“Bye mom!” He took his sister’s hand and got on the bus.
It was me gulping back the tears. I had just bundled my son off for his first year of kindergarten and he just smiled and waved. I waved back but I felt a hollowness in my gut. To be honest, it’s not the separation that had me choked up. Frankly, I’ve been looking forward to having both kids in school. My gulp was mostly about food:
The canteen.
Canteens are notoriously terrible. That doesn’t mean my kids eat terrible food at their school—The French International School of Beijing—and nor is the stereotype of “terrible cafeteria food” fair to apply to every school.
“Mommy, they put chicken on my plate today.”
This was the first sentence from my son’s lips when he returned from the second day. I gulped again.
“What did you do, honey? Did you eat it?” (Breath held.)
“No, I didn’t!” he said. (Sigh of relief.)
My kids have been vegetarian since birth. I chose this lifestyle as a youth myself and have been vegetarian for almost thirty years. It’s a big part of my ethics around environmentalism and health and wellness. And, like every parent, I will impose my ethics on my children until they’re old enough to develop their own and make an informed choice.
The menu at my kids’ school is diverse and creative but just lacks one thing: vegetarian mains, even as one of two options. The school argues that they have enough in the way of accompanying non-meat options like salads, fruit, dairy, and cooked vegetable portions, but I still worry about my kids’ lunchtime protein intake. And, what’s more, I’m not permitted to supplement plant-based protein snacks for my kids.
Another layer worries me: both kids (but particularly my son) are still too young to express their dietary needs clearly—especially in French. Even though I’ve taught my daughter how to say “je ne mange pas la viande,” (I don’t eat meat) I worry she’ll be too shy to say it. And my son’s French is nil.
For these reasons, I taped signs to their shirts for the first few days of school that read, in French: I am vegetarian. I wanted to give them another way to communicate.
So, when I got a call from the school asking me to stop taping signs to my daughter’s shirt, I was surprised. The school nurse explained that her file lacked this information and I was flabbergasted. Based on everything you’ve read in this article so far, can you imagine that I wouldn’t have specified it a million ways already, including in her (their) formal registration(s)? I very calmly responded that, not only had I specified it for both children in multiple ways, but that the signs had been meant as reinforcement, particularly for my 3-year old son. (Thank goodness for the signs!)
What she said next surprised me:
“We worry this will stigmatize her.”
I paused. Will a different diet stigmatize a child? And which is more important: protecting a child against stigmatization or preserving both a child’s health and the health of our planet? [Kids who have never digested meat will have trouble digesting it, and in fact could become quite ill. And in 2016, the government of China committed to reducing meat consumption nationally by 50 percent. Why? To reduce global warming.]
The nurse was sympathetic and assured me they’d received the message. I agreed to stop taping the signs to their shirts. Now I’m just back to holding my breath.
“What did you eat at school today?” I ask regularly.
“Noodles!” said my son this week.
I can only hope there was no beef in the pasta sauce.

Photo: Courtesy of Ember Swift

This article originally appeared in beijingkids’ October 2017 issue.
Download the digital copy here.

“I don’t remember how to speak Chinese,” my 4-year-old daughter whispered to me while video chatting with her Nainai before we boarded the plane. I heard myself translating. I encouraged my daughter to try, but she stumbled and got frustrated. My mother-in-law laughed awkwardly but shrugged it off. “You’ll remember as soon as you come back,” she told my daughter, who understood with a nod.
I always spend summers back in Canada, but when I finally landed in Toronto, returning to a mainly English-speaking environment feels strange at first. Speaking to the taxi driver in English even though he’s clearly not a first-language English speaker, I feel complicit in English’s status as the “bully language.” English has coerced so many language groups into submission. That is, except Mandarin.
I admire this about Chinese. A language made strong by sheer numbers thus retains power over the bully. English is studied in China, of course, but still only a small percentage can speak it well enough past simple pleasantries like “hello” and “thank you.” If you visit China, you’ll need some Chinese.
In the first three weeks of our vacation this summer, I happily noted that the kids spoke to each other exclusively in Mandarin. And while Mandarin was their play language, they spoke to the Canadian family members exclusively in English without a second thought.
But, I was alarmed when in less than a month, they were using English to communicate. Then two months later, my daughter claimed to have forgotten her Chinese. Is that all it takes? Just two months away where the second language is not supported within my side of the family (except through me), and English gained dominance. Even Mandarin — the resilient linguistic opponent that may become the world’s ascendant language in the future — was no match for an English-speaking external environment.
When we officially move back to Canada, will my kids lose their Chinese? Will I be forced to put them into Chinese schools, compelled to engage weekly in Chinese community events or actively have to reach out and make Chinese friends with kids who also speak Mandarin who, for now, may be easily convinced to use Chinese as a play language… perhaps, at least, for a reward?
This strikes me as grasping at straws rather than winning a battle. And, I don’t know the answer. Keeping them in China maintains their both languages because I am always with them and introducing them to other English speakers. Moving them back to Canada may prove a linguistic mistake. Yet, in light of free schooling, free health care, and a perfect air environment, is there really any other option?
I can only hope that my kids will come to value their bilingualism if for nothing else than the ability it offers them to speak with all members of their extended family, whether in person or by video chat across the world.

