Only two columns ago, I announced that Elsa and I would be here for "dot dot dot." We were settling into a semi-permanent life here, at least until Elsa neared secondary school age. Then I received an e-mail from a friend. Stranded in the Gobi desert (relationship-wise) for as long as I had been, she had recently met someone.

This hit me like the defining coin placed in a fairground arcade slot machine. Underneath the freedom, the adventure and – even after four years – the invigorating novelty of our life here, a quiet dissatisfaction had been building unnoticed. Years of singledom in Beijing’s dating wasteland, the inevitability of always being an outsider, the distance from grandparents, siblings and friends back home – all at once, these issues came clattering down, with the suddenness of a jackpot shooting down into the slot machine tray.
Looking back, I can see the signs. The fervent redecorating, the rabbit, the dog – all were attempts to create a feeling of permanence and family. But they were just sticking plaster.

I have always believed in following your own path and finding happiness for yourself, rather than seeking it out in others. That’s what took me to China in the first place. It has proven an incredible experience – in fact, these past years have been the undisputed highlight of my life, for which I feel so lucky. But I want more. I want someone to share my life with. I want the chance to have more children. Although these things could happen here, at nudging 40, I’m convinced, rightly or wrongly, that a return to the UK offers better odds.
I’m a bit embarrassed when people ask why we’re leaving. It’s tempting to invent a bland cover story, but I like to be honest. We all have our hidden vulnerabilities and perhaps sharing mine will help someone else feel better about their own.

So on April 5, Elsa and I will be starting a new life for ourselves back in Bristol, a laid-back city in the southwest of England’s green and pleasant land. There’s a lot to sort out, not least Elsa’s education. To ensure pole position on school waiting lists, we’ve been advised to live as close to our preferred school as possible. My new street directory boasts a heavy black circle with a quarter-mile radius around the targeted school’s postcode. Favorite streets are highlighted in yellow. Property agents have been forewarned and Internet alerts ping daily into my inbox. My mother, bless her, has even pushed flat-seeking adverts through doors in the immediate vicinity. Unfortunately I discovered too late that my carefully prepared notices had been liberally adorned with little gold stars. Mum, 70 this year, loves stickers even more than Elsa.

Trickier than securing a school and a flat is keeping Elsa’s Mandarin alive. Unlike mine – in true face-saving fashion I habitually dock off two years when asked how long I’ve lived here – Elsa’s Mandarin is definitely worth maintaining. A live-in Chinese-speaking student or au pair would be the best solution, but selfishly I worry about losing my privacy. So I’m hoping that a Chinese babysitter, a suitcase bulging with Xi Yang Yang DVDs and hopefully, an annual visit from ayi will prove sufficient.

Whatever the obstacles, if there’s one thing living in China has taught me, it’s that there’s always a solution. With less than six weeks to go as I write this, I’m determined to quietly enjoy the time left and not stress too much about what lies ahead.

As my China chapter nears its end, an adventure waits in the wings for another single mum. This week I became acquainted with a woman who’s currently in the United States. She found my email and asked if we could speak on Skype. We talked for over an hour about the life she could lead here with her 7-month-old son. Maybe it’s fanciful, but it gave me a sense of resolution – like I was passing a very precious baton into kindred hands. I hope she comes to Beijing.

Sarah Cooper came to Beijing over four years ago when her daughter Elsa was 3 months old. She would like to thank beijingkids readers for their interest and support, which has been very much appreciated. Please keep in touch with Sarah via her website and blog: www.cowsfrommywindow.com.

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.

And now I can see this family trait coming out in poor Elsa. The other night, long after I thought she’d fallen asleep, I heard a muffled bleating emanating from her room.

“What’s the matter, darling?” I enquired solicitously, poking my head around the door.
“Mummy, Mummy!” Elsa cried, “When I’m a grown-up, I won’t know how to cook!”
“But of course you will, sweetheart,” I responded. “I will teach you long before then.” Elsa looked unconvinced (smart girl) but did allow me to shut the door again.
Five minutes later …

“Mummy, Mummy! When I’m a grown-up, I won’t know when clients are coming.”
“Yes, you will. They will call you to make an appointment,” I reassure her, deciding it was beside the point to explain that many different career choices were open to her.

