and another thing we take for granted: cold

My daughter grew up in a world without artificially produced cold. The orphanage in Zhongshan had minimal food refrigeration, no air conditioning, and little or no ice. The wading pools were opened in July and August to give the children a little relief from the summer heat and humidity.

So, our summer world is more than a little strange to her. The temperatures we keep our buildings in the summer? She dresses in long pans and long sleeves. “Cold.” The air conditioning vents for the back seat are closed on her side. “Cold.” Her favorite movie right now is Frozen, which she calls, Cold.

More than that–the obvious–condensation on glasses at the table: fascinating. Ice cubes in water: more of the same. Salads? Who eats cold, uncooked food? Bananas are good; we eat them at room temperature.

I look forward to our winter, and am glad that we have a full fall to help with the transition. Sweaters, long johns, and mittens, here we come.

Swimming Lesson (expanding the comfort zone)

Let’s put it this way: at the moment Shi Hui would be happier if every pool were no more than three feet deep. Needless to say, her first swimming lesson was in water deeper than that, and the prospect gained her full throated disapproval.

What is a dad to do? Do I cancel the day’s attempt? Do I attempt to force the issue? Do I sit down on the pool deck and join my daughter in an emotional outburst? How about none of the above?

I walked Shi Hui down to the shallow end, where she ran to the water (and slipped s she sprinted around the corner of the pool), and then gleefully showed me her very own swimming lesson. I watched, gave an enthusiastic thumbs up, and then pointed to where the lesson had begun. “Swimming School,” I said. My wife and I had introduced the idea do lessons as school, and so the concept was not a new one to her. School is where work gets done. “Play,” I said as I pointed to the shallow end. “School,” I said as I pointed to where the other kids were working.

Shi Hui pointed to the water around her, making her desire fairly clear. And so I pulled out the rarely used father voice, “Wei Wei.” She looked up. This was business. “School.” She walked up the handicapped ramp and trudged back to the lesson with me, unhappy, but without the tears that had led to our respite.

During the first exercise with the instructor (kicking using a kickboard) she clung to him with the fearful grip of death. During the next exercise (taking a breath and submerging with her hands extended above her head, and which, thankfully, we had been practicing already), she released the instructor. And for the third exercise (a reprise of the kicking), she took firm grip of the board and kicked away.

After the lesson, she returned to the more familiar depths and practiced for half an hour. Laughing and smiling all the way.

I don’t know what the best way to encourage a child to push her limits. My other daughter will go to the mattresses (Godfather slang) over math homework, and no father or mother voice can stem the tide. I don’t know how or when Shi Hui will draw her lines in the sand over food, effort, or rules. But today felt like a gentle victory. I cross my fingers and hope for more.

Story Telling

Two weeks ago I gave a sermon at my church about what I learned from my father about fatherhood for Father’s Day. It went well. Afterwards some people told me what a good story teller I was, which was nice. I’m sure a few left thinking what a gasbag I was, which is fine too. I was asked whether I got so wrapped up in the story that I forgot that people were listening. Not really, after all, the whole point is to get everyone to focus their attention. Here are some things I did that I hope made that more likely.

I told the story about what I learned from him about fatherhood. I did this by relating things that had happened between him and me in our life. When I “wrote” it, I observed the “rule of three”: the big story (the sermon) had three separate main incidents. Why three? I draw an analogy from geometry when I explain this to my students: it takes three points to define a plane in space, and without that plane, we have nothing on which to stand. I’m sure there are corollaries to this rule: two points make a line, which is only good for tightrope walkers; four points make a solid which will block the reader. Besides, I only had 15-20 minutes: three is enough.

There was plenty of connective tissue to get from one incident to the next. When one shares a story from one’s life, it can be easy to forget to make the connections because they seem so obvious to whoever lived that particular life. I was cognizant of the fact that I wasn’t simply telling my story, I was telling a story based on things that happened to me. My life was the evidence–I still had to make the case.

