“T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Well that wasn’t strictly true in the Jones-Wong’s household since we were all jetlagged to hell. Xiao Qing and I took turns as soporific sentinels, guarding the stairs of my parents’ house in the UK in case one of our small people might negotiate a cunning descent, the urge to verify that Baba hadn’t clicked the UK delivery address on his Amazon account and not its Beijing counterpart, fueled by body clocks unsure of whether to sync up with Wales, Wangjing or Warsaw.
Before Christmas lunch was served, the solitary chocolate liquor supped by my alcohol intolerant wife, seeped its way into her bloodstream. As Xiao Qing lay red faced in a deep state of unconsciousness on my parents’ sofa, I was left with the terrifying task of having to look after my own offspring!
You see, I dread holidays. Actually that’s not true; I dread holidays when Ayi will not be with us. Just as living in China for eight years has prevented me from developing the slightest ability or inclination to do more around the apartment than changing the occasional light bulb, the idea of being responsible for my own genetic code for more than an hour at a time is as alien to me as cooking a meal myself, or God forbid it should ever happen again, going to Carrefour for the weekly groceries.
To emphasize my point, let us contrast the above scene of parenting carnage with coming home to Beijing. Wearily, we limped and spluttered our way out of the airport and towards the taxi queue. Then, as we waited in line, Xiao Qing made a call, thus setting in motion a chain of seamlessly orchestrated events, all directed by the masterful strokes of the lady who just makes life 27 percent better: Ayi.
Catching Ariana and Elin as they fell through the already ajar front door, our daughters were scooped up and whisked off to a bath, which had already been prepared to the optimal temperature. Steam rose from two cups of tea, Chinese for me and Western for my wife. Ingredients lay prepared for the girls’ favorite Chinese dishes, while the house looked, as always, as though it were a display home. That night the kids took it in turns to test the patience of the least sleep-dependent of saints. Yet, each early rising was met with cheer. Milk was warmed, board games were played, metaphysics were discussed (well, not quite but you get the point).
Being British, I am always ready to self-admonish. It is not my intention to have you share in my guilt, but these musings highlighted something to me. Despite the hours that I spend in the company of my family’s personal Chinese Mary Poppins, until recently, I didn’t know her children’s names. While Ayi and I spend so much time discussing the tiniest needs of my kids, I knew so little of her own children. A quick chat taught me so much, that in truth, I should already have known and this year, knowing her family so much better, I will be able to give her something to give to her children, as opposed to the usual impersonal hongbao. It’s not much, I know and I apologize if I patronize; it’s just nice to know that, finally I know.
illustration: Sun Zheng
