Aidan, Lydia, and I are walking towards a Singapore hawker center (local food stalls) when Aidan says to me “you know that sound in Beijing..the ones cars make?”. It takes me a beat and then I realize he doesn’t know the word “honking” so I tell him, yea, what about it. Aidan says the cars don’t do that here. The kids and I spend a week in Singapore and Bali. A bit of a rushed trip as we could have spend a week in either place. The kids particularly liked Singapore and our all day tour there. Sea Aquarium strangely reminding me of IKEA with it’s massive size and never ending switchbacks. The cart racing. The tram to and from Sentosa island. The night safari. ...

The immigration officer smiles as Elisa exits the gate. She says my kids stack up one by one, like stairs, and that I have my hands full. I tell her that they are good travelers, at a good age. She smiles again as she stamps my passport, says something I can’t quite make out about another family. I smile back, pleased in the moment. The young woman at M-Mart convenience store in Bali greets me as I enter the store behind my kids. I had been in the store alone earlier and exchanged a smile with her when she asked me if I wanted “cigs” which took me a while to understand before saying no. She asks me if these are my kids, and I say yes, and we exchange another smile and I feel at ease. I spent a week in Singapore and Bali with my kids for a summer vacation. I travel alone with them as a single parent. Most of the time I want to make sure they are having a good time and that I don’t mess up any of the logistics. My emotions subjected to their emotions in some loosely coupled way. It dawns on me that while the vacation is fun and the kids are great, that my needs are not being met (as if I know what those needs are beyond the primal). This is why I highlighted to two interchanges with the immigration woman and the convenience store clerk. In those two interactions, I was fully present and with a warm heart. I felt like me. I also had some other interactions where I also felt like me, but these were of the unpleasant, frustrated, anxious, variety. The long check in when we arrive late and hungry to Singapore. The long checkout from our hotel to Bali when we needed to get to lunch before heading to the airport. Angling to cut off a woman trying to nudge her way past us in the airport security line. Getting angry at the Bali Airport porters who acted like they were part of the taxi service and then asked for a tip. It is that last one that I will highlight. We exited the baggage area in Bali and walked past the hawkers to the Taxi stand. I had read that it was a fixed price depending on what part of the island you were heading too. When I asked they said it was 200,000 Indonesian Rupee (about $15 USD) which was more than I had read so I went immediately into “they are ripping me off” mode to which I am gene adverse. The porters asking for a tip when we got into the taxi got me more tweaked. I didn’t yell or anything but I stood up to them and said sharply “I didn’t ask for your help. I already paid a lot” as we climbed into the cab. The kids were quiet in the backseat, feeding off my anger, waiting for it to smooth over. Or was it me – projecting myself back in time. My dad driving the station wagon with us kids in back, our excitement slammed shut to silence in response to his anger at our anticipation. Was that me; I am not having that same effect on my kids, am I? Or is it a good thing that my kids see me in different moods. In any case, I felt bad for the tension in the car, then and now, real or imagined. As we made our way to the hotel in Bali I made some small talk with the kids. Compared to Singapore they were not impressed with the small, crowded, chaotic streets. Suddenly we pulled into our hotel which felt out of place. Into our rooms and the kids spirits started to lift when they saw the size and in particular the stand alone bath. But what really changed things was when the restaurant. Thanks to tripadvisor I found a decently rated one 100 meters from the hotel. The staff was friendly, the pizza and steak had the kids happy and enjoying Bali. The next day would be our big tour day of Bali but it was that moment over pizza that I will remember most. Not for the peace or frustration of the real me slipping through but for me the parent doing my job. The fact that I could separate the two gives me hope. Hope that one day, with time, with work, and with luck the two sides can coexist like surf on a wave. ...

