We're back from a long vacation visiting family in the UK, back into searing heat of 36 degrees and soaring humidity which has got me thinking about whether I want to stay here and all the reasons we are living here in Japan right now. At the same time I feel more energized about doing more with my time here - rekindling my enjoyment of French at the local Alliance Francaise and running an English class for 3-5 yr-olds are on the agenda for the coming month.
I'm no longer going to be a slave to my cleaning, cooking and bento prep. I'm going to make some money (hopefully) and feel good about being able to speak a foreign language (finally).
Friends say, what about your Japanese? Why aren't you learning that in Japan?
It's not that I don't want to learn Japanese, it's just that living here it's easy enough to find situations in which to practise - asking for things at the supermarket, asking for directions etc. which is all good, practical stuff and which is all I need. Maybe lurking beneath is the comforting assumption that I'm not going to be here that long, so why bother?
So what's changed in the last six weeks? Well, obviously seeing chibbi-chan delighting in playing with her cousins (a little boy her own age and twin babies of 8 months) and grandparents, as well as bonding again with my own siblings and an awareness of my parents' seventieth looming in the not-too-distant future. They want me to come back, never really accepted the idea I'd gone for good, won't believe that a poky apartment, fastidious society, dutiful wife and housekeeper are me.
As if to reinforce the anomaly of living away from both families as we do, this weekend at yochien is Grandparents' Day. Children are invited to bring along grandparents and celebrate their near and dear ones in a public forum. Only none of chibbi-chan's grandparents live here -YK's are working over in Beijing; mine are semi-retired in Gloucestershire. I'm wondering if attendance is mandatory or if we can gracefully bow out. No other mum in my class is in this quandary, so far as I know.
I always envied women I met in LA after I had chibbi-chan, who volunteered that their mom watches Dillon twice a week, or even grandmoms who dropped off, picked up and otherwise watched the entire brood of grandkids every day while their daughters were out teaching (and who lived only two doors down). These were Japanese Americans, the grandmoms, most of whom I met at Mommy and Me classes.
Am I looking at things through rose-tinted glasses? I'm not naive enough to think that if I was living back in the UK my mum would look after chibbi-chan for me whenever I felt like a break (in fact, I know she wouldn't - she is firmly of the school of thought which says if you have kids you should be prepared to look after them yourself). And I know other friends in the UK, plenty of them, whose parents and parents-in-law who have offered money towards childcare, rather than ponying up the time and responsibility themselves.
My sister says I should count myself lucky I don't have to work while I'm caring for chibbi-chan. It's not the norm, these days in the UK. But it is here, at least where we're living in Nagoya. At a mums' lunch I attended in April, just after the kids began yochien, 21 out of 22 mums were able to make it (meaning most of them weren't holding full-time jobs). So maybe I should be glad we are living here and able to rent a heavily-subsidized apartment in a good area of town for very little, thanks to the company.
If we were back in the UK now, would we be able to afford for me not to work full-time? Would I want that and to sacrifice the time I currently have to spend with chibbi-chan (and the guilt I'd feel)? If only life was that simple ...
Monday, September 6, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Yochien: The first two months
Now that we're into our routine of yochien (pre-school) every day (Mon-Fri, 9-2 except Weds, 9-11.30) I can honestly say that it's going okay. That is to say, chibbi-chan is no longer complaining every morning that she doesn't want to go. Nor is she saying 'Yippee! Yochien!'
The first week was a very gentle introduction of a few hours a day. And each morning when I collected her, chibbi-chan would present me with a little folded paper gift - a man with a pointed hat, a flower, a house. She didn't cry when I left, but she was clingy and so we had our little ritual. I would hang around for ten minutes, putting her indoor shoes on, fixing her name tag on the front of her shirt, hanging up her water bottle, giving lots of cuddles, and then she would take her Thomas Tank Engine bag and hang it up in her cubby. That was my cue to leave. And Mari sensei, the young teacher in daunting, black-rimmed glasses, jeans and a smock who is in charge of 'kotori' (little bird) class would nod goodbye and give me a reassuring wave.
On the Friday of the second week, chibbi-chan turned to face me at the classroom door and announced she didn't want to go today. What she said in fact was 'I'm not going to yochien today. It's boring. Come on, let's go home. I want to stay home with you.' Music to a mother's ears of course, but not really what I wanted to hear. Then she started to cry and I figured she'd been so good up to this point that I could compromise/cave in and so we went home.
Which was undoubtedly the wrong thing to do, because come Monday she thought she would pull the same stunt, in spite of the fact that I'd warned her several times over the weekend that I expected her to go to yochien on Monday at the start of the week and that she had to give herself time to get used to it.
When she saw I was adamant, she gave it full throttle and when Mari-sensei took her off me, she kicked and hit with a fury. It was a horrible moment, walking away from her but I tried to remind myself that she would enjoy it when she got used to it, that she would have an environment in which to pick up the language faster and she would love the company of children her own age which would suit her sociable and outgoing nature.