“But Mummy, I won’t know how to use the telephone.” And so it continued. My daughter has developed an acute phobia about all things adult.

How has this happened? I suppose I can blame the Cooper genes for some of it. But has my parenting style unwittingly added to Elsa’s anxieties? I say “parenting style” as if I’d given a lot of thought to it – perhaps the go-with-what-feels-right-at-the-time approach is not laid-back, but instead lazy and part of the problem.

And what about ayi? With my amateur psychology hat on, I’d guess that encouraging a child to develop a strong sense of independence and confidence in their abilities is key – but I hadn’t noticed ayi particularly babying Elsa. True, it’s a battle to get Elsa to dress herself every morning. Yes, the concept of tidying her room appears less than appealing: “It’s boring for me, Mummy.” And OK, ayi does try to sneak in the odd sweet/biscuit/lollipop/ice-cream for her little angel. But aren’t these trials just par for the course? Aren’t children supposed to treat you like some lowly servant put on this planet to instantly satisfy their every tiny, bizarre and unreasonable wish?

I guess I should chill out. After all, there are areas where Elsa seems supremely confident. She is certain that my favorite color is yellow (actually it’s not), that you drink cold water in summer and hot water in winter, that salmon turn orange when they die. And that Teddy is spelt “LOEIZHF.”

Moreover, it’s not like these childhood anxieties are permanently debilitating. These days, my brother’s bedroom walls bear not a trace of spray paint. And although my roast dinners leave a lot to be desired, and I can’t say I face the dentist with total equanimity, I have managed to get Elsa and myself on and off a large number of airplanes.

But just in case, perhaps I should start teaching Elsa how to make gravy.

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.”

It’s amazing what a difference this has made.  In September I finally set up my WFOE (wholly foreign-owned enterprise – one of the forms in which a foreigner can legally do business in China).  I’d procrastinated over it for years but in the end it was a lot less complicated than anticipated. Moreover I am now the proud owner of five red chops. Each is a different size and shape, to reflect its unique (and obscure) purpose.

This settling-in feeling also resulted, as you know, in a rabbit for Elsa. Oh, Blackie. Who could have foretold that a 4-month-old bunny would prove more hassle than forming a

Chinese company? Fluffy, loveable companion on the one hand, and fiendish destroyer of all things electrical on the other.

After losing internet connection three times in one week, thanks to Blackie’s fondness for telephone wire, I hired a man to create new sockets and re-route all the wiring in the living room.  Not to be thwarted, Blackie promptly transferred her affections to my headphones, severing the cord of two sets with a swift chomp. As I use headphones daily to Skype overseas clients, I had to make a panicked trip to Carrefour to procure an emergency supply – now locked out of harm’s way in the filing cabinet. (Not even Blackie’s well-exercised gnashers can penetrate steel.)

The most exciting outcome of my mindset shift however is undoubtedly the decision to get a puppy.  Again, I’d dithered about this for a long time. In fact I recall weighing up the pros and cons in this magazine 18 months ago. But having been broken into pet ownership by Blackie (alias the Black Beast of Beixinqiao), I was sure a dog could only be eaiser.

The penultimate nail was driven in the coffin a month ago when a friend rescued an abandoned puppy. He integrated into their family’s life with remarkable ease (and no negative wiring consequences), despite the fact that they live four floors up in a building with no lift. If my friend could cope, I could, too.

Another friend hammered the final nail by telling me about a litter of puppies born just two days previously.  Their human mother emailed me the photos, and there was no going back. Elsa and I visited them at three weeks’ old. Part dachshund, part spaniel, part something uncertain but very hairy, they’d only recently opened their eyes and were wobbling around uncertainly like little old men somewhat the worse for drink. 

Elsa homed in on the tan-colored one, appropriately enough named Sandy.  So there you go. Me, myself, Elsa, Blackie the black rabbit and Sandy the sand-colored dog. Here for dot dot dot.