About the Writer
Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She and her husband Guo Jian (国囝), who is also a musician, have a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called
Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article originally appeared on page 41 of the October 2016 Issue of beijingkids magazine. Click here for your free online copy. To find out how you can obtain a hard copy, contact distribution@truerun.com.

Modern, working musicians can never focus on money. Sustainability is key in the arts, and longevity in the field usually qualifies as “making it.” If we continue making music as our main vocation over many years, eventually this industry rewards us.

Nevertheless, after moving to Beijing in 2008, I learned that diversity is the key to survival as an expat in China. As a native English speaker who also speaks Mandarin, it wasn’t long before I discovered that many project-based companies were seeking my skill set. And many were connected to music. So, music and money were made together. Let the choir sing!

But the purpose of making money shifted when I became a parent in 2012 and 2013. No longer was it just to sustain as an individual artist; money became essential to ensuring their futures. And before I could strum that changed chord to my perspective, my daughter went from infancy to kindergarten and school fees loomed. Suddenly, there was a third reason to make money: to meet the demands of an international school education—our choice, yes, but also our burden. With free public schooling and an extremely high standard of education in Canada, you can imagine how hard it was to accept such an expense in my artist’s life.

But, flip global perspectives a moment and let me take you back to Canada with me this summer. In July, I had a week of teaching work at a songwriting course in Toronto. It was a great opportunity, but one for which I needed daytime childcare. Since I came back to my home country alone with two kids (husband unavailable, extended Canadian family not living in Toronto directly), I had to find someone in Toronto who could help me. Luckily, my dear friend’s partner is a childcare worker. She is fully certified, gentle-natured, and my kids already knew and loved her so she was naturally my first choice. Embarrassingly, I booked the kids into the week with her before I even inquired into her fees. We have a full-time ayi in Beijing for our domestic and childcare needs, and so I am familiar with paying for support. Surely it wouldn’t be that much more expensive!

The volume of Western childcare fees blasted me like cheap China speakers. Four and a half days of childcare costs for both kids cost me the same as one month of Beijing ayi fees, not to mention two-thirds of my income as a teacher for the week. It was, as you can imagine, very sobering. But necessary, for the sake of music making. Unquestionably. The songs must get written, no matter what the costs.

And so after the week had come and gone, I took pause. I turned down all the music and listened to the silence of reason that long-term planning brings.

Childcare is very expensive in Canada, but it’s affordable in China. Schooling is very expensive in China, but it’s free in Canada. It’s a no-brainer. For now, with one kid needing daytime childcare, we stay in Beijing. We can afford one set of international school fees and a full-time ayi. But two years from now when both kids will be school age, there is no other choice—financially—but to come back to Canada.

So this is the beginning of a long goodbye. And already, I know, I will miss my ayi the way a song misses a singer. She will have gone the long haul with us and, as I said, longevity is key to a successful music career. Thanks to her, we will have “made it.”

This article originally appeared on page 40 of the September 2016 Issue of beijingkids magazine. Click here for your free online copy. To find out how you can obtain a hard copy, contact distribution@truerun.com.

Photo: sites.ewu.edu

This is the rainy season. Every year at this time, I realize with a sharp intake of moist air, just how starved my body feels for those water-rich molecules of a coming rain. During Canadian summers, the heavy clouds constantly sweeping across the sky are filled with hydration rather than pollution. I miss it. During a recent thunderstorm in Beijing, this feeling was made potent through my kids.

My daughter (age 4) and son (2) have only known life in Beijing. Sure, we travel back to Canada once a year during the summer months, so they have experienced heavy summer rains, but their day-to-day reality is an urban one, in a dry climate, at a time in this city’s development when the air quality cannot be relied upon.
The early summer Beijing thunderstorm started at about 10pm. Both kids had long been asleep, but my son woke up, agitated and whimpering about twenty minutes into the storm.

“I’m scared, mommy!” he said, and so I naturally gathered him into my arms until he was calm again and then placed him back on his pillow gently.