Still, as soon as I got home I called the only English speaker in the school office and asked Ayako-san to go and take a sneak peak at kotori class. She reported back that chibbi-chan was fine and engrossed in reading a book. And when I collected her a few hours later it was like nothing had happened. She greeted me with smiles and exciting news (Kaito-kun had done a poo in his diaper and it had shot down his leg).
After that things were better. She told me sometimes she had a little cry after I left but then she was okay. And I didn't hang around, worried that a long parting would stimulate the wrong emotions. But I made sure to bring a nice snack for her when I came back. I had no worries that she would be well looked after and cared for - the staff (class teachers, helpers, sports teachers) seem unfailing polite, friendly, affectionate and patient with the children.
A month later and we were into 'bento', which added interest to her day. She still commented that it was boring or she was scared of the teacher and that she didn't want to go, but she went without much fuss. And then she started to make 'tomodachi' (friends) and was learning the names of the naughtiest boys in class and now (six weeks from the start) she no longer says she doesn't want to go.
I ask her about her day - what songs they sang, did she eat all her bento, what insects she collected in the yard (woodlice, lady bugs and butterflies are favourites and Mari sensei sensibly keeps a stack of old plastic jars and small milk cartons for the children to use as bug catchers). She tells me gleefully who kicked the teacher, who hit who, that she started eating before Mari-sensei said 'Itadakimasu.'
Each morning from the car park 50 metres away, to the school entrance gate, we are greeted by cheerful 'Ohayo gozaimasu!' roughly fifteen times, from mums and kids. In the yard, children are milling around making 'dango' from sand with helpers, playing at the outdoor sink, examining the tomatoes growing, or swinging on the climbing frame.
And we see little Aki-kun from next-door 'usagi' (rabbit) class still crying each morning because he doesn't want mummy to go and chibbi-chan asks 'why?'
The first week was a very gentle introduction of a few hours a day. And each morning when I collected her, chibbi-chan would present me with a little folded paper gift - a man with a pointed hat, a flower, a house. She didn't cry when I left, but she was clingy and so we had our little ritual. I would hang around for ten minutes, putting her indoor shoes on, fixing her name tag on the front of her shirt, hanging up her water bottle, giving lots of cuddles, and then she would take her Thomas Tank Engine bag and hang it up in her cubby. That was my cue to leave. And Mari sensei, the young teacher in daunting, black-rimmed glasses, jeans and a smock who is in charge of 'kotori' (little bird) class would nod goodbye and give me a reassuring wave.
On the Friday of the second week, chibbi-chan turned to face me at the classroom door and announced she didn't want to go today. What she said in fact was 'I'm not going to yochien today. It's boring. Come on, let's go home. I want to stay home with you.' Music to a mother's ears of course, but not really what I wanted to hear. Then she started to cry and I figured she'd been so good up to this point that I could compromise/cave in and so we went home.
Which was undoubtedly the wrong thing to do, because come Monday she thought she would pull the same stunt, in spite of the fact that I'd warned her several times over the weekend that I expected her to go to yochien on Monday at the start of the week and that she had to give herself time to get used to it.
When she saw I was adamant, she gave it full throttle and when Mari-sensei took her off me, she kicked and hit with a fury. It was a horrible moment, walking away from her but I tried to remind myself that she would enjoy it when she got used to it, that she would have an environment in which to pick up the language faster and she would love the company of children her own age which would suit her sociable and outgoing nature.
Still, as soon as I got home I called the only English speaker in the school office and asked Ayako-san to go and take a sneak peak at kotori class. She reported back that chibbi-chan was fine and engrossed in reading a book. And when I collected her a few hours later it was like nothing had happened. She greeted me with smiles and exciting news (Kaito-kun had done a poo in his diaper and it had shot down his leg).
After that things were better. She told me sometimes she had a little cry after I left but then she was okay. And I didn't hang around, worried that a long parting would stimulate the wrong emotions. But I made sure to bring a nice snack for her when I came back. I had no worries that she would be well looked after and cared for - the staff (class teachers, helpers, sports teachers) seem unfailing polite, friendly, affectionate and patient with the children.
A month later and we were into 'bento', which added interest to her day. She still commented that it was boring or she was scared of the teacher and that she didn't want to go, but she went without much fuss. And then she started to make 'tomodachi' (friends) and was learning the names of the naughtiest boys in class and now (six weeks from the start) she no longer says she doesn't want to go.
I ask her about her day - what songs they sang, did she eat all her bento, what insects she collected in the yard (woodlice, lady bugs and butterflies are favourites and Mari sensei sensibly keeps a stack of old plastic jars and small milk cartons for the children to use as bug catchers). She tells me gleefully who kicked the teacher, who hit who, that she started eating before Mari-sensei said 'Itadakimasu.'
Each morning from the car park 50 metres away, to the school entrance gate, we are greeted by cheerful 'Ohayo gozaimasu!' roughly fifteen times, from mums and kids. In the yard, children are milling around making 'dango' from sand with helpers, playing at the outdoor sink, examining the tomatoes growing, or swinging on the climbing frame.
