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I remember going with my dad to look at bikes. Not a bike store mind you, but at someone’s house in the Westbourgh neighborhood of my home town. It felt like some kind of magic that we could be getting “new” bikes. I vaguely remember a short discussion on price. $25 or was it $45. For two bikes. Two “new” bikes! They were girls bikes. Not cool. At first it didn’t matter and then it did. I’ve had vivid recurring dreams of biking full speed into the slack chain link fence in my school’s playground. I would brag the the fence would catch me like a net. It didn’t. It hurt. The dreams are so vivid that from time to time, I think I may have really done it. ...

We’ll take a break from the coronavirus updates to talk about Elisa’s life’s work. Slime. She says she first heard of the concept of slime in the 2nd grade when a classmate had something similar to slime and it made a noise when you played with it. Later she found videos showing the real thing and how to make it. Then came the onslaught against our shampoos, conditioners, dish soap, and bowls. I can’t say I know exactly how the making of slime works. I guess I could ask Elisa and watch the videos. Or not. It appears to involve taking these soapy ingredients along with some special slime ingredients and putting into a bowl to stew. After a few days - or is it weeks - the slime is ready to be kneaded. Elisa does the kneading in almost a meditative state. Pull in half into one hand, compress the other half in, press down onto the table, pull back into hand, repeat. She can do this for an hour. From the various bowls and states the slime is in, this looks to be a multi-stage process. At the end of the process she puts the finished slime into a small container and has occasionally mailed them out. She posts videos of her slime on TikTok. She may in fact be a Slime celebrity. ...

Spring made an appearance yesterday. I left my winter coat on the rack and found my hoodie and went for a walk along an urban river with Sabrina, Lydia, Elisa and our dog Kobe. The urban river is not very wild, not very deep, not very clean, and frankly not much of a river. But it’s a lot cleaner, deeper, and wilder than five years ago. This is Beijing, after all. ...

On what better be the height of the coronavirus epidemic, we moved. The move had been in the works for a while, since before coronavirus was a thing. When it became a thing, I didn’t think we’d be able to move. That the complex lockdowns would not allow for it. That the no visitor rule - we had movers - meant movers could not come in. That the community policing would object. The people from the actual communities we were moving to/from would complain. But we packed and planned as if in denial while practicing defiance. ...

We put our masks on to walk the dog, pick up waimai, or go to the market. They take our temperature when we come back to our complex. They disinfect the elevators three times a day. We stay in to eat, actually cooking our own meals. We watch lots of movies and TV shows. We write, or at least think about writing. Workplaces are closed. Restaurants are closed. Schools are closed. People walk past each other on opposite edges of the sidewalk. We check the daily infected count, trying to figure out if the latest new infections means the end is near or we are just at the beginning. We check twitter constantly. We check wechat constantly. We check the apps that show how close an infected person lives from your current location. 500 meters. That seems close enough. Things change daily. This is February 9th 2020, during the coronovirus outbreak. This is Beijing. ...

It’s the middle of January and my sixth night of staying at my ex’s apartment. But it’s not that kind of story. Yang is not there. Aidan is not there. Elisa is not there. They are on a six night vacation to Japan. Lydia is with me. The nanny is with me. The kids grandma who lives in the same complex slides through the unlocked door twice a day disrupting the household like Kramer from Seinfeld. I’m staying with Lydia because she could not make the trip. But this story is not about that. This story is about the myth of forgiveness. It’s just my view and I’m sure my perspective is messed up but it’s my perspective. ...

It’s Tuesday, January 28 and the no nicknamed coronavirus has reduced our Chinese New Year holiday to a staycation. It started out simple enough. A dozen reported cases of a SARs like virus in Wuhan. Nothing much to worry about. But then a dozen became a few dozen. And then it was reported that the infection rate was somewhere between 1.5 and 3.5. That’s exponential growth and I thought this could become a big problem. Wuhan and the province of Hubei banned anyone from leaving the city. A CNN reporter desperately tried to get out. A NY Times reporter desperately tried to get in. The next day, more cities in Hubei were closed off. The day after that, Sabrina’s hometown of Xiangyang, the second largest city in Hubei, was added to the list. We went to the Beijing train station, past the attendees in hazmat suits, and got full refunds. It would be a Beijing staycation. ...

It’s Christmas 2019. Late afternoon with an early supper ready to be served. But first it is time for the gift openings. Yang, since we are in her apartment, sits by the little plastic tree and picks a present. “Elisa..saaa” she says and hands one to Elisa. “Lydia..aaaaaah” she says and I ask her to wait. I want to enjoy this. See the gifts opened one by one. Elisa opens her gift. A bag. Gifts are not so much about the gifts anymore — we have everything we want — they are about the traditions that carry of anticipation, caring, and love. The ayi comes with a large plastic bag to collect the wrapping paper. Another tradition I got from my dad. Maybe not the best one. I don’t even need to ask the ayi to bring the bag. She just knows from years of Christmas. ...

It’s 6:30am and I’m sipping instant coffee starting my morning routine. No, not a gratitude list although I’m sure that would be more rewarding. On my phone, I scan CNN, a habit started since Trump was elected. Then ESPN. Then Instagram. Then Facebook not for the new posts but for the memories section which I linger over. It’s now 6:40am and I open the girls room door a crack and say “Elisa” and she stirs awake. Off to the kitchen I go to wash any dishes while Elisa gets ready. Kobe comes out from his perch and the sound of his nails clicky clacky brings warmth. Elisa pets Kobe, he stretches, and then lies back down. Elisa jacket on, backpack on. I check if she got her snack. “Yes”. We are out the door at 6:55am. Down to the first floor and I open up the Didi app to book a car. Elisa looks at the phone. Car is six minutes away. We sit side by side on a lobby chair until the car is three minutes away and then get up and walk into the 25F morning. Small talk until we get to the gate..does Elisa have PE today? English test? At the gate we wait a minute until our car arrives. The driver says in Chinese the last four digits of my phone numbers as confirmation. I confirm as does Elisa. ...

A letter to my children with some advice about emotions. Mostly, I don’t believe in direct advice since it’s like nostalgia and our lessons are our own to learn but today I feel like spewing a few words. First, I’ll say emotions are neither good nor bad, they just are. Don’t beat yourself up for how you feel. From my layman’s experience, three coarse sources of emotions. Emotional Triggers Trauma Waves Of course these are all somehow all connected in ways that are beyond my knowledge but I’ll share some of what I know. ...