My daughter and princess dolls. My daughter and Frozen. My daughter and anything related to princesses. This is the story in this house. There was a time when Playdoh reigned, but since she turned three-and-a-half, Playdoh is only a tool to make food for princesses, or make princess crowns, or princess hair, etc. This mom is going a bit princess crazy! But when my daughter wanted to use Playdoh to create something for the princess in a slightly more creative way, I was all for it.

It started with these basic lumps. She was flattening and squishing them onto her doll in such a way that seemed almost like the Playdoh was a tool to smother plastic. I watched her, amused. I asked what she was doing and she looked at me as if to say ‘isn’t it obvious’? She was making clothes for the doll, she explained, with a sigh. Duh.

She managed to make some Playdoh stay on the doll’s top half, but the skirt was another struggle. She was trying desperately to attach a thick slab of green Playdoh to no avail.

Eventually, I suggested she cut it into “fabric” and my daughter’s eyes lit up like she had just discovered hidden treasure. She watched me cut the Playdoh into a rectangle as I explained to her that this is how clothing is made, in flat sections that then get sewn together in patterns. We created “pleats” with our fingers after we attached it to her waist and this made her even more excited.

What surprised me was my daughter’s insistence that the dress be two separate colors. She pointed to the orange Playdoh and so we made another square and attached it to the green. When the skirt was finished, she looked at me with a very adult expression that reads: “See? I told you so.”

And she was right. It was possible to make clothing out of Playdoh. Who knew? Elsa finally looks a little cooler out of her pale blue ice queen princess uniform. And this mom was happy to spend some constructive time with her little 4-year-old princess.

Photos: Courtesy of Ember Swift

In Zibo, a city of five million people in Shandong province, the kids and I just spent our requisite Chinese New Year week. Their father was born in this city, but he has lived in Beijing for fifteen years and even he didn’t want to go back for the holidays this year. He only joined us for the last two days.

You see, Zibo is still a small town, by Chinese standards, and life in the provinces hasn’t exactly progressed as quickly as it has in Beijing. Take going to the park for example…

I took my kids to the park in the mornings three days in a row. Typical of Spring Festival, the first few days of the year were bright blue-sky days with unseasonably warm weather—enough to convince anyone that the lunar calendar is the meteorological master.

As the only foreigner—with two mixed kids in tow—I was the most popular person in the park. I was also the most ignored, simultaneously. People stopped and stared then talked openly about me at every turn, (assuming I couldn’t speak the language.) Crowds dispersed so I could walk through. The swings were emptied so my kids could swing on them. It’s the closest thing to fame a person can get without a request for autographs.

Eventually, this gets tiring. That’s when I loudly say something in Mandarin to my kids and watch the ripple effect of my Chinese language skills titter across the sea of parents and grandparents.

Chinese New Year to this long-term expat is a lot of extended family in close quarters surrounded by a second-tier city experience of otherness. I never thought getting back to smoggy Beijing would be returning to a breath of fresh air, but these past few days back home have been “blue skies ahead,” literally and figuratively. No second glances at the foreign mom in the park.

Thanks, Beijing. I can breathe again.

Photos: Courtesy of Ember Swift

It was a subtle battle of cuisines. A good friend offered to cook traditional Italian food in our home this week, so the typical Chinese fare was shelved for one night. All family members were invited to partake but as the only foreigner in the family, I was the only one excited.

My friend cooked up the Italian version of polenta, something I have only eaten sporadically in my life, and it was full of various cheeses, complemented with fried mushrooms and a rich vegetable stew that acted like gravy. In addition, she whipped up a dish of broccoli pasta that the kids devoured, a bonus for the little ones not always keen for greens.

The Chinese partakers ate without grand exclamations, nodding politely. Afterwards, it was my mother-in-law who offered to do the dishes, seemingly relieved to recover her place in the kitchen.

About thirty minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen with a steaming plate of jiaozi. “I had enough filling leftover from yesterday and so I thought I’d make you some of my homemade dumplings to take home with you for your work week,” she said to my friend, eyes twinkling. I knew this was her way of saying, Your cuisine was okay, but it doesn’t compare to Chinese food!

My friend was touched by this gesture, completely unaware of the competitive flavour folded up neatly into each dumpling. She even ate a few right there on the spot. But I know my friend. To her, Chinese food is no match for the perfection of Italian. There is no contest.

I had to smirk to see such rivaling culinary positions, each without a drop of malice, occupying their own side of the table, proudly. Gastronomical focus aside, I’m just happy to be one of the eaters. 

Photos: Courtesy of Ember Swift