And we see little Aki-kun from next-door 'usagi' (rabbit) class still crying each morning because he doesn't want mummy to go and chibbi-chan asks 'why?'
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Road trip to Beppu
We decided to put Tristy's Will Cypha to the test with an almost 2,000 km island-hopping road trip over Golden Week. We started out from Nagoya, then headed south to Shikoku, stopping to let chibbi-chan run off her car cabin-fever at the Naruto whirlpools. The Onaruto Bridge which spans the whirlpools was celebrating its 25th anniversary and as we walked out to view the eddies through the glass-bottomed floor, the staff pressed a commemorative postcard and balloon flower into our hands. Although we'd come at the wrong time of day to see the eddies at their peak (up to 20 metres across), the white whirls were clearly visible and boats with sightseers were riding precariously along the fringes.
Overnighting at Tokushima, we drove west down the freeway then along the glorious coast to the port of Yawatahama, where we boarded the three-hour early evening ferry to Beppu. Beppu is a holiday destination famed for its profusion of restorative onsen and many jigoku ('hells') - bubbling lakes, some colourful, of mineral water in picturesque settings where you can test your endurance in the steaming public footbaths. We were here to visit family, but we also found plenty to keep our toddler amused for a week. She spent happy hours on the rocky beach at low-tide, checking out what the clam-diggers had turned up - an amazing variety of worms, fish, jellyfish, mini-star fish, whelks and of course, the ubiquitous hermit crab. Another favourite was the Aquarium and, directly opposite, what we dubbed 'Monkey Mountain', home to hundreds of Japanese macaques that come down from the mountains to be fed at intervals on wheat and sweet potato. It was all we could do to stop her prizing a baby macaque off his mother's lap (but that raw-looking, red-faced stare put us on our guard).
At the 'Sea Egg Aquarium', chibbi-chan got to toss beach balls to the resident dolphins, feed the fish and coddle the sea cucumbers to her heart's content (poor things). The building is reasonably new and well-designed, giving visitors the chance to browse the sea creatures from different angles and really feel immersed. The Wonder Zone cleverly illuminates the jellies, sardines and cuttlefish to make the most of their shimmering and transparent bodies. And I think it's the only Aquarium I've ever been to where I've seen a diver, after a demonstration, actually cleaning the window of the tank (a woman, naturally, with a wire pot-scrubber).
We were also treated to a day to ourselves - while oji-chan and obaa-san took granddaughter out, we headed over the mountain to Koishiwara, a famous pottery-making enclave about two hours' drive from Beppu. In a beautiful, lush, winding mountain valley, 62 potters make their hand-crafted wares. Many have been around for a few hundred years and have supplied the Emperor's dining room. Prices range from the sublime (a few dollars), to the ridiculous, but I came back with some pretty coffee cups, rice bowls and serving dishes for the same price I'd pay in IKEA and a lot more interesting.
We'd just made our last stop, admiring yellow and black dinner plates, when we were dragged into a workshop behind the store by a jovial, beret-wearing, bearded man in his fifties who insisted we joined the celebratory party (sake playing a large part, given the drunken state of most of those round the table). That's how we got to try 'devil's fingers' from Kumamoto, a quaint name for a barnacle-type creature which looks like a glossy pink fingernail when pulled from its shell and tastes sweet and salty. Our new acquaintance was not the potter, but the proprietor of an izakaya, who had a fondness for slapping women's behinds (my own included). The potter was already drunk.
It was a memorable end to our Beppu stay, but we had to head back and were already looking forward to our pit-stop - the Peace Park at Hiroshima.
Nothing quite prepares you for something like this, especially if you know next to nothing about the place, like I did. YK knew the lodestar in the Peace Park was the Dome, so we headed there first. It's the hollowed-out shell of a building which survived the bomb by being right underneath the explosion - an eerie, stage-set of bricks and twisted metal, its Dome looking more like a crown of thorns than anything. Nearby are peace-themed sculptures and garlands of paper cranes, fashioned from colourful paper by school children. One monument is inscribed with the names of hundreds of schools who had students present in Hiroshima when the atomic bomb exploded on the 8th of August at 8.15 a.m.
It was only May, but it was already hot and steamy, so we sat down at a riviera-style cafe on the banks of the river which flows through the park and ordered coffee and ice-cream. Locals and foreigners were sipping their lattes with cake. Nearby, YK told me, a plaque mentioned that this very spot had been a post office where over two hundred people had died that day. By now, I was eager for more information, so we headed over to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Musuem, where for 50c, you can learn in detail what happened.