Sarah Cooper fulfilled a long-held dream by moving to Beijing when Elsa (3) was 3 months old. Sarah now coaches, runs workshops, writes and speaks about living and working off the beaten path (www.cowsfrommywindow.com).

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. 

What hasn’t been so idyllic, however, is the enormous amount of
renovation that surrounds us on all sides. Many of the neighboring courtyards are being rebuilt almost from scratch, and great swathes of hutong homes are being refitted for electric heating.

It’s good news in the long-term, of course, but the short-term downside is that piles of assorted debris are dumped regularly outside my front door. There they fester, until the next clear-up is due.

A couple of nights a week I’m awoken to the trundle of huge lorries, which appear mysteriously in the late hours, scoop up the offending mounds, then vanish – leaving beautifully (but sadly all too transiently) swept streets in their wake.  

Elsa is singularly unimpressed with this aspect of her new home, loudly remarking about the smell at every opportunity and repeatedly asking when we can move back to our old house. After a few weeks of our doorstep being used as the local rubbish dump, I was wondering that myself.
This called for drastic action. I decided to appropriate the outside space the length of my walls and saturate it with plants; the rubble would be forced to relocate.

Cycling down a parallel hutong with Elsa the other day, I’d spotted through a half-open door, a distant row of sturdy-looking, large-leafed plants that were ideal for the purpose. I actually had a similar one in my yard, which my landlord had reassured me was impossible to kill.

Unfortunately, my attempt at Laitai Flower Market to find this miracle plant failed. Defeated, Elsa and I set off for home. Our route took us again past our leafy neighbor. Well, why not? Parking the bike, I dragged a reluctant Elsa through the yard towards the coveted foliage I’d glimpsed from the road. There we discovered a tall iron gate, and on the other side, a glorious secret garden – a fertile, colorful jumble of flowers, vines, old pots and vegetables.

Pushing open the gate, we crept inside. An elderly lady – I later found out she was in her nineties – emerged from the house where she had been sleeping.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you ” I murmured, “but I wondered if I could buy some of your plants?” 
“No, no, I’ll give you some,” she replied graciously, as if foreigners turned up daily on her doorstep asking to buy up her garden.

A younger version of my benefactress appeared and started digging, and before I knew it, Elsa and I were bearing off an enormous specimen, which our new friend had assured us could be split four ways.
Now my own row of plants stands guard outside our home.

The hint has definitely been taken – the rubble is lurking at a much more acceptable remove, and I’ve secured a good few extra feet of frontage.

Sarah Cooper fulfilled a long-held dream by moving to Beijing when Elsa (3) was 3 months old. Sarah now coaches, runs workshops, writes and speaks about living and working off the beaten path (www.cowsfrommywindow.com).

Until now. Imperceptibly, over the past few months something has shifted. It’s been quite a while since I laughed with friends over a bizarre sighting, such as the businessman shaving in a passing taxi. (Are fewer random acts happening, or am I just not noticing it any more?) And I’m definitely missing the pre-Olympic construction fever. Call me perverse, but I actually liked picking my way down roads, side-stepping holes, ducking past welding sparks, and choking on the all-pervading dust. Having something to push against, metaphorically speaking, made me feel alive.

Holidays are always a good time to take stock. Writing this from my brother’s house in Australia, at a 4,000-mile remove, I ponder. Do the pluses of my and Elsa’s life in China still outweigh the minuses? And if not, then where to next? Home to England, across to Canada (I hold a passport thanks to my Canadian mother) – even making a new life Down Under has its temptations.

My brother Chris lives with his wife Sascha and two children, Leia (4) and Eddie (rising 2) in a small beachside village just north of Cairns. The five-minute walk to the local playground is lined with palm trees and assorted brightly colored tropical plants. We meander along under sunny, pollution-free skies, accompanied by a rich chorus of exotic birds (or possibly frogs). It’s all very easy.

But the biggest plus of living here would be that Elsa could grow up with her cousins – as surrogate siblings, almost. In just the few short days they’ve been together, Elsa and Leia have already bonded, to the extent that they insist on sharing Leia’s tiny single bed each night. And Elsa has quickly cottoned on to the big sister role, treating the unfortunate Eddie on a par with the flies that constantly circle. “Go away, Eddie, shoo” she commands, with a dismissive flap of her hand. Making this extended family a more permanent affair is a seductive thought.

