Happy Mother's Day!

When I was a kid I never understood why my teachers had us make something completely stupid for mother’s day (and father’s day too).  I mean, what adult really wants a lumpy cotton ball concoction with a macaroni collage card?  Me that’s who!

Now that I’m a mom, I love mother’s day.  I love having breakfast out or breakfast in bed.  And as Olive gets older, I really look forward to the lumpy construction paper crafts she cooks up at school.  This year she was really excited about her presents.  She refused to report any activities at school, and spent most of the car ride home shushing me because “it was a secret”.  Once home she fished out a photo frame with a lovely school photo and a hand drawn likeness of me.  She had painted a portrait as well, which was rolled up and stuffed in her tote.  I must say I’m rather surprised how good they turned out.

Coloring at home usually meant Olive demanding one of the adults drew a princess while dictating the various details.  Aside from a few round scribbles, there was very little drawing.  Kids’ art tends to develop in the same way all, so I was rather shocked that she had skipped quite a few steps and progressed straight to a detailed face with the eyes above the nose.  I’m glad to see that she’s trying some new things at school that she doesn’t do at home.  (Though would it kill the teacher to use the smock that I shelled out for?)  It’s just some wonky kids’ art, but it’s my wonky kids’ art.  I couldn’t be happier. 

Happy mother’s day to all the mothers out there, mine included (even though she doesn’t read this blog).

Home Visit

Yesterday when I pulled into the parking space there was a car parked in one of the open places in the parking lot usually taken by solicitors or delivery vans. When the woman rolled down her window to enquire if it was okay to park there I didn’t think much of it. Then she got out of her car and started to follow me to my apartment.

I am terrible at faces. Clearly this woman thought she had some business with me, but for the life of me I couldn’t place her. Had one of my new team teachers gone off her rocker and started to stalk me? Was this the lady who belonged to a cult that was always trying to pass off her English language pamphlets off on me? Due to my constantly rotating work schedules and my general lack of Japanese, I’ve gotten really good at faking it when I don’t know who someone is. So I gamely played along until the lady mentioned Olive and school.

Then it clicked. The wonky work schedule, all my coworkers scouring maps earlier that day… it was time for teacher home visits.

Unlike America where there is one designated day where parent teacher conferences take place in tiny uncomfortable chairs in the classroom, Japan sends its teachers door to door to discuss school concerns in person. At first it seemed to me like this was all a rather elaborate way of invading someone’s privacy, and an undue hardship for the teacher. Now I’ve learned that Japan loves hardship, especially when it comes to teachers. It has the added bonus of allowing the teacher to observe the student’s “natural habitat”. Considering how much time students spend at school, it seems a little misdirected. But then I’m American. I didn’t grow up in a place where it was normal for cops to knock on your door just to chat.

Once I realized who the woman was, I was greatly relieved that she decided to visit us on a day when Nils had a private lesson scheduled. I knew without a doubt that the house would be immaculate when I opened to door. If you do not have a house husband, I highly recommend obtaining one.

So what’s the verdict on Olive’s first two weeks of Japanese preschool? She is popular, but everyone wishes they had the English to talk to her. She likes singing and dancing, working with paste and crayons. She likes playing outside, especially taking her shoes off by the climbing poles and playing house. Sometimes she cries when the first school bus leaves because she still doesn’t understand the two route system. She does not sit still and listen. No big surprises, really, but it’s still nice to know she’s not crying all day long or beating up the little boys.

It also gave me the opportunity to explain to the teacher what would be helpful for me and what the limits of my Japanese are. I kept dropping hints at e-mail being the best form of communication, but it sounds like the school refuses to update the phone/fax/bear mail system. I also gave her some pointers on how to work with a kid that doesn’t speak much Japanese. While the preschool has had experience with non-Japanese speakers before, she’s a new teacher to the school. Obviously not volunteering information is part of new teacher hazing.