Predictably, perhaps, chibbi-chan was uninterested in the black and white plans and photographs of the city. She was drawn to the charred lunch box, the torn uniform displayed on a skeleton, the diorama of wax figures with dripping skin and the video of the bomb blast. The tone inside the museum was reverently hushed, and I was praying no-one could quite grasp what she was repeating over and over in a loud voice: 'I want to see the burned arms.' When you have a three-year old in a place like that, it's an exercise in judicious encouragement of interest and knowledge, tempered with a wariness towards anything which might provoke fear and nightmares (we have enough trouble with 'monsters' as it is). I grabbed her by the hand and we set off in search of something suitable. We found the Video Corner, and sat down to watch a ten-minute animation which showed what happened. As we watched the faces melt into brown rubber and peel away, I think she grasped that the people had been burned, but she wanted reassurance that the 'little boy' who sends his paper plane out over the street, survived (hope for the future and resurgence was my interpretation of the ending, so I was happy to give it).
We came away feeling that it was a stop we were glad we'd made, as we headed on to Kurashiki for the night and our first family-style o-furo.
The next day we met up with friends for lunch at the Uji Botanical Gardens, near Kyoto and then it was home, sweet home.
Overnighting at Tokushima, we drove west down the freeway then along the glorious coast to the port of Yawatahama, where we boarded the three-hour early evening ferry to Beppu. Beppu is a holiday destination famed for its profusion of restorative onsen and many jigoku ('hells') - bubbling lakes, some colourful, of mineral water in picturesque settings where you can test your endurance in the steaming public footbaths. We were here to visit family, but we also found plenty to keep our toddler amused for a week. She spent happy hours on the rocky beach at low-tide, checking out what the clam-diggers had turned up - an amazing variety of worms, fish, jellyfish, mini-star fish, whelks and of course, the ubiquitous hermit crab. Another favourite was the Aquarium and, directly opposite, what we dubbed 'Monkey Mountain', home to hundreds of Japanese macaques that come down from the mountains to be fed at intervals on wheat and sweet potato. It was all we could do to stop her prizing a baby macaque off his mother's lap (but that raw-looking, red-faced stare put us on our guard).
At the 'Sea Egg Aquarium', chibbi-chan got to toss beach balls to the resident dolphins, feed the fish and coddle the sea cucumbers to her heart's content (poor things). The building is reasonably new and well-designed, giving visitors the chance to browse the sea creatures from different angles and really feel immersed. The Wonder Zone cleverly illuminates the jellies, sardines and cuttlefish to make the most of their shimmering and transparent bodies. And I think it's the only Aquarium I've ever been to where I've seen a diver, after a demonstration, actually cleaning the window of the tank (a woman, naturally, with a wire pot-scrubber).
We were also treated to a day to ourselves - while oji-chan and obaa-san took granddaughter out, we headed over the mountain to Koishiwara, a famous pottery-making enclave about two hours' drive from Beppu. In a beautiful, lush, winding mountain valley, 62 potters make their hand-crafted wares. Many have been around for a few hundred years and have supplied the Emperor's dining room. Prices range from the sublime (a few dollars), to the ridiculous, but I came back with some pretty coffee cups, rice bowls and serving dishes for the same price I'd pay in IKEA and a lot more interesting.
We'd just made our last stop, admiring yellow and black dinner plates, when we were dragged into a workshop behind the store by a jovial, beret-wearing, bearded man in his fifties who insisted we joined the celebratory party (sake playing a large part, given the drunken state of most of those round the table). That's how we got to try 'devil's fingers' from Kumamoto, a quaint name for a barnacle-type creature which looks like a glossy pink fingernail when pulled from its shell and tastes sweet and salty. Our new acquaintance was not the potter, but the proprietor of an izakaya, who had a fondness for slapping women's behinds (my own included). The potter was already drunk.
It was a memorable end to our Beppu stay, but we had to head back and were already looking forward to our pit-stop - the Peace Park at Hiroshima.
Nothing quite prepares you for something like this, especially if you know next to nothing about the place, like I did. YK knew the lodestar in the Peace Park was the Dome, so we headed there first. It's the hollowed-out shell of a building which survived the bomb by being right underneath the explosion - an eerie, stage-set of bricks and twisted metal, its Dome looking more like a crown of thorns than anything. Nearby are peace-themed sculptures and garlands of paper cranes, fashioned from colourful paper by school children. One monument is inscribed with the names of hundreds of schools who had students present in Hiroshima when the atomic bomb exploded on the 8th of August at 8.15 a.m.
It was only May, but it was already hot and steamy, so we sat down at a riviera-style cafe on the banks of the river which flows through the park and ordered coffee and ice-cream. Locals and foreigners were sipping their lattes with cake. Nearby, YK told me, a plaque mentioned that this very spot had been a post office where over two hundred people had died that day. By now, I was eager for more information, so we headed over to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Musuem, where for 50c, you can learn in detail what happened.
Predictably, perhaps, chibbi-chan was uninterested in the black and white plans and photographs of the city. She was drawn to the charred lunch box, the torn uniform displayed on a skeleton, the diorama of wax figures with dripping skin and the video of the bomb blast. The tone inside the museum was reverently hushed, and I was praying no-one could quite grasp what she was repeating over and over in a loud voice: 'I want to see the burned arms.' When you have a three-year old in a place like that, it's an exercise in judicious encouragement of interest and knowledge, tempered with a wariness towards anything which might provoke fear and nightmares (we have enough trouble with 'monsters' as it is). I grabbed her by the hand and we set off in search of something suitable. We found the Video Corner, and sat down to watch a ten-minute animation which showed what happened. As we watched the faces melt into brown rubber and peel away, I think she grasped that the people had been burned, but she wanted reassurance that the 'little boy' who sends his paper plane out over the street, survived (hope for the future and resurgence was my interpretation of the ending, so I was happy to give it).
