Turning Japanese

Just after Easter, Big A and I went on a mini-break. It was the first time for both of us to visit Japan. As we only had a few days, we spent all but one of them in Tokyo. 

The one day away was another first as we took a train to a ski resort just an hour outside the city. It was a half day trip, for one ski lesson.

Big A is a natural athlete and thoroughly enjoyed himself, rising to the challenge of the new sport. I, on the other hand, was wary. Stopping required forcing my legs and feet into positions unnatural for a ballet dancer. I was not sold on it, but was glad to have tried and will probably do so again if another opportunity were to present itself.

Despite the snow on the mountain, it was springtime in Tokyo and cherry blossoms were in bloom. We walked around the city, tried as many kinds of Japanese cuisine as time permitted, and did some shopping. 

I was most pleasantly surprised by the lack of a language barrier, as most people had enough English to be able to communicate with us as needed. With this city only four hours away by plane and five year visas in our passports, it looks like we will be coming back to Japan. Next up, Osaka and Kyoto!

 

Seeing Signs

Words, words, words. Where would we be without them? Hark back to the days when humans had not yet discovered speech. They communicated with signs, pictograms and grunts. Even today, when in a foreign country, tourists and natives can cobble together some form of communication with just a map and some hand signs. 

These days, there are a number of ways to communicate. I will forever be grateful for technology that allows my non-verbal son to express himself more clearly, but sometimes the simplest ways are most effective.

While Little A has long been using that standard yes and no head movements and waving hello or goodbye, his sign language was limited to "thank you" (which most people mistake for a flying kiss), "all done" and the basic toilet signal, patting his crotch, which again can be misconstrued by most of the public.

Lately though, he has been more expressive using hand signs. 

The Goodbye song performed at the end of each school day involves a "see you" hand sign that looks like a salute. For a few weeks now, when I drop Little A off, or leave him at home for a meeting, when I say "see you later" he responds with that hand sign. He does it to store salespeople as well, and restaurant staff when we are in the mall. 

I tried to teach him many times to call someone's attention by tapping their shoulder, then making eye contact and pointing to something or showing a written or typed set of words. When he wants something and simply tugs my hand towards it, I remind him to "ask," whereupon he promptly taps his own shoulder, and then points to the object he wants. Close, but not quite. 

Last week, his Occupational Therapist once asked me if Little A's shoulder was hurting as he kept tapping it. I told her this was his way of "asking" and that if she observed more closely, the shoulder tapping would be followed immediately by seeking an object or an action. 

She must have worked on this with him because yesterday, for maybe the first time, when he wanted something Little A tapped my arm and then indicated towards what he wanted. Such a small action, one most people take for granted, but for Little A this was a huge, man-on-the-moon momentous step. I wanted to shout for joy but simply smiled at him and said, "Good asking. Yes, you can borrow that."

This was only one time, though, so I'm not calling the press yet, but waiting and seeing, and hoping it becomes a regular thing. Baby steps will still get us there in the end.

The Seventh Church

On Holy Thursday in the Philippines, there is a Catholic tradition of visiting churches. Called Visita Iglesia, the "proper" way was to visit fourteen churches and say one of the Stations of the Cross at each one.

Most families these days visit seven, or at least ours has for as long as I can remember. We don't do the Stations of the Cross (that's something done on the evening of Good Friday) but do say our own quiet prayers at each one.

Since Little A came into the family, we have continued the tradition, but now do the church visits on Good Friday. And as we no longer live in the neighbourhoods we both grew up in, the churches we visit are the ones nearest where we live.

Big A has narrowed down the churches to six Catholic ones within a five mile radius, and one that is Anglican. He has a special affinity for this church because it is so simply furnished. None of the ornate altar carvings nor solid gold statues of velvet-attired saints, this one has simple wooden pews and a large cross. It keeps prayer straightforward, he feels.

I have no objections to visiting this church because as a product of the British boarding school system, I attended an Anglican school for five years. Every student was required to attend Chapel on weekday mornings, and a service on Sundays, when the Catholic contingent (less than 20 of us, all told) were bussed to the nearest church for Mass.

Our campus Chapel was small but pretty, and our weekday services consisted of a hymn, a reading or some school announcements, and a prayer to conclude. Each one lasted fifteen or twenty minutes and took place after breakfast and before the start of classes.

When the school closed in 2004 and the campus was turned into residential flats, the Chapel was either demolished or repurposed. Luckily, the altar remains, and has moved to a new home in Kentish Town.

This June, all alumni are called back to attend a memorial service for our former Head of Dance, who passed away early this year. It also marks 21 years since I left school and 11 since the campus relocated to Birmingham. I have not yet decided whether or not I will attend as the trip over requires funds and a visa. I will keep my fingers crossed, but in the meantime these annual visits to our neighbourhood Anglican church keep my memories of boarding school very much alive.

Stomach Flu

On Monday afternoon at school, Little A fell asleep at his desk. Since this has never happened in the two years he has been attending, his teacher suspected he wasn't feeling well. She woke him up just before the last bell, and he rushed to the toilet but didn't quite make it there.

I arrived to see one of the school helpers wringing out Little A's wet uniform trousers and shoes. She told me what happened, and when we got home he indeed had stomach flu. He spent the next two days at home running to the toilet every couple of hours, including getting up once and leaping from his bunk bed at 2am.

I'd love to hear what other parents do, as we simply put Little A on the stomach flu diet of white rice and dry grilled mince, since he eats neither bananas nor toast. Instead of artificially coloured, sugared and possibly caffeinated energy replenishment drinks, I searched high and low for this electrolyte enhanced water that used to be available at the corner convenience store but, alas, was no longer in stock. We also resumed the powdered probiotics Little A used to drink daily, at least while his tummy was still upset. Finally, I switched him from filtered tap water to distilled bottled water, again just to get all his tummy flora and fauna calmed down.

