s postered walls contained the paradoxical mixture of both vacant and fierce stares from Chinese rock stars over the past couple of decades. Originally, I’d come to discuss a band performance with the owner, but the kids had never played vinyl before and the spinning black discs held down by those fragile needles captured their full attention.

Sometimes we explore tourist sites that we’ve heard about but never seen before. The Minorities’ Village was one of those adventures. It was a warm fall afternoon a couple of years ago that we went there to finally check out those unique thatched rooftops I’d seen a hundred times when driving east across the northern stretch of the fourth ring road. The kids loved bounding in and out of the diverse houses and imagining living in them. “Where would you sleep?” was the game that day. (But good weather is a must since it’s mostly outdoors.)

This past weekend, our adventure was the Paleontology Museum across from the Beijing Zoo. They love dinosaurs and I found it cool too, maybe even more so because it wasn’t too large and overwhelming like most museums. My son, however, was disappointed.

“Mom! There’s nothing but bones!” he said, dragging his feet. I laughed. “Did you expect a dinosaur to come out and bite us?”  His expression proved he’d truly hoped for something so exciting!

“Adventure day” hinges on the unknown. Sometimes disappointing, sometimes fruitless—several destinations turned out to no longer exist—other times, it’s boring and the kids whine. But the overall lesson is this: never stop discovering your surroundings. I want the kids to be filled with curiosity. Thankfully, Beijing is the perfect playground for us, three urban explorers.

This article first appeared in the beijingkids April 2019 Exploring Beijing issue.
Photos: rawpixels.com via Pexels

Back in Toronto, I used to be a member of a local grocery co-op. It was a cute little shop hidden in the “hutongs” of the Annex district, mostly known through word-of-mouth. I loved this little treasure. Shopping there made me feel part of a movement for environmentalism, community and sustainability.

Then I moved to China, the land where recycling isn’t even built into the municipal infrastructure in a way that makes the consumer responsible (or liable) for their own waste. Watching the elderly dig through the garbage bins for sellable items, I often think wistfully of the “blue boxes” of my home city.

But China brought changes to my life far beyond the reaches of environmental practices: marriage, kids, expanded career, and divorce. My kids are now seven and five. The older they get the more the “days before kids” get a mythological, dream-like quality in my mind and this makes me a bit misty about that Toronto co-op—the days of an iron-hard conviction that conscious consumerism was the only way to make a statement. Money talks: stop buying wastefully and companies will no longer profit from unsustainable practices, right?

Now I understand that it isn’t just the companies’ fault; it’s the public’s own general apathy. Most people just don’t want to consider something as mundane as waste or how individual contributions towards a greener world make any kind of difference. I’ve heard this called willful ambivalence.

And, in a way, I feel guilty of this. Formerly rigid convictions became more malleable since kids. Like, I couldn’t keep them in reusable cloth diapers for long flights; I’ve winced but still purchased toys in packaging more dense than the toy itself; and, just recently, I mistakenly bought a large amount of pecans off Taobao that showed up as a big bag filled with dozens of little portion-packaged bags inside—a colossal waste of plastic.

It’s a sad truth that becoming a parent has sometimes meant living less sustainably rather than the other way around. They’re the future! They should make me all the more rigid, no? But fellow parents reading this will understand how difficult perfect adherence to all convictions can be when kids come along. In response, I’ve learned to appreciate what I can do rather than blaming myself for my failures.

So what’s the current focus? Teaching my kids these vital values so we can implement them as a team. We buy our fresh veggies from a family who sells at our compound entrance but has a farm on the edge of Beijing; that’s buying local. We grow herbs indoors; that’s homegrown organic farming. We keep an old egg carton that holds 18 eggs and buy loose eggs (in reused plastic bags); that’s waste reduction. We save our washing machine water for flushing the toilet; that’s water conservation. These may seem like little things, but they’ll remember.

Maybe I’m not always conscious of what’s happening in the forests of Tasmania anymore, but the inner community dynamics of my compound’s courtyard is clear. And despite being expats, we’re just as much a part of this intimate community as anyone else is. For me, raising little people in a way that makes the world a better place—even the small world of one Beijing apartment compound—has replaced conscious consumerism in my mind as the most powerful statement. I’m going to go on to say that parenting through the lens of sustainable living is probably the ultimate definition of “co-op.” And, happily, in this one, I’ll forever be a member.

About the Writer

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She has a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article first appeared in the beijingkids March 2019 Sustainability issue.
Photo: Adobe Creative Cloud

I am raising two kids here in Beijing as the only foreigner in the family dynamic. That means I represent the “foreign language” (English) and all of the “foreign ways.” Over the years, we have found a harmonious balance between Eastern and Western traditions, and now that their dad and I have split, my Chinese in-laws and I do a pretty great job of taking great care of Echo (7) and Paz (5). I’m eternally grateful to them.

I have noticed, however, a difference in etiquette standards, particularly verbally. My kids bark to their grandparents to get them water or to make certain foods and their doting Yeye and Nainai bounce up to their every whim. In Chinese culture, they argue, there is no need for niceties; i.e. such words as “please” or “may I” or “excuse me” contradict the natural intimacy that exists between family members. It creates awkwardness.

I’m not so sure I buy this. Surely acknowledging what people do for us (“thank you”) extends across cultures. And since I can’t fully drop my Canadian tendencies, I thank my in-laws when I feel genuinely grateful and it seems to please them—no awkwardness.

Nevertheless, when this carries over into English with the kids, it doesn’t work. Kids barking orders at their mother? No “please”? No “thank you”? Uh-uh. It’s not the way I was raised; these two children are learning that when switching a language, you also have to switch a set of cultural norms.

So recently, when my daughter said this to me, I was truly touched. My education is working:

“Thank you, Mommy, for the yummy dinner!”

“Oh, honey,” I said. “Thank you for thanking Mommy! That really warms my heart!” With this, I put one hand on my chest and gave her a loving smile.

She looked at me for a moment, frozen. Then she stood up, walked over and placed her hand on my chest too.

“Oh,” she said, eyes wide. “It is warm! Wow, your heart is warmed up now! Come didi! Feel mommy’s heart! Is yours warm?” (Hand on didi’s chest) “Nope, not as warm as mommy’s, look! Touch it! I made it warm!”

I watched this scene silently, completely amused and immeasurably moved. And, remembering this moment made me smile for days.

A couple of weeks later, we were outside walking and witnessed a child picking something up for an elderly man. I used the expression again (“heartwarming”) and my daughter immediately looked up at me, excited.

“Can I feel it, Mommy? Can I feel your heart?”

I stopped walking and turned to her. “You can close your eyes and feel what ‘heartwarming’ means in your own heart, honey, without your hands.” She didn’t quite get this. I went on to explain. “When we do nice things for people, say nice things, or just act politely and kindly, it makes people feel good…right here!” I poked her in the chest and then kissed the top of her head.

She nodded, “Yeah, me too!” And she pointed to her heart. It had made sense to her.

“Exactly,” I said. “The kinder we are to people, the more we make people feel that nice feeling makes us feel nice too. So, everyone’s heart is warm on the inside!”

That night, with a giant, dramatic “xie xie, nai nai!” my daughter spontaneously thanked my mother-in-law for dinner. Her grandmother beamed and praised her for being so grown up.

Then she looked at me and said this in English before throwing her head back with a giant kid laugh: “That’s a Chinese heartwarmer!”

About the Writer

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She has a daughter called Echo (벌흔寧) and a son called Topaz or “Paz” (벌各질).

This article first appeared in the beijingkids December 2018 Charity and Goodwill issue.
Photo: Adobe Creative Suite