We came away feeling that it was a stop we were glad we'd made, as we headed on to Kurashiki for the night and our first family-style o-furo.
The next day we met up with friends for lunch at the Uji Botanical Gardens, near Kyoto and then it was home, sweet home.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Flower of Youth
This time of year in Japan seems to be all about two things: the flowering of the cherry blossom trees around every city, and the start of the school year (or career, for fresh grads). We've been admiring the pink-tinged white baubles for the past two weeks and the wind is now finishing off what the rain started. Everywhere is snowing petals. It's the only kind of litter that's tolerated here.
I braved the blizzard today and yesterday with chibbi-chan, as we hunted high and low for yochien (kindergarten) gear. I'd been trying to ignore it, this imminent parting from my little soul-mate (or demon?), but when Tristy called a few days ago and said she was on her way over with her sewing machine in the trunk, I knew it meant trouble. What was I thinking? she demanded. Where was the smock I was supposed to have hand-made, where were the toilette towel and hand towel with the loops 14 cm long? Had I ironed name tags on everything yet? Had I written her name on each individual crayon in the crayon box?
That's when I knew I was in trouble.
Chibbi-chan and I legged it down to Jusco and raided the haberdashery department, returning with totally unsuitable smock material which chibbi-chan in her wisdom had picked out. Tristy tut-tutted, and said we'd have to make double layers for the body. Then she got to work and I watched, helplessly, while our two kids played dodgems around the iron and the sewing machine.
It took the best part of five hours (we stopped for dinner), but it did look beautiful when it was finished. Tristy added cute pockets with round edges. My role in the smock-making was to iron chibbi-chan's name on the back of the smock (and even then I had to ask the clerk at Jusco to pick out the correct hiragana). For all I knew, I could be sending my child to school with the wrong name.
A day and a half to D-day (the entrance ceremony at the yochien) and I have sewn on my loops, ironed some name tags and written others on shoes and clothes. I've looped and named the gargle cup, and appliqued the set of three bags I bought ready-made (flat book bag; change-of-clothes bag; indoor shoes bag). I've got a horrible suspicion there may be more bags which need making/buying, but this is all we need to take to the ceremony. I haven't done the crayons.
Driving around today, I couldn't help but notice on every street corner, a mother with a son or daughter, dressed up in their smart school uniform (and the mothers also in their suited best), on their way out of a school entrance ceremony (yochien, elementary, high). Twenty-five years ago, apparently, this was not the tradition. The expert cook upstairs told me when she went to high school, there were no parents at the ceremony. You just went by yourself (after all, you got yourself to school). Was she hinting that today's kids were mollycoddled?
There's more justification to coddling a three-year old. I've promised chibbi-chan she can choose where she wants to go for lunch after her ceremony. I've promised myself I won't miss her terribly when she starts yochien. The cherry blossoms are almost finished, but we've done our fair share of viewing the cherry blossom together. We've admired the forest of trees at the zoo, we've picnicked under them in the park and we've seen them by twilight and lantern-light at our local shrine. We've spent the precious last few weeks together.
I won't get sentimental. I can't afford to. The next challenge, as Tristy point out, is waiting round the corner. Preparing chibbi-chan's kawaii bento box starts in May.
I braved the blizzard today and yesterday with chibbi-chan, as we hunted high and low for yochien (kindergarten) gear. I'd been trying to ignore it, this imminent parting from my little soul-mate (or demon?), but when Tristy called a few days ago and said she was on her way over with her sewing machine in the trunk, I knew it meant trouble. What was I thinking? she demanded. Where was the smock I was supposed to have hand-made, where were the toilette towel and hand towel with the loops 14 cm long? Had I ironed name tags on everything yet? Had I written her name on each individual crayon in the crayon box?
That's when I knew I was in trouble.
Chibbi-chan and I legged it down to Jusco and raided the haberdashery department, returning with totally unsuitable smock material which chibbi-chan in her wisdom had picked out. Tristy tut-tutted, and said we'd have to make double layers for the body. Then she got to work and I watched, helplessly, while our two kids played dodgems around the iron and the sewing machine.
It took the best part of five hours (we stopped for dinner), but it did look beautiful when it was finished. Tristy added cute pockets with round edges. My role in the smock-making was to iron chibbi-chan's name on the back of the smock (and even then I had to ask the clerk at Jusco to pick out the correct hiragana). For all I knew, I could be sending my child to school with the wrong name.
A day and a half to D-day (the entrance ceremony at the yochien) and I have sewn on my loops, ironed some name tags and written others on shoes and clothes. I've looped and named the gargle cup, and appliqued the set of three bags I bought ready-made (flat book bag; change-of-clothes bag; indoor shoes bag). I've got a horrible suspicion there may be more bags which need making/buying, but this is all we need to take to the ceremony. I haven't done the crayons.