“It’s just a storm,” I said. “Everything’s okay. It will pass.”

He reluctantly went back to sleep.

About an hour later, the storm had come closer and the rumbling thunder was more resonant. Its sound waves traveled through our apartment walls into the very fabric of our blankets. This time, I lay down beside him until he fell back to sleep, holding his little hand while reminding my weary self to be patient. He’s still so small, I thought.

Just before he fell asleep, he turned to me, opened his eyes and said this surprising sentence:

“Mommy, I don’t like fireworks.” Then he closed his eyes again and was asleep. I smiled at his perfect face. He had clearly not understood the word “storm.”

He’ll understand in the morning, I thought, when he sees that the rain has made everything wet outside.
When my daughter woke up an hour later, she was much more vocal about the situation. She got straight out of her bed and came to find me in mine, complaining loudly about the “fireworks” waking her up.

“Why do people play with fireworks, mommy? I don’t like loud noises, mommy! I’m scared!”

This is when it finally dawned on me that the sound of fireworks in Beijing is more natural for my kids than the sound of rain. They have only known fireworks to rumble and shake the house. And I don’t mean just at Chinese New Year; fireworks happen regularly in our mostly-Chinese compound at dawn (also waking them up) for marriages or other unexplained celebrations for which the obnoxious bang of several thousand RMB worth of explosives is “required.” Clearly, I’m not a fan. My kids have picked that up.

So, how do I explain to them that thunder is a great thing? That the sound of the sky rumbling (preceded by an awesome flash of lightning illuminating the night blackness for an instant) is a reminder that the Earth will soon be hydrated again. Nature will be greener, more alive, more replete. And, perhaps most importantly for Beijing, that the air will be cleaner after the rain?

The next day, when digging out our umbrellas and rubber boots, I told them, “Mother Nature has her own fireworks, kids. It’s called thunder. Sometimes it wakes us up, but it brings rain! And rain is fun! Let’s go jump in the puddles!”

They were thrilled. I’ll be reminding them of puddle jumping during the next Beijing thunderstorm. May it keep their fears at bay.

About the Writer
Ember Swift is a Canadian musician and writer who has been living in Beijing since late 2008. She and her husband Guo Jian (国囝), who is also a musician, have a daughter called Echo (国如一) and a son called
Topaz or “Paz” (国世龙).

This article originally appeared on page 42 of the 2016 June-July Issue of beijingkids magazine. Click here for your free online copy. To find out how you can obtain a hard copy, contact distribution@truerun.com.

Photo: telegraph.co.uk

My partner, Guo Jian, has been priming me for the “moon month” or zuo yuezi (坐月子).

When my in-laws were here a couple of weeks ago (the precursor to their more permanent visit before the baby’s arrival) and we were downstairs helping to unload the car, a perfect stranger noticed my advanced pregnant shape, the presence of parental figures and Guo Jian and I helping them with their things. This stranger very confidently turned to Guo Jian and half-asked and half-stated, “Your parents have come to help you through the moon month?” To this woman, there could be nothing more obvious. Guo Jian just smiled and nodded. His parents glowed with pride.

In Chinese culture, the moon month, also translated as “sitting out the month,” “lying in” or “confinement in childbirth,” is a month-long sojourn in the home for postpartum women. It means that following childbirth, the mother and child are to remain indoors, mostly horizontal on the bed, well insulated and fully catered to by extended family. All cooking and cleaning is provided while the new mother’s exclusive job is to bond with the infant, breastfeed and recover from the trauma of childbirth.

In China, a portion of the service industry is specifically designed to uphold this tradition – a person can hire a live-in maid/attendant who will cook, clean and provide breastfeeding instruction and/or infant care for the first thirty days after childbirth. It’s expensive (between CAD 1,000 and CAD 1,500) but a thriving industry in China. It’s specifically for those whose families are too far away to offer the service directly.

Sounds great, right?

Well, part of this tradition requires that women not bathe during the moon month. Some tell me that this is due to the fear of illness or disease, especially back in the days when there was fear regarding water-borne pathogens. I’ve heard others say that it’s also about preserving a mother’s scent and the infant’s connection to that scent – a connection that is especially important in the first month of life.

A whole month of not bathing? I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I want to! No, it’s…not going to happen…ick!

The chance to rest, though, sounds appealing. I’m happy to lie around with the baby, recovering, not worrying about cooking and cleaning. I may go a bit stir crazy, but perhaps I’ll be too tired to notice? Perhaps it will pass by quicker than I ever imagined?