It’s clear what we’d gain, but what would we lose? My immediate thought is a selfish one: my freedom. I’m so lucky to be able to go out any evening I please. I’m no party animal, but if I don’t get out two or three times a week, I start entertaining classy fantasies about Tsingtao and pepperoni pizzas. I pace the flat, nose pointed resolutely north-eastward, a human compass with only one destination in mind: The Tree. And every time I visit family or friends it’s brought home to me that parents with real (i.e. non-ayi supported) lives can’t go out – or at least, not without the twin opposing evils – their kids or a hefty babysitting bill.

My pepperoni habit aside, I realize I’m not yet quite ready to throw in the China towel. I traveled more of the country on a three week holiday six years ago than I have since living here with Elsa; there are so many places I’d like to see with her. Elsa has lots of Chinese friends, not to mention an enduring love affair with ayi, but my integration is fairly pitiful. And I’m determined to crack the maddening language. If Elsa can do it, I can. It’s too embarrassing to be outperformed linguistically by a 3-year-old.

Until my characters are up to scratch then, it appears that dreams of cousin proximity or Canadian log cabins must go on hold. As for returning to the UK, in the words of that old Vera Lynn song, “There’ll always be an England.” However, my wistful attitude disappeared two hours after my return home, when Elsa and I toured a courtyard place near Ghost Street. It’s perfect! It looks like my decision to stay has been vindicated – and Elsa can finally have her rabbit.

 
Sarah Cooper fulfilled a long-held dream by moving to Beijing when Elsa (3) was 3 months old. Sarah now coaches, runs workshops, writes and speaks about living and working off the beaten path (www.cowsfrommywindow.com).

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).

The universal response to any mention of this dream, however, is to invite a screwed up face, an audible sucking of teeth and a response ringing with finality: “But it’s so cold in the winter.”

I know the winters are cold. Elsa and I have lived here through four of them now. And each year we boil in our overheated flat, whose centrally regulated heating system I am unable to turn off or down.

When Elsa was younger, I paid more attention to these cautionary words. I didn’t want to worry about her freezing in the night. It would have been a pain dashing to an outside loo constantly in the toilet training stage. And it couldn’t be good for her to breathe in the mounds of coal dust we would produce in an attempt to keep warm.

But now at nearly 4, Elsa is a lot hardier, in full control of her bladder, and many of the courtyards have been converted to electrical heating. And I’m fed up with opening windows when there’s snow outside. So this spring I have resolved to listen no more to tales of winter woe. I will not be deterred! Let the hunt for the hutong home begin.

In fact, Elsa and I have already checked out two potential courtyard houses. The first was in a quiet hutong close to the laid-back cafes and boutique-style shops of nearby Nanluogu Xiang. Conscious of my fairly modest budget, I’d breezily assured the agent that I’d happily do up a run-down place. In fact I preferred run-down, I assured him – it had more charm.

He took me at my word. Charm there was in abundance, at least in the outside space. The enormous shared yard boasted rusty bicycles, bird cages hanging from the trees, mangy cats slinking through the undergrowth and even a patch of garden (yes, real earth, in Beijing!) for Elsa to dig in. Perfect. But inside, we found draughty high ceilings, a poky, squalid bathroom, and a kitchen that was little more than a lean-to shed.

Despite my confident assurances, I’m not actually that handy in the home improvement area. I freeze like a rabbit caught in headlights when entering DIY stores like B&Q. Swallowing my pride, I admitted that this was perhaps a project too far.

The agent was most understanding, and the next courtyard house we saw could not have been more different. Each room had been tastefully decorated, with pleasing neutral wall paint, and classy dark stone floor tiles. Amazingly, the bathroom didn’t need any renovation beyond putting in a tub, for which there was ample space. The kitchen too was roomy and clean. And to top it all, adorning the siheyuan walls were landscape scenes richly painted in gold, blues and greens: quality work by a local university professor, the owner proudly told me.
So why wasn’t I thrilled? Partly because the house was clearly out of my budget. I’d known that before agreeing to view it, hoping to negotiate hard. It was obvious, though, that this place was worth the asking price, or very near it. But the flatness I felt was about more than that.