Driving around today, I couldn't help but notice on every street corner, a mother with a son or daughter, dressed up in their smart school uniform (and the mothers also in their suited best), on their way out of a school entrance ceremony (yochien, elementary, high). Twenty-five years ago, apparently, this was not the tradition. The expert cook upstairs told me when she went to high school, there were no parents at the ceremony. You just went by yourself (after all, you got yourself to school). Was she hinting that today's kids were mollycoddled?
There's more justification to coddling a three-year old. I've promised chibbi-chan she can choose where she wants to go for lunch after her ceremony. I've promised myself I won't miss her terribly when she starts yochien. The cherry blossoms are almost finished, but we've done our fair share of viewing the cherry blossom together. We've admired the forest of trees at the zoo, we've picnicked under them in the park and we've seen them by twilight and lantern-light at our local shrine. We've spent the precious last few weeks together.
I won't get sentimental. I can't afford to. The next challenge, as Tristy point out, is waiting round the corner. Preparing chibbi-chan's kawaii bento box starts in May.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Our Visit to Echizen Town, Fukui
Last weekend was a three-day holiday, so we decided to get away in our Will Cypha and put its new tires to the test. Tristy's parents-in-law run a minshuku B&B on the west coast of Japan's rugged Fukui province, less than 200 km away from us, so we decided to make a trip out there. Unfortunately, it turned out that the crab (and therefore tourist) season had just ended (the season for fishing crab off the local coast runs Nov-Feb) and the minshuku was closed for business, but by coincidence Tristy was planning to go up the same weekend and twisted her mother-in-law's arm to let us come, too.
YK was very excited. He'd never been to Fukui and was salivating at the thought of all the fresh seafood which would undoubtedly come his way.
He wasn't disappointed. Our hosts were incredibly generous, preparing a huge feast the night we arrived of sashimi (crab, buri, squid, sweet shrimp), mounds of large and small cooked crab (male and female), as well as grilled sole, pickled fish and fish roe. One of the chief families in Echizen Town, they all (from great-grandmother, to cousins, nephews and uncles) play some kind of role in the seafood industry. Some are fishermen, others are fish packers and processors, supplying sashimi and cooked seafood to their regulars, supermarkets and restaurants in the prefecture and even setting up shop across in Shandong, China, with a fish-processing unit that sends seafood back to consumers in Japan. The family business has been running thirty years or more and is clearly a way of life. As with so many successful family-run enterprises, however, the question of succession has arisen.
Tristy's parents-in-law have three children, the eldest of whom is Tristy's husband, but none seem interested in taking on the business. This question seems to weigh on the minds of the family elders in a fishing town where tradition is not taken lightly. There's even a rule which says that properties built on reclaimed land can only be owned by second sons (because first sons inherit).
Echizen Town is a working crab town, a narrow strip of densely-packed wood and brick houses, restaurants and ryokan sandwiched between the billowing ocean and the cedar-covered mountains, with the occasional concrete onsen and the Crab Museum, built for the tourists.
Echizen City, not too far away, is a conglomerate of small towns which came together to reinforce the Echizen brand, famous for yaki (pottery), washi (paper) and knives, as well as crab. The Washi no Sato-dori ('a promenade symbolizing Imadate-cho's traditional washi-making industry'), built relatively recently, features a typical-looking washi-maker's house where professionals still produce hand-made paper for sale and a 'Papyrus Kan' where children can have a go at making their own paper. In the fading light of a stormy day, it encapsulated all that is lovely about the Japanese aesthetic. Rain dripped from wooden eaves, gravel glistened, and the last washi-maker respectfully pulled the heavy, sliding wooden doors closed and hurried up the path with a nod, her apron flapping. Tristy is a tad cynical and would no doubt laugh and call me sentimental. She dismisses such stuff as tourist nonsense. But I liked it.
YK was very excited. He'd never been to Fukui and was salivating at the thought of all the fresh seafood which would undoubtedly come his way.
He wasn't disappointed. Our hosts were incredibly generous, preparing a huge feast the night we arrived of sashimi (crab, buri, squid, sweet shrimp), mounds of large and small cooked crab (male and female), as well as grilled sole, pickled fish and fish roe. One of the chief families in Echizen Town, they all (from great-grandmother, to cousins, nephews and uncles) play some kind of role in the seafood industry. Some are fishermen, others are fish packers and processors, supplying sashimi and cooked seafood to their regulars, supermarkets and restaurants in the prefecture and even setting up shop across in Shandong, China, with a fish-processing unit that sends seafood back to consumers in Japan. The family business has been running thirty years or more and is clearly a way of life. As with so many successful family-run enterprises, however, the question of succession has arisen.
Tristy's parents-in-law have three children, the eldest of whom is Tristy's husband, but none seem interested in taking on the business. This question seems to weigh on the minds of the family elders in a fishing town where tradition is not taken lightly. There's even a rule which says that properties built on reclaimed land can only be owned by second sons (because first sons inherit).