Guo Jian’s mother has prepared time off work to provide these services to us. I’m relieved that no one is insisting we have a stranger come into the house just to argue with me and my Western ways, try to cook me meat-based soups (part of the moon month traditional cuisine) and generally create an awkward, unknown presence. His mother at least knows me well enough to know that all food must be vegetarian! And, since it’s important to them that I carry out this tradition, I certainly can’t deny them the right to render the service.

And funny enough, when I expressed some misgivings about the tradition, my father-in-law told me that I certainly can bathe, I don’t have to remain in bed 24/7, and I can even go out a bit with the baby, as long as it’s not far or strenuous exercise. A short walk, for instance.

When I later conveyed this to my partner, he said, “My father doesn’t understand. He was raised in a time when all traditional culture was rejected. He doesn’t get it.”

In fact, Guo Jian claims there is evidence that if a woman does not honor the full moon month, she will be more susceptible to disease and illness later in life. When he makes these comments, his entire community (including our very wise tai chi teacher) nods in agreement, a huge cultural backdrop staged ominously all around me. “How can you argue with 5,000 years of history?” their eyes ask. “And why would you put yourself at risk now that a child will depend on you?” I shrink at the collective potency.

My modern, dreadlocked, musician partner is showing me his traditional, conservative side.

Well, Enter My Culture

My parents are scheduled to arrive in late January for nearly a month, with part of the time spent with me, in our home. It coincides with an important two-week tour to New Zealand that Guo Jian is taking with his band. The tour’s timing was infuriating and so discouraging, given that the baby will have just arrived. But my parents scheduled their visit to overlap with his absence, which made me feel better and less panicked. At least I won’t be alone with just my in-laws and the baby! I already know that I’ll really want my own mother nearby when Little Spark is so tiny.

When they arrive, however, considering that the baby will hopefully have been born a few weeks before, I don’t want to be holed up in bed, unwashed and kept back from hosting them. I can smell a conflict coming! Perhaps the first week can be low key, but afterwards, I’m going to want some movement, freedom with my parents, motherly advice in English, a few dinners out…generally some respite from the confinement.

But if the baby is delivered later than the due date, as the hospital predicts, I am gearing myself up for some conflict regarding the moon month. Guo Jian’s absence will quite possibly be my release from the jailer but that doesn’t necessarily get me off the hook with my in-laws. Let’s hope they are indeed more lenient than Guo Jian and do not suddenly descend into absolutism. As long as my mother-in-law isn’t here with my parents, it will all work out fine. Yikes!

I had to talk my mother-in-law out of managing all the cooking and hosting while my parents are here! For her, it goes without saying that it will be them hosting my parents, even if my mom and dad are staying in our home, not theirs. After all, they are the same generation. She was actually planning to show up every day to cook each meal, clean up after them and do their laundry. Can you imagine?!

After some careful wagering of tactics, I explained to my mother-in-law that my parents want to help me recover from childbirth too. I explained that they really like the moon month tradition and want to help me honor it. I added that I’d hate to have two powerful mothers competing to cook and clean for us.

(Am I a terrible, manipulative person?)

She immediately agreed to give space to my mother when she’s here and was so happy to hear that they intend to take care of me.

No. Small. Victory.

The truth is that my parents are Western and, like Western people everywhere, they will arrive in my home as helpful parents, but still as our guests. They know about the moon month but, unless they read this blog, they don’t really understand it. Our apartment won’t become their space, even temporarily, and I have no expectation for that. I’ll want to be up and making food, etc. My mother isn’t intending to come here to clean and reorganize my house or cook every meal for me. Like all Western families, we’ll likely share in the cooking, order pizza and make sandwiches. I can’t be confined to the moon month bed while they’re here because having them wait on me would just be too weird.

Anyway, it’s all an adventure, right? The moon month will be impossible for me to fully honor, but a partial acknowledgement of its cultural importance while also recognizing what’s important to me, culturally (like bathing!), is part of the dance that makes this intercultural partnership the production that it is. I can definitely take it easy and do lots of resting. I can also host my parents. It’s all possible without stress.

As I experienced when we got married in 2009, the collision of parents will once again be both comical and exhausting. Eventually, maybe they’ll learn to communicate with each other without me as the conduit, but until then, I also have the translator’s golden tools in place: adjustment, omission, editing, selective listening and re-contextualizing as I did with the moon month. Maybe in all family situations this is common, but in cross-cultural families where two different languages and customs are featured, this may be the golden key to harmony!

And I hold it.

(Wish me luck because I’m going to need it!)

Ember Swift is a Canadian musician, songwriter, and founder of the independent label Few’ll Ignite Sound. Now based in Beijing, she recently became the proud new mother of a baby girl. Read more of her writing at her official website.