When delivered it, I put my written notes aside, and followed the outline I had practiced over and over during the month I had to prepare. This is not a useful strategy for everyone. First, not everyone is used to speaking in public, and a strong written text can be an enormous support. Second, one needs to practice a speech to be delivered extemporaneously: the odds of ramble increase exponentially without a firmly rehearsed structure. The advantage was that I could listen to the hundred or so people who were listening to me while I delivered the sermon. I knew what I had to say; I didn’t know how people would hear it. I was able to tinker as I spoke to fit the way people were listening.

Did I end up leaving things out? Sure, I always over-prepare. Was it perfect? No, but what is? Did I get to my conclusion? I think so. It felt done. And now on to the next story.

“How do you understand each other?”

I get this question several times a day. It’s true, we don’t speak (much) Chinese and Shi Hui does not speak (much, but more every day) English, nonetheless we seem to understand each other. Sure, that understanding comes in broad strokes sometimes, but we get the basics down fairly well.

All of which leads me to this reflection: maybe we get a little too hung up on the right words to say. I know what Twain said about the lightning and the lightning bug, and I teach the value of context and connotation. Still, I can’t help feeling we do a larger disservice to tone than is good for us. Getting the tone right almost seems as important–both in terms of conveying meaning and understanding meaning–as getting the words right.

When Shi Hui speaks I can gauge her feelings fairly well, and when I work with kids, I can hear that in them too. Maybe because with kids, and the way we treat kids, the heart matters as much as the head. Is it wrong of me to think that adults talk to the head a little too much, or think that they speak from the head, when really, it’s always both?

Yes, I know, it’s important to be able to express one’s desire precisely. The request, “I want a Fanta Orange Soda,” will get one a Fanta Orange Soda (full caveat: if such is available, if one hasn’t just chugged down two said sodas already, you get the drill). Right now, I can’t tell exactly what my daughter wants, but I know when she wants. I start with “my daughter wants something,” then move on to the context of the moment, ask some very basic questions, listen a little more, hunt and peck for meaning. It’s a slower process, and it’s a process we engage together. In the end some accord is reached, then we move on to the next thing.

And it’s not just about answering her desires–everything is slowly hashed out. There is no way for me to rush her, and no way for her to speed up my understanding. Fortunately we are (mostly) patient with each other. We are both learning to speak English.

The Captain

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My father would have been 82 today. I have been thinking much about him recently, and not only because of the recent addition to my family. I am giving a sermon at my church in a week about the things I learned about being a father from my father.

My dad was reluctant to pass on the secrets of fatherhood. In part this may have been a result of his life with his father–we pass down intentionally or not the raising we received. In part it may have been his general willingness to let us, his sons, figure things out for ourselves, even something as meticulously specific as blanketing the jib (ask my brother about that). In part fatherhood may have well remained a secret to him, even late in life when we were his children and no longer children.

Is there a secret? I suspect my father had some sense of one, and that it guided him the way that stars and winds and currents guided him on the ocean. But he was never one to get mystical about that secret; he happily took up the GPS and autopilot when they became available. His choices were practical and methodical and willful. I think his vision of the big secret was equally practical.

Nonetheless, he liked schmaltzy movies, as well as acerbic humor. He enjoyed the fellowship forged in extraordinary ventures. Something in him bristled against the vagaries of weather and the capriciousness of emotion. Whatever was mystical to him was grounded in a belief that right should triumph, that wit was sufficient armor against nonsense, and that sheer determination not only could, but should lead the way through the various chaotic episodes of life.

So, even though he knew that before heading out to the ocean, he should be able to take apart and repair the Diesel engine “just in case,” he also knew that at some point the ship might fail and that the only thing that would save the voyage was singular, capable, heroic action on the part of a sailor. He had the sense to know that when he could not be that sailor, he found those who could rise to the challenge, and he gladly called on their best when the occasion demanded.

Is that a reasonable thing for a father to expect? Is it possible to teach dogged, determined, and day-to-day heroism? Or does it come from within, or from some other, stranger “without”? Even if he knew those answers, he would have remained reticent (on this matter at least); he would have let us figure it out.