Echizen Town is a working crab town, a narrow strip of densely-packed wood and brick houses, restaurants and ryokan sandwiched between the billowing ocean and the cedar-covered mountains, with the occasional concrete onsen and the Crab Museum, built for the tourists.
Echizen City, not too far away, is a conglomerate of small towns which came together to reinforce the Echizen brand, famous for yaki (pottery), washi (paper) and knives, as well as crab. The Washi no Sato-dori ('a promenade symbolizing Imadate-cho's traditional washi-making industry'), built relatively recently, features a typical-looking washi-maker's house where professionals still produce hand-made paper for sale and a 'Papyrus Kan' where children can have a go at making their own paper. In the fading light of a stormy day, it encapsulated all that is lovely about the Japanese aesthetic. Rain dripped from wooden eaves, gravel glistened, and the last washi-maker respectfully pulled the heavy, sliding wooden doors closed and hurried up the path with a nod, her apron flapping. Tristy is a tad cynical and would no doubt laugh and call me sentimental. She dismisses such stuff as tourist nonsense. But I liked it.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
How do I ignore my MIL?
By far the most interesting discussion this week on the 'Married in Japan' (Yahoo! group) postings has been on the subject of the Japanese MIL (mother-in-law). Started by a young mum who is being driven potty by her live-in in-laws, her rant has generated dozens of posts, offering sympathy, commiseration and advice from deep in the trenches.
It seems Japanese MILs share certain characteristics, chief among them being an unwillingness to accept non-Japanese ways of caring for baby and an obsession with gaijin hygiene, or lack thereof. More than one DIL mentioned how she'd been instructed by her MIL not to wash her underwear with the family's laundry, or had been relegated to being the last person in the house to use the o-furo bath water each night.
The bath struck a chord with me. Not that I live with MIL or have been asked to reuse the bath water of someone else. But I remember the first time I went for a bath with my MIL at the onsen, it scandalized my mother and sisters back in England. How could I possibly have appeared naked in front of my MIL??? I had taken a giant step beyond the pail of civilized behaviour, from which they have yet to recover. Of course I insisted that in Japan it was common as anything to bath with your relatives and that no-one stared at anyone else's bodies, but they didn't believe that. It did take something to overcome my ingrained shyness and expose myself like that, but it was either bite on the bullet or forego the pleasure of the onsen and I figured the sooner I got used to it, the better. Ironically it was the first and only time my MIL suggested we use the onsen together. So maybe she felt as uncomfortable as I did, after all?
Even in households where DIL and MIL get along, it seems things can turn quickly sour after the arrival of a baby. MIL wants to wrap baby in layers and layers in spite of the heat, MIL wants to use kimono-style onesies, MIL is suspicious that those boobs can produce enough good milk for baby. One post counselled patience in the face of extreme provocation. The correct response to unwelcome advice, downright criticism or blatant wrong-headedness was a calm and collected 'Wakarimashita. I understand.' If only I could have taken that sensible advice on board!
As far as me and MIL go, the score is 1-1. I made her cry once, and she made he bawl once. I made her cry when I blew up at her for doing my washing (am I wrong to believe I should have the right to wash my own undies?). She made me cry when I came back from a weekend trip to find she'd cut chibbi-chan some very short bangs. My child looked like someone else. I erupted into a major tantrum, making chibbi-chan cry too, and refused to eat dinner or have anything to do with my in-laws or YK (who had been present at the time of the calamity) that night.
After that debacle, I decided I would show more restraint. I would accept that I was now part of MIL's family and that meant that homeland security on certain boundaries would occasionally be breached. Likewise, I don't think MIL will attempt another hairdressing adventure in the near future. These days she buys chibbi-chan mountains of hair grips and bands to keep her hair from poking in her eyes as the bangs grow out. I know it bothers them, but I'm Mum!
It seems Japanese MILs share certain characteristics, chief among them being an unwillingness to accept non-Japanese ways of caring for baby and an obsession with gaijin hygiene, or lack thereof. More than one DIL mentioned how she'd been instructed by her MIL not to wash her underwear with the family's laundry, or had been relegated to being the last person in the house to use the o-furo bath water each night.
The bath struck a chord with me. Not that I live with MIL or have been asked to reuse the bath water of someone else. But I remember the first time I went for a bath with my MIL at the onsen, it scandalized my mother and sisters back in England. How could I possibly have appeared naked in front of my MIL??? I had taken a giant step beyond the pail of civilized behaviour, from which they have yet to recover. Of course I insisted that in Japan it was common as anything to bath with your relatives and that no-one stared at anyone else's bodies, but they didn't believe that. It did take something to overcome my ingrained shyness and expose myself like that, but it was either bite on the bullet or forego the pleasure of the onsen and I figured the sooner I got used to it, the better. Ironically it was the first and only time my MIL suggested we use the onsen together. So maybe she felt as uncomfortable as I did, after all?