Lastly, I cleared up a few misunderstandings. There’s a tendency to attribute personality to nationality. This tendency isn’t limited to Japan, but as I live here this is the context I encounter it in. The teacher approached Olive’s inability to sit and listen as something inherent to Americans. As if sitting and listening is a purely Japanese trait, never mind all the Japanese kids on opening day making a run for it during the ceremony. It’s not that American children are bad at sitting in their chairs and listening to the teacher drone on. It’s that Olive doesn’t want to sit still and listen to something she can’t be bothered with trying to understand. I guarantee that if the teacher was reading a glossy book on princesses with lavish illustrations in Japanese, Olive would be riveted to her seat.

Youchien!

So I'm sure the relatives who frequent this site have been waiting with bated breath to hear of Olive's initiation to the Japanese public school system.  That, or you all just want to see Olive in her school uniform.  Fist the uniform.  It is cute.  Really really cute.

What we have here are some hand me downs that a well meaning friend gave us.  I say well meaning because it turns out it's the wrong uniform.  Her shorts are actually red.  But the school jacket is so long you don't really notice the shorts.  No one bothered to pull me aside and gently explain my error.  Besides, I noticed a few other kids in the entrance ceremony wearing the wrong thing.  In the end no one really cares because the kids all look super cute.

As for the the actual first day of school.   You know how there's always that one kid who cries on the first day of school?  Well that was Olive.  Things started out well enough.  She was excited to put on her uniform and carry all her new bags.  She liked finding her shoe box by the door and cubby in the classroom.  We were finally given her correct uniform and the hot pink hat for the playground.  Olive was excited to see Carly, the ALT that teaches English at the preschool.  So that was all fine and dandy.

But then they wanted the kids to sit at their desks.  The parents we supposed to go upstairs and wait for the ceremony to start while the teachers explained the routine to the kids.  Olive put on a brave face and gave the saddest little wave I've ever seen.  I'm sure the explanation just went over her head.

By the time Olive was on the second floor she was wailing.  And getting dragged down the isle by her teacher only made things worse.  After ten minutes of unbroken wailing I finally threw in the towel, sneaked past the barrier, and sat next to Olive in a tiny preschool chair.  I know parents are discouraged from intervening.  But come on!  The kid had no idea what was going on.  I'm sure the teacher's aid was happy not to have a blubbering, boogery, four year old flailing all over her too.  I figured once Olive calmed down I could go back to my seat, but that didn't really work out.  I ended up sitting in that tiny chair for the rest of the ceremony.  And man did that ceremony go on, and on, and on...  And once they finished all the singing and bowing and speeches from important community members that kids don't care a flying rip about, they made them sit some more for formal photos.  By the end of it I was ready to break that damn tambourine over the photographer's head, too.

Then the kids went back to their classrooms for something while the parent sat through and info session and fiddled with reams of informative printouts.  Some mothers were goaded into "volunteering" for official field trip helper duty.  And then we finally concluded the meeting and went downstairs for some more info session from Olive's teacher which was delivered over the yowls of some very bored and impatient four year olds.

Thankfully entrance ceremony day is only one day of the year and it seems that the rest of the time they let the kids be kids.  Olive loves riding the bus.  And she comes home with happy reports of playing with other kids on the playground.  She's picking up Japanese too.  When asked what she learned at her first regular day of school she told us "Ookii mimi!  Olive has big ears!"

Should be an interesting year.

A Bit of Bad Luck

Don't let the title fool you. To me it's an inconvenience; to my friend it's the loss of a parent. My right hand partner in crime responsible for much bending over backward and navigating of the red tape involved in getting Olive into a Japanese preschool has just suffered a great loss. With less than a week before Olive's entry into preschool this leaves me with a few loose ends hanging. However, I'm sure I'll figure it out. A sewing machine will be found. Bags will be sewn. The uniform situation will work itself out sooner or later. Mostly I'm just worried about my friend.

