Things that go bump in the night...

We had our first scare last night. It was my fault. I momentarily left Makena on the bed in the care of Jack so that I could fix her a bottle. Making a baby's bottle is quite the production, here. You have to boil the water - whether it is tap or bottled, and you have to get the perfect mix of formula and rice cereal (they drink it thick) and heat. The bottle has to be hotter than you would normally think an American baby would tolerate or they won't drink it. Seriously. It's taken us three days to figure this out. Warm, doesn't cut it. It almost has to be hot. Anyway, I hear Jack scream "oh no!," followed by a thump, followed by a wail. I lost it. I quickly scooped the crying baby up and after about a minute, she calmed down. I should just have laid her on the floor but up until then, I had always had to argue with Jack to let me hold his sister. He explained that he got distracted by a crocodile eating a bird on the Discovery Channel and then burst into guilt-ridden tears. I joined in with my own guilt-ridden tears and it took us the rest of the evening to get over it.

Makena may not be able to crawl but she can do this quick spin log-roll, we shockingly discovered, much like a crocodile when it catches its prey.

She is fine. The doctor said so. By some miracle, I had scheduled a doctor's visit in the hotel earlier that afternoon and we only had to wait about twenty minutes between the incident and our scheduled check-up. She isn't bruised or tender but she has been started on a course of antibiotics to deal with her wet cough and continuous runny nose. Her spirits are excellent and she babbles and gurgles a lot.

Our group went on two excursions today. My husband took part in them, having gotten up at four in the morning so that he could conduct business in order to be able to join us. We were all slammed by the heat and the Russian roulette game of trying to cross the street, at cross-walks, without getting hit by a bus or a car. Nobody stops for anything here. They don't care. This is a city of thirty million people with things to do and people to see. Lots of them, everywhere. We are surrounded by enormous sky scrapers, with neon signs and laundry hanging from them and vegetable garden roof tops. People constantly stop to stare at our group of "May Gwans" parading our adopted babies through the crowd. Saying Ni Hao, usually disarms them and earns us a smile.

We got to see the Fighting Tiger's Museum, some beautiful artworks (Chongqing is famous for its National arts Academy and has an art scene) and the Three Gorges Dam Museum...'cause you just haven't lived until you've been there. Kidding. I know I'd prefer these excursions in minus-degree weather.

By the time we were through, we had a ten minute walk to the restaurant. Our guide wanted us to taste Chongqing hotpot. It's basically Chinese fondu and you cook a variety of meats in a pot of boiling broth. You can also cook your ingredients in spicy broth -- which is what Jack and his dad did. It's 105 outside and we are steaming ourselves, sweat pouring off out bodiesm guzzling beer and chowing down on hotpot. Jack is an incredibly picky eater at home. Here, he is trying absolutely everything (except vegetables). The family seated across from us and sharing our table is staring glumly at their dinner with slight looks of disgust on their faces. It turns out they weren't feeling so "hot." And after trying to cajole them into eating anything, we give up and take it all for ourselves. May-Way (that means delicious in Mandarin)!

As we leave, Jack and I walk past our guides' table to discover that they were eating hotpot but that their selection of meats is entirely different. So I sit down with them, decide that I have survived eating duck blood and bravely try pork tripe, duck guts and duck kidney. Bottom line, take tire, chop it up and boil it in hot pepper oil and I dare you to tell the difference. What I couldn't forsee after this daring tasting of bizarre looking foods was that my husband now refuses to kiss me.

Bummer.


Isabelle
An average mom in an extraordinary country.