Somehow, the perfection had destroyed the romance. Ducking out through the freshly painted, pristine red door, we passed through a narrow alley. I glanced at the nearest neighbour’s house. Faded curtains hung at the window and broken plant pots fell in a tumble around the door. I felt a little empathetic tug.

To my long-suffering agent I explained, in true “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” fashion, that the first courtyard home had required too much work. But the second had needed too little. I was looking for one that was just right. Sarah Cooper 

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.

I knew the evening was likely to be an extended family affair. Fortunately, several months back I’d had the forethought to ask Ayi to draw up a family tree. (Both her husband and daughter have impossible-to-remember names, so with an uncustomary spark of genius, I had re-elicited this key information under the guise of inquiring after the wider family). Rushing home, I just had time to cram over 20 impenetrable names into my short-term memory before Ayi turned up to ferry me to the waiting guests.

An hour of intense traffic later, we arrived at the sister-in-law’s. As predicted, I was enthusiastically welcomed by Baoying, her husband, her daughter, Ayi’s husband, Ayi’s mother-in-law, the brother of someone I didn’t quite catch, and four random neighbours. Elsa greeted me somewhat less warmly, shooting me a dark look that said quite clearly, “This is my turf.”

Ayi lost no time in showing me around. I admired each room, dutifully concurring that Baoying’s bathrooms were a step up from mine. (Yes, Ayi, both of them.) And I was touched to see that photos of Elsa adorned almost every surface.

After my guided tour, I was given pride of place at the dining room table. Three hundred jiaozi were brought out – they’d been cooking since midday – and my glass filled with a suspicious-looking red wine.

“Chi fan, he jiu,” instructed the wizened mother-in-law seated to my right. In other words, eat up and drink up. “Gan bei!” endorsed the man of the house, clinking my glass with his baijiu-filled teacup. And then the conversation got underway.

“Can she understand us?” asked a neighbor. “No, not much,” pronounced Baoying, who’s been on the receiving end of my faltering Chinese a few times before. “Oh, I don’t know,” countered her husband, “I think she does a bit.” My head swivelled round dizzily as I glanced from speaker to speaker like one of those irritating nodding toy dogs.

I tried out a few feeble jokes. “Oh thanks, but what are you all going to eat?” I quipped when the heaving mound of jiaozi was placed on the table directly in front of me. They found me gratifyingly hilarious. “Ha ha ha! Chi fan, he jiu,” repeated the mother-in-law. “Gan bei!” exclaimed the husband.

A couple of hours later we’d made a decent dent in the jiaozi pile, polished off the red wine, and all become firm friends. My family tree recall was hopelessly scrambled, but it didn’t seem to matter. The men drifted off to play mahjong and us ladies retired to eat nuts on the sofa. Elsa, embarrassed by my attempts to speak Chinese, continued to devote her full attention to Ayi.

Eventually, it was time to head home. It was pitch-black outside and the path to the car was not well lit. Ayi – who refuses to wear glasses even though she can’t read a thing without them – took my arm solicitously. “I’ll help you,” she said kindly, “I know your eyes are bad.”

Once back, I dispatched Elsa, bath-less, to bed before crawling, exhausted, under my duvet. I was pleased to have finally been accepted into Ayi’s inner circle. And as a bonus, the oversized doggy bag that accompanied my departure would see us through lunch for the next week.

Sarah Cooper started her own career and personal coaching business (www.cowsfrommywindow.com) after coming to Beijing with 3-month-old Elsa, who is now going on 3 years old.

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.

I’m also worried that I wouldn’t feel the same way toward an adopted child as I do toward Elsa. I don’t have any doubts about loving them, but could it really go as deep?

When I first moved to China, I was a regular viewer of CCTV-9’s guest interview program “Up Close.” During an episode on adoption, a mother in the audience who had both natural and adopted children said that far from feeling differently, she felt such a bond with her adopted child that she could not imagine that he had not actually come from her own body. It was a lovely perspective that I had not considered before. So, I keep reminding myself that while my fear is a natural one, it needn’t reflect reality.