Midway through the second day at home, things seemed better. While Little A never lost his appetite, he was markedly less energetic, spending plenty of time seated or lying down and voluntarily brushing his teeth and going to bed much earlier than he usually did.

On day three, I was all for sending him back to school, but Big A insisted he stay home one more day to get his strength back. His school breaks up for the Easter holidays in three more days, so being ill is hopefully something we can avoid over the coming ten day break.

All That Jazz

Once upon a time, I was a very fit person. These days, walking up the stairs can get me winded. Thank goodness for a very active son who likes to run around shopping malls or I'd get no exercise at all.

This year, though, I noticed the dreaded advent of cellulite and its friends thigh and belly flab. In a bid to be rid of them, I enrolled in a weekly dance class. It helped that a new centre opened just ten minutes from Little A's school, and the class fitted in with my own schedule.

So these days, on Tuesdays at lunchtime, I can be found attending a modern dance/jazz class.

While it's not as fat-burning as I'd hoped, and sadly my brain no longer seems to be able to retain long combinations (not to mention my body being stiff as a board), it is a welcome once a week activity.

My instructor was a professional too, and continues to teach and choreograph so we work on his new ideas in our class before he adapts them for his other students.

When I feel more fit, I may enrol in a second class during the week - pole dancing! I tried this a couple of years ago and really enjoyed the workout. More gymnastics than dance, the strength needed to support your own body weight on a vertical pole is upper body and core-centric, both areas I need to work on. Plus, it's lots of fun.

Fitness, then. I may entertain a teeny tiny hope of possibly appearing on stage again (amidst a group of senior citizens rather than the professional dancers to whose ranks I once belonged) but if that doesn't happen, as long as I stay muffin-top free, that's what really matters.

Bohemian Rhapsody

As a student, I was fortunate enough to spend many of my summers in Europe. First we travelled with my parents, then I was at boarding school, then my sister went to university in London. Every other year or so, my best friend and I would fly out to London (sans parents by the time we hit 18) to stay at my family's Sloane Square flat for six weeks and, with my sister, gallivant to one European city courtesy of the airline's free stopover policy.

We toured Italy this way, stopping at Rome, Pisa, Florence and Venice. Two years later, we visited Austria (Vienna and Salzburg). Then we all settled down to our jobs, married and had kids, and the group trips stopped.

Now, we three travel with our own families, but I look back fondly on the days we spent in Europe together. Perhaps one day, when the children are big enough and we can be spared for two weeks, we can do a repeat trip.

Shortly after I met Big A, we visited Paris and London together. He flew to Europe to see a friend matriculate from graduate school (and drive from Paris to Spain and back again), while I visited my sister in her last year of London uni and we spent a weekend in Paris.

Big A was joined in Paris, then London, and since then we've not gone anywhere outside of Asia together. Until this year.

Our ninth wedding anniversary coincided with the annual Spring Trade Fairs in Frankfurt and Birmingham. As I was attending this year in place of my mum, Big A came along and we added another city to the itinerary.

Prague had long been on my visit wish list, and it was a delight. Pretty, historic, and without any of the hustle and bustle of a business city, it was well worth the two day visit. We saw all the main tourist spots, took in a concert, and enjoyed some delicious meals.

Frankfurt was drab and businesslike as expected, but London, my favourite city in the world, was thrilling as always. It was our second time there together, Big A and I, but we went to very different areas than we had the first time round, excepting Covent Garden, and did many different things. We discovered neighborhoods that had changed greatly since I last saw them, and saw many more signs of change to come.

It was wonderful to travel, despite the freezing weather, and we hope to do it again in another two years, budget allowing. Still feeling the wanderlust, Big A wanted to book another, Asian, trip as soon as we got back. And so he did. In April, we're going to Tokyo!

Sleepover Saturdays

On Christmas Day, quite by accident, Little A had his first ever "sleepover" at my parents' house. I wondered if that might be a one off or if we were marking another milestone, quietly.

One month later, Big A and I were off to Europe for a whirlwind twelve days. Our ninth wedding anniversary, two trade fairs, and three cities. We started off midweek in wintry Prague, where we stayed in a gorgeous hotel, but did not get a fast enough Internet connection to complete any video calls with Little A.

Come the weekend, we arrived in Frankfurt for the first of the trade fairs. The internet was quick and efficient, just like its host nation. We discovered that Little A had spent Saturday night at my parents' and Sunday morning sitting in church (not quite still and perfectly quietly, but well enough, considering it was a children's mass). The following Saturday night, by which time we were at the tail end of our trip and leaving London after three days' holiday post-trade fair, Little A again slept at my parents' house, all the night through on a large mattress on the floor normally shared by my two nieces whose parents travel for work much more frequently.

Two weeks back home, and there was a school holiday. It was a friend's 40th birthday quite near my parents' house the night before, so I asked Little A if he wanted to sleep at his grandparents'. He certainly did! The minute I dropped him off, it was as if I was no longer there. He got right into the routine, begging my dad to play the piano. 

The following morning, as I rushed around doing work and bank errands, Little A rode my dad's golf cart, went swimming amd visited the town centre to ride the children's train. He had a full, eventful, fun day, by the sounds of it.

Big A and I now feel slightly less guilty about long weekends spent away, just the two of us. Little A seems to enjoy sleepovers, so perhaps this will be the start of a new weekend tradition.