Even in households where DIL and MIL get along, it seems things can turn quickly sour after the arrival of a baby. MIL wants to wrap baby in layers and layers in spite of the heat, MIL wants to use kimono-style onesies, MIL is suspicious that those boobs can produce enough good milk for baby. One post counselled patience in the face of extreme provocation. The correct response to unwelcome advice, downright criticism or blatant wrong-headedness was a calm and collected 'Wakarimashita. I understand.' If only I could have taken that sensible advice on board!
As far as me and MIL go, the score is 1-1. I made her cry once, and she made he bawl once. I made her cry when I blew up at her for doing my washing (am I wrong to believe I should have the right to wash my own undies?). She made me cry when I came back from a weekend trip to find she'd cut chibbi-chan some very short bangs. My child looked like someone else. I erupted into a major tantrum, making chibbi-chan cry too, and refused to eat dinner or have anything to do with my in-laws or YK (who had been present at the time of the calamity) that night.
After that debacle, I decided I would show more restraint. I would accept that I was now part of MIL's family and that meant that homeland security on certain boundaries would occasionally be breached. Likewise, I don't think MIL will attempt another hairdressing adventure in the near future. These days she buys chibbi-chan mountains of hair grips and bands to keep her hair from poking in her eyes as the bangs grow out. I know it bothers them, but I'm Mum!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I've found a guru!
'Tristy' (not her real name) has been in Japan since high school - an uninterrupted fifteen years plus - and considers herself more at home in Japan that Iowa, where she has few surviving relatives. She is a fluent Japanese speaker, has Japanese GPS and is on the PTA at her son's kindergarten.
It was Tristy who warned me to get my act together and find a kindergarten for chibbi-chan before it was too late, and that I should expect to have to hand-sew a smock and bento box bag to sufficiently demonstrate mother love. 'And make sure the food you put in the bento looks nice,' she said deliberately. 'Because if other moms happen to be around doing PTA activities and see a kid with a bad bento, they might not let their kids come to playdates with your kid, because obviously the mother doesn't care enough and the home might be dirty.'
Tristy is acting as my unofficial mentor, guide and all-round guru on Japan wifedom. It helps that we have a few things in common - we're both married to Japanese men (I found her through the Yahoo! groups 'Married in Japan'), we both have young children and we both care about organic food.
One rainy day, to take advantage of the 'rainy day' prices (10% discount), Tristy drove us to the Farmer's Market on the other side of town where we browsed meat, vegetables and fruit which were organic in all but labelling (nothing is in English - Tristy translated the hand-written Japanese).
She explained that here, 'organic' is like a patented brand which farmers have to pay to use, so many don't bother. We found free-range eggs, free-range growth-hormone-free pork and pesticide-free root vegetables, tomatoes, strawberries and tangerines all grown here.
Organic milk is still proving elusive. Tristy gets hers from a home-delivery company called Radish Boya each week, along with a selection of seasonal organic vegetables. The only problem is that sometimes she gets a whole bunch of something she doesn't recognize which turns out to be for a garnish. But they always include a recipe so you know how to cook it. In Japanese, of course.
For now, I think I'll keep looking. I want to check out what Tristy's borrowed Japanese guidebook notes is the 'largest organic supermarket in Japan.' Once again, Tristy is smoothing my way for me. She's just sold me her old Will Cypher.
It was Tristy who warned me to get my act together and find a kindergarten for chibbi-chan before it was too late, and that I should expect to have to hand-sew a smock and bento box bag to sufficiently demonstrate mother love. 'And make sure the food you put in the bento looks nice,' she said deliberately. 'Because if other moms happen to be around doing PTA activities and see a kid with a bad bento, they might not let their kids come to playdates with your kid, because obviously the mother doesn't care enough and the home might be dirty.'
Tristy is acting as my unofficial mentor, guide and all-round guru on Japan wifedom. It helps that we have a few things in common - we're both married to Japanese men (I found her through the Yahoo! groups 'Married in Japan'), we both have young children and we both care about organic food.
One rainy day, to take advantage of the 'rainy day' prices (10% discount), Tristy drove us to the Farmer's Market on the other side of town where we browsed meat, vegetables and fruit which were organic in all but labelling (nothing is in English - Tristy translated the hand-written Japanese).
She explained that here, 'organic' is like a patented brand which farmers have to pay to use, so many don't bother. We found free-range eggs, free-range growth-hormone-free pork and pesticide-free root vegetables, tomatoes, strawberries and tangerines all grown here.
Organic milk is still proving elusive. Tristy gets hers from a home-delivery company called Radish Boya each week, along with a selection of seasonal organic vegetables. The only problem is that sometimes she gets a whole bunch of something she doesn't recognize which turns out to be for a garnish. But they always include a recipe so you know how to cook it. In Japanese, of course.
For now, I think I'll keep looking. I want to check out what Tristy's borrowed Japanese guidebook notes is the 'largest organic supermarket in Japan.' Once again, Tristy is smoothing my way for me. She's just sold me her old Will Cypher.
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