Aidan says to me “we can eat at home more often” as Lydia reaches for her second hot dog and Elisa by some miracle digs into my version of 白菜. The July 4th dinner which we had on the 3rd is a success. We don’t really live where there are many American expats nor am I very close with Americans that would have a fourth of July BBQ. Back in my early days here I did attend a couple of independence day celebrations with other newish American expats. It felt weird to celebrate the fourth with expats since they are not known to be the most patriotic of folks (some of course are, especially the execs placed here with packages). For me, the fourth was mostly a day off in the states. I never felt super patriotic. At the same time, I don’t harbor any ill will. It’s just a day. But I do want the kids to understand and embrace that they are American so I keep up some traditions. ...

(a slightly sanitized version of a diary entry) Experience robs me of hope and then returns it anew. I am reminded by love that I am a two time loser. It makes me sad and angry and angry and sad when someone tells me I failed my first wife since I abandoned the marriage. And then her illness got worse and then she died. Died while I was on my honeymoon with wife number two who when the news broke told me “you deal with this”. ...

I wake up, alone, and in a light sweat. I debate getting up and turning the AC on so I can sleep another hour. I check my phone. 7am. I slept through the night for the second night in a row after three weeks of insomnia. I get up and wash out my eyes which are recovering from an infection. I feel my sore throat is coming back. If 70 is the new 50 then it’s really going to suck to turn 70. ...

I’m on the subway on my way home from work and my brain feels fuzzy. It’s been a hard week but not as hard as it feels. I check my wechat moments and see my ex is at the airport board in hand, ready for a weekend trip. On her other hand is a man which upon closer inspection looks to be her boyfriend. While I know she has a boyfriend, it’s been hard to tell from the pictures which one he is because she has her arms around so many. But this picture is different for the man has that boyish look of holding his woman. ...

Since I wrote Thought on Turning 50 I’ve had a few more thoughts which I guess is a good thing. At least the brain is still active. Some of my thoughts are direct results of experience. The experience of how my knees feel in the morning coming down the stairs. The experience of having a millennial co-worker see a picture of me from seven years ago and exclaim “wow, you were so young”. The experience of waking up on Sunday morning alone and spending the day alone. The experience of playing basketball the previous sunday with my 13 year old son. The experience of wondering if I should put sunblockt on the spot that has appeared on my head or if I should just avoid escalators. The experience of being the old guy at work. ...

When I grew up my schools had team sports which I participated in from the second grade through my senior year of high school. In Beijing, my kids, at least through grammar school have a “sports day” every Spring which I’ve for the past eight years. My typical attendance consisted of arriving at the school playground around 9am which is later than work so I tended to stay up a little longer the night before. During the sports day I would sip my coffee while waiting for one of the kids to do something. It could be an opening performance, a game of soccer, or a three legged race with a parent. It was a chance to nod at other parents that I may have or may not have nodded at other such events. It was a chance to see my kids around their classmates and how the acted with each other. ...

The moment of peace finally came Sunday night after dinner when I was listening to “Bears” and cleaning the kitchen. It certainly wasn’t there on Friday when I heard of Prince’s death. Not because I was all that huge of a Prince fan, it had just been one of those days following another one of those days. I went to the only spice authentic mexican restaurant in Beijing for dinner and had tacos even though it was a perfect night to sit on the street and have chuanr. After tacos we moved next door to a brew pub. This brewpub is notable for catering to mostly Chinese and while it was packed we were the only two foreigners there and by the time I got the Baby IPA a third joined the fray. I told my friend that Prince had died and he was shocked which surprised me a bit. We are of the same generation but he never struck me as a Prince kind of guy. He asked the waitress to play some Prince but she had never heard of him. I opened up a music app and showed her. Still no recognition. A few minutes later I was plugging my phone’s headphone jack into their sound system and Purple Rain filled the room. I left my phone there with the rest of his hits queued up and returned to the table. ...

Aidan dribbles and then takes a step back three. It clunks of the back rim and into my hands. He’s been telling me that he’s been shooting threes during his after school games but this is the first time I’ve seen it. He now has the strength to shoot them relatively easily using a push set shot which strangely makes me feel proud. He even makes a few doing our four games of 21. I of course beat him in every game but my aching knees the next two days tell me I won’t have this advantage for long. ...