Delays

When I told people that we were adopting an older child, some had a vague understanding that we were facing potentially exceptional challenges. This went beyond the somewhat more crude, “What’s wrong with her?” question I occasionally heard (Yes, I have the benefit of living in a fairly frank community). There are plenty of horror stories about the affects of prolonged institutionalization of kids, and while my wife and I did not discuss these stories (she likes to keep a positive shine on things until the fan is turned to high), we are aware of them.

When we entered the process of looking for an older child we gleaned the lists of waiting children looking for a girl whose dossier indicated at least strong hints of the child we brought home. We very consciously looked for a child whose background spoke to a certain amenability to blending with our family. That said, she did not get to pick us.

Nonetheless, the rule of thumb with various sensory, cognitive, and developmental delays is this: an institutionalized child will “lose” three months of “normal” process for every year he or she has been out of a primary caregiver relationship (read: family). This includes growth, speech, intellect, emotion, morality–all those things for which you can imagine a scale that says “my x-year old should be here.” Our daughter came home with us three weeks before her tenth birthday. Quick math: 30 months of “delays.” And no, there is no set schematic for exactly what those specific delays might be. Each child is different.

In the short run, we simply have someone in our house who is all at once between the ages of 7 and 10 and all the ages between 7 and 10. And, lest we forget, she is learning EVERYTHING in a brand new language. We are more fortunate than can be imagined because her attitude is so overwhelmingly upbeat.

In addition, a heavy dose of “re-parenting” (going back and parenting for all those years and stages during which she had no primary caregiver) is ahead. This means we will go back much further than 7. In some ways she has infant stuff that she never went through and we will do that too.

In the long run? Brain science shows that the organ is far more plastic for far longer than we believed even ten years ago. The delays are just that: delays. She will catch up and become, well, whoever she will be. We will not really know who she is going to be for years, but then, that is true of everyone, even us.

Three and a half feet of joy

We took the new daughter to the pool this weekend. It was immediately clear that she had not been in water deeper than her knees.

The pool in which she played with us at Guangzhou was a meter deep in the shallow end, so all she could do was sit on the side or allow us to carry her. The pool at the Mallory has steps leading to water that is two and a half feet deep.

And so on Sunday, the first wade into water that rose above her waist. There was a nervous look for a moment, and then back to the usual peel of giggles. This is her method as she approaches new things: a moment of nervousness (sometimes barely perceptible) and then “Look at me!” Swimming lessons are in the offing.

And then of course, the ocean. This was a more daunting prospect, and it will take her a while to overcome the force of waves. She is a wee thing (and already weighs more than she did three weeks ago). One wave surprised her straight on, and she ran back up the beach, only to turn and look with more than a fair amount of longing.

Stay Out of Cold Water

I have had a splendid relationship with the cold. I grew up traveling to Maine and swimming in the chilly Atlantic (a past time I maintained until my last visit a few years ago). I lived in Binghamton, NY and started my foray into running during the winter. I put in my 5 miles three or four days a week in snow and ice and temperatures that registered in single digits.

This past winter I started getting a bright red rash on my hands on cold days that I shoveled snow or spent time outdoors. It bugged me, and I chalked it up to who knows what. Internet searches were inconclusive.

So today we went to the beach, and Virginia Beach, mind you, and after about half an hour of grown up frolic in the waves, I got out. Within a few minutes my body was covered by that winter rash and small welts right up to where the water reached below my shoulders. Add to this the histamine shock that followed, but I got to the towel and rested until my pulse settled to its normal.

When we came home, there, as plain as day, was my ailment, which is just as stupid a condition as one could imagine and with no apparent cause. Can I say, “Cold Urticaria. Really?”

At some point we just accumulate miles, and stuff happens. Contact with the world brings all sorts of expected and unexpected pleasure, despair, and annoyance. So, right now, annoyance (at the same time: great joy: Daughter’s first visit to the beach!). If I stay out of the cold, there’s nothing to see. Or I can take a handful of antihistamines and plunge away.