I've lived in Japan long enough to know some basics of Japanese funerals. There is a formal grieving period and some specific rituals depending on the religious leanings of the family. As with most Japanese ceremonies, if I'm invited to anything I need to bring lots of cash in the correct type of envelope. Hopefully I won't be invited to anything official, but I'll stop by after the body has been cremated. And that's where it gets a bit tricky for me. While I may just be expected to have a cup of tea and eat some snacks after taking a moment to pray at the altar of a loved one, it doesn't feel comforting to me. My gut reaction is to bake some rolls and put together a salad and a casserole. Or help take care of some mundane chores around the house like washing some of the dozens of tea cups that must pile up with the stream of concerned neighbors and friends stopping by to check in.

I navigate the differences between my culture and Japanese expectations on a daily basis. While tiring at times, it's just part of the daily grind... usually. When something like this happens though, I really wish the differences would melt away and I could react without reserve, without worry of social blunder or offense. How do you deal with grieving in a culture where people just don't hug?

Yellow Hats

The first time I lived in Tokyo I lived across the street from a preschool. I’m pretty sure it was a public preschool because it only seemed to be open 3 or 4 days out of the week during hours that would be completely useless to a working woman. The school’s front gate was right below my window and most mornings I was woken up by little children screaming, “O-HAI-YO gozaima-SU!” (good morning). The teachers patiently waiting by the gate warmly greeted each student. The extra loud ones were usually met with something along the lines of “Taro-kun, genki desu ne!” This could be paraphrased something like, “Oh that Taro, he’s so spirited.” I always thought that was a crazy thing to say about children screaming at you, but through my occasional observations of the neighborhood yochien I started to see that loud and spastic children were tolerated, even encourage at the school.

There was a weekly singing session that seemed to be created solely to nurture these genki characteristics. Students in their matching blue smocks and yellow hats would crowd around an upright piano and scream along while a smiling teacher gamely plunked the keys. In the summer small elephant shaped wading pools were pulled out into the dirt courtyard. The goal of this exercise was mainly mud production, with the added benefit of keeping somewhat cool in the summer humidity. Above all else I remember the uniforms.

On my way to my language school I’d pass by Shinjuku-goen, a large heavily landscaped private park. Through the fence I’d often see swarms of uniformed preschoolers on a school outing. At this time in my life I loathed babies and small, sticky children. Even so, I was absolutely smitten by the gaggle of yellow hats, short shorts, knee socks and ubiquitous yellow bag. These yellow naugahyde shoulder bags are a common item of preschool uniforms, though I’m not sure why. They’re not actually big enough to carry anything useful, and parents are required to supplement with tote bags covered in cartoon characters. I don’t think there’s any equivalent available in America. As such, the issue of preschool and those cute little uniforms was in the back of my mind when applying for the JET program. It seems silly to say, but I did calculate whether or not Olive would be old enough to get gussied up for shichigosan and preschool while penciling in my forms.

So Olive is nearing the day when she’ll get to put on her yellow hat and carry her useless yellow bag and scream to her hearts content around a piano. I should be excited, but mostly I’m worried. Communication is hard, and there will probably be a slew of info sheets and calendars regarding what days to wear what and bring which bag and how much green tea to make for gargling. You would think that my speaking Japanese would make things easier, but recently I’ve been having the sneaking suspicion that it just makes communication harder. When you’re stupid (unable to speak Japanese) people bend over backwards to help you out. They can really be so kind and helpful. When you possess enough language skills to pass, you’re pretty much left on your own to figure things out. I hate being talked to like a slow puppy, but wading through kanji laden forms and booklets with zero assistance is even worse.

And then there’s the deal with the bento. Bento is just the Japanese word for a boxed lunch typically packed in a small plastic case. The cuisine is typical Japanese, usually around half rice, with an assortment of fishy vegetable-y dishes and deep fried items filling the rest of the box. You may have heard of kyara-ben, in which the food is shaped to look like various cute characters. That’s popular with little kids and some older girls, but there are more normal version for your average highschooler or company man, too. (http://justbento.com/ has a wealth of bento recipes and resources if you're curious.) The school has already stated that it doesn’t want any sort of bento-battle of the mommies on its hands, so I don’t have to worry about sending Olive to school with a lunch box full of Hello Kitty food items. However, the bento is made to be filled with Japanese cuisine, much of which Olive just doesn’t seem to care for. A peanut butter sandwich simply won’t fit in the tiny plastic lunchbox. More than anything, I wonder how I am going to pack a lunch that helps Olive blend in with her classmates while fixing her something she’ll actually want to eat.