The third mental stumbling block relates to my motivation. A big part of my reason for adopting would be to give Elsa a brother or sister. But shouldn’t I want children simply for their own sake – in their own right? And perhaps Elsa doesn’t even want a sibling – another child would change our small family’s dynamics pretty radically.

These thoughts had been stewing around unresolved in my head for far too long. Finally last week I made a modicum of progress. Elsa and I were in the Blue Zoo underwater viewing tunnel when we bumped into a gorgeous Chinese girl with her mother. The little girl looked just like the younger sister I had imagined for Elsa. (As far as I know single parents can’t currently adopt Chinese children, but for some reason I’ve always had a clear mental picture of her with an Asian sibling.)

Although I do it periodically, I hate bringing up the subject of fathers or siblings with Elsa in case it makes her sad. I’ve read that if you need to talk about something tricky with children, you should pick a time when you’re not directly facing each other – like when you’re driving – as it reduces the pressure.  So I decided the aquarium’s moving walkway was too good an opportunity to miss. 

Fixing my eyes determinedly on a passing stingray, I casually asked, “Elsa, would you like a brother or sister one day?”  “Yes,” she instantly informed an incredibly ugly blue fish. “Two meimeis.”

Help! Twins had not even crossed my mind. But having discussed the subject with Elsa, I feel a lot better. I’m going to slowly start investigating.   

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.

Still, if I have to play the mother, it at least appears to be an easier part this time around. Elsa has been far more amenable to the idea of school than I ever was. Of course, she’d been pretty thoroughly primed: For weeks I’d been going on and on about how wonderful the local kindergarten’s lunches are. (Elsa isn’t one to neglect her stomach.) When the big day came, she was barely out of her pajamas before heading for the door. As I walked with her to the optimistically named Sweet Angel Kindergarten, she looked the picture of her Chinese compatriots, with an obligatory pink Mickey Mouse rucksack perched proudly on her back.

Imagine then my shame when we got to the gate only to be turned away.  I had not understood that Elsa needed a medical check-up before they would admit her. We were given an incomprehensible form and sent to the local hospital. Elsa was distraught, her long-anticipated day ruined by my ineptitude. Mortified, I promised I would do my very best to get her back in time for the all-important lunch.

I should have known better. Sanlitun Hospital, in an antiquated building squeezed in between a police station and The Tree, was in chaos. Sparks flew around us as workers welded, and loose bundles of planks were hoisted up scaffolding, wobbling dangerously past our heads. Parking the bike, we headed inside, where it was safer but not much more orderly. Thankfully, another mother was there with her young daughter, a smiley girl in bright pink leggings, a little older than Elsa. They led us to the “reception,” where 3 kuai got us a stamp on the form and permission to proceed to an obscure room on the second floor.

For the next hour and a half we braved several more murky rooms, where Elsa was subjected to equally mysterious health checks. Most were fairly innocuous. I felt sorry for the lady who wanted to check Elsa’s teeth; she was no match for a 3-year-old’s tightly clenched jaw, but she good-naturedly accepted my assurances that Elsa did in fact have some gnashers. In the measuring room, I was disturbed to discover that Elsa was over one meter tall – it looks like the days of free admissions are numbered, unless I can teach her to bend at the knees. Only the blood test caused any real trouble, Elsa’s indignant wail a stark contrast to our stoic pink-legged friend, who’d gone whimper-less before her. Eventually our form was satisfactorily completed, and some fast pedaling got us back to the kindergarten gates just before the lunchtime deadline.

Since that first adventurous day, it’s all been smooth sailing.  Li laoshi is charming, the food is indeed good – if Elsa’s reports are anything to go by – and I’m looking forward to Elsa making some new Chinese friends. Best of all is going to collect her each day. I borrow Charlie, the next-door neighbor’s dog that we’ve semi-adopted, and wait outside the gates for my charge. As other mums gather to collect their offspring, I am reminded again of my new grown-up status. But with the hospital checks successfully navigated, I reflect smugly that perhaps motherhood isn’t really so hard.