Critical Thinking

I’m taking the older daughter to the movies tomorrow night for a little daughter-daddy time away from the rest of the family (read new little sister). We are choosing between X-Men: Days of Future Passed, and The Amazing Spiderman 2.   K wants to see both of them, which provides an immediate quandary: how do we choose?

I tried to explain to K the law of super-villains in super-hero films (fewer is better), to which she responded, “I like more bad guys.  It (sic) makes it more interesting.” Then I pointed out the Rotten Tomato scores of each movie (AS2: 53%; XMDFP: 91%), to which she rejoindered the  “Lone Ranger Exemption”–a movie universally panned that we all enjoyed (except for the heart eating). In the end it will come down between a “J Law”/”A Gar” choice (pop heroine/hot guy), and Daddy’s vote (3 Villains vs Peter Dinklage).

And so the question: what makes it good?

I went to see Godzilla last week.  How could I not?  I have a familial obligation to watch these sorts of movies, and fondly remember watching many of the original “Showa” series on Channel 17 with my father and brother.  Was the new one any good.  Well, no.  It was fairly awful.  Anthony Lane in The New Yorker summed it up when he wrote: “[Here’s] what the perfect “Godzilla” should be: no character development, no backstory, no winsome kids, just hints and glimpses of immeasurable power—enough to make you jump and twitch and leave you sweating for more. ” This Godzilla was ponderous and full of kids (and even a dog) who were threatened by the “immeasurable power.”  Nonetheless, the critics graced it with more positive reviews than negative (RT 73%). Let the Kaiju roar and destroy and thrill; we can apply the allegory ourselves, thank you.

I went to see Celtic Woman last night, and by all accounts this is a profitable franchise, right up there with various “Tenors” traveling shows.  It is, in the main, schmaltz and ersatz Irish-ness.  That said, the majority of popular performance rarely rises above the level of schmaltz and ersatz authenticity.  I mean, go ahead, pitch “Amazing Grace,” “Danny Boy,” and “You Raise Me Up” in one show and the crowd will moisten appropriately and come back in two years for more of the same. I get it, and I’m a little glad that the rousing barroom ballads of my middle youth (Carnsie’s, Binghamton) were exempt from the CW  treatment. No Tim Finnegan (which is just as schmaltzy and ersatz in its own bawdy, jaundiced way as well–and this may be the heart of true Irish-ness). Nonetheless there was enough bare-footed fiddling and dancing to satisfy the family.

Still I can’t help but wonder how we decide what is good.  A former colleague bowed to vox populi, and can understand that in theory.  In practice I get a bit more insistent.  But that is for another day.

The Schedule of Life at Home

Those of you who know me know I lead a fairly busy life. I work 3 part time jobs, none of which is really part time. I have 7 day work weeks, and this makes me, by all accounts, fairly normal in the working world.

I enjoyed the time in China getting my daughter, in large part, because I was not working (or only working a very small amount), and I had scads of time to spend with my family. My only limits were sleep related during the initial bout of jet lag.

Now, at home, I am back of the world of work commitments. I went to work within 24 hours of arriving back at home. Jet lag would have to wait for days when I could afford a satchel full of half hour naps while my circadian clock got back on track.

I cannot say that my work schedule is fully appreciated by those with whom I live. Work often gets in the way of spontaneous outbursts of family activities, and if I beg off for prior (paid) commitments, I get more than a little of the hairy eyeball. I understand why, and I desperately wish for more time.

However, the paycheck helps the family world go around too. Our China expenses reached well beyond 30 thousand dollars, and that doesn’t even fully take into account the money we had spent on the previous plan that fell through when the adoption agreement between Vietnam and the United States four years ago. Yes, a small chunk of that will come back to us when we do taxes next year. Nonetheless, money does not buy happiness, it only opens the door to the park. Happiness comes when you play inside.

So, I look forward to a few months in the summer, when I get to be Superdad. And while I bemoan the current situation, I plan for some time in the park–as much as I can get.