And that, I suppose, is the crux of the matter. How to help Olive incorporate into preschool without sacrificing any of her qualities that make her who she is. The last thing I want is for my outgoing, friendly child to become uncomfortable expressing herself due to her looks or language. At least I don’t have to worry that they’ll discourage her from screaming during piano time.

(Pandas, they're what's for lunch.)

It's Spring... Isn't It?

We're almost a week in to March now, the temperature is edging up at a steady pace, and I no longer feel the need to sleep in my Adidas track suit. Surely winter must be over and spring just around the corner.

But it doesn't feel that way. I seem to be in a bit of a nasty funk lately. My work commute is catching up to me, and the added stress of figuring out all the yochien stuff, and trying to work enough privates after school to pay for our increased costs is wearing on me. Still, that doesn't really explain the extreme crankiness (Nils would use another, more choice word starting with B). I suppose I should make use of my health insurance and go to the doctor. See if there's something wrong with my hormones, or something. But that would just mean more difficulties communicating and probably trying a few doctors before finding one that actually wants to listen to me. Besides that, I just plain old dislike doctors.

So here I am, stuck in a grouchy funk, feeling bitter that I somehow got stuck with the highest cost of living in the most difficult location for a non-Japanese spouse to find work. Grrrr...

Any recommendations for chilling out and feeling better? I don't need to make lemonade out of lemons so much as I need to stop seeing lemons when I've just been handed a perfectly acceptable bag of mikans. I want to feel as good as this picture looks.

Mt. Eboshi Sports Park

Have you seen the photos of North Korea’s extremely decrepit but sill functioning theme park? Most North Americans are shocked by the photos. They look creepy, depressing, and down right dangerous. Who in their right mind would visit such a place?

Here's a sampling of the delights that await the chosen few.

I can’t really say anything because I take my kid to Japanese playgrounds and parks on a regular basis, and many of them are only marginally better. Run down, rusting, broken equipment, neglected landscaping… sure it’s a little depressing until you realize what a great time your kid is having.

On sunny weekend days I like to shove everyone in the car and force Nils to drive us into town then up the local mountain. The roads are narrow, steep and poorly maintained. After passing by decrepit rotting houses and shipping containers converted into makeshift garages, you make it to a modest parking lot and the wonderland that is Mt. Eboshi Sports Park.

I’m sure when it was first constructed it was a glistening place of excitement and family friendly recreation. However, the Japanese approach to many things seems to be build it and let it sit until it rots into the ground and then we’ll raze it and build something new. As such, the turtle pond is murky and filled with scum, the grass fields are patchy, the sand pit has only an assortment of broken scoops and pails with a few half-functioning backhoe diggers. A giant, decommissioned, potato sack slide looms over the park. I’m sure before small trees started growing up between the patchwork of green vinyl slides it was a real hoot. The thing is enormous, even by American standards. The winding decommissioned toboggan run next to it was probably a lot of fun too. I’m pretty sure it’s closed down simply because someone finally caught on that it was a total death trap. A shame really.

To be fair, new attractions have been built on the grounds over the years. A mini ewok village inhabits one of the forested areas, and there’s a shinny dog run near the parking lot that always makes Olive cry. The broken conglomeration of funny bikes and lawnmowers re-imagined as go carts are complimented by a somewhat new addition of a giant ball pit.

Even with all of the broken rides and peeling paint, it is a place of boundless fun for kids. Sure some of the rides would never pass inspections back home, but glossy and well padded playgrounds back home can never compete with the thrill of real adventure. A little bit of danger makes for a much more satisfying play experience. Plus there’s enough balls in the ball pit that losing your child is a real problem.