As I sit here, eating a spicy dried tofu snack and admiring the shiny, spotless floor of my living room, it’s become glaringly apparent that China has officially ruined. We’re now a week into “Operation: Ayi” and so far all is fabulous. She comes three times a week, and scrubs like it’s going out of style. For all her hard work, we give her the equivalent of about two dollars an hour. In a couple more weeks, the intention is to eventually graduate her to some childcare duties so that yours truly can take up another spoiled housewife activity: going to the gym (Oh, I may also be taking up some very part-time work, but I’m waiting to see how that unfolds before I go into detail).

Actually, for all the work I’m now no longer doing, I’m still awfully stressed out. I spent portions of the ayi’s first two days here ironing sheets because I felt like I should at least look busy (and the weather was pretty gross). I constantly feel bad about my limited ideas for conversations (and my limited Chinese to carry them out). And don’t get me started on how icky salary negotiations were to carry out when the “boss-figure” possesses the vocabulary and verbal finesse of a five-year old. Plus now without the excuse of perpetual cleaning before me, I now have to come up with spectacular ideas for the enrichment of Nico’s life. Lately, we spend a lot of time wandering around the compound, ripping flowers off plants (Nico loves ripping stuff) and having our pictures taken by our neighbors (who shall heretofore be referred to as the Chinese Paparazzi).

All this quality time with Nico (as opposed to working independently in the room in which Nico is ripping leaves off the house plants) is leaving me with some niggling doubts about having a second child at all. I’m counting the days until he can do double backflips, sing the part of Sarastro in Die Zauberflöte, and debate the importance of Goya to the history of modern art, which by my calculations will take another six months. The idea of then having to start all over from scratch after I’ve already ripped thousands of flowers off thousands of plants, fills me with this hideous sense of dread.

In even happier news, on Saturday, Christian, Nico, and I leave for Hong Kong where we will be attending the Olympic Equestrian events. Covet my life!

It’s been quite the week for us. Nico took a scary tumble (happily he was in his car seat at the time). I discovered that nursing a baby while hungover is sooo not fun. We picked up our Olympic tickets. Someone stole my cell phone (which was promptly replaced with a phone I’m finally beginning to grudingly admit is much cooler than my old, much beloved phone). There was a death on the European side of our little family (not unexpected but terribly sad all the same). And we’ve finally broken down and hired someone to clean our apartment.

Our ayi seems like a very nice person. She comes highly recommended from another American family, and she’s raised what appears to be a mature and bright son who speaks excellent English. Most importantly, so far she doesn’t appear to be the type of person who feels compelled to tell me how I’m not raising my son correctly. Anyway, today is her first day and after a fairly sleepless night dealing with Nico who decided he needed to eat every two hours and my own nerves regarding allowing a complete stranger to get far too intimate with my dirty laundry (almost literally), I’m presently an anxious wreck as I await her first day of work. I’m also trying not to succumb to the urge to clean before someone arrives to clean.

‘Cause that just seems silly.

Tomorrow, Nico, Christian, and I are going to the Dalian International Beer Festival to watch Christian’s coworkers get really, really drunk (as Chinese people are prone to do when they encounter beer). I’m actually kind of looking forward to it even though I don’t like beer or the smoking that frequently accompanies it once one leaves America’s west coast. Festivities trump ickiness.

Anyway, this will be Nico’s first beer festival, which I suspect is a very important event to the Austrian half of him. To commemorate the occasion, I suppose we should actually bathe him, cut his nails, and maybe cut the knots out of his hair (other people’s ayis have begun to take notice).

Oh, and for anyone keeping track, this week Nico mastered the skill of screaming. This isn’t crying, mind you. I mean screaming. He’s got a high-pitched squeal scream and an obnoxious “eh” scream both of which he now likes to pull out randomly for no particular reason other than the joy of hearing himself wail. I now know why the more experienced mothers used to say Nico was at “such a lovely age” back when he was merely attached permanently to my chest.

Anyone interested in purchasing a slightly used, kinda grungy, almost five-month old future opera singer? 

This morning the sky was beautiful for the first time in a week and Nico was up at 6:30 am to enjoy it, which means that I, as the chief victim of his urges, was also up at 6:30 am. It’s not fun to get up at 6:30 am after getting up at 2:00 am. There should be a law against it. There should also be a law against attempting to go running after getting up at 2:00 am and again at 6:30 am. But alas there isn’t, which is how I found myself sweaty by the time Christian finished pressing snooze on his alarm clock.

After four and a half months of too little sleep, too little food, and too much missing body mass, I’ve come to the conclusion that I really have to start getting back into shape. Amazing as it is, I feel like a useless blob even with my tiny waist, contrary to the claims of every women’s magazine I’ve ever read. And the first step to this transformation is to get myself back into running form.

Unfortunately, in order to get back into shape, sometimes a girl has to do something unpleasant, like drag herself outside at cruel hours of the morning three times a week for some heavy breathing and a layer of sweat.

I decided I would start working on my Chinese again by watching Chinese soap operas. The problem is the soap opera I picked up to begin this experiment, Around 40, is actually Japanese. I probably should have figured this out from the Japanese on the cover of the box and the plot line about a 39 year old unmarried but very successful woman (a taboo in China but not, apparently, in Japan). Fortunately, there are Chinese subtitles, so I guess I can still work on reading, but man what a downer.

One thing about Japanese soap operas: the food looks really yummy.

Oh, and even Japanese women on TV have the strange Japanese woman giggle, supporting my belief that Japan is full of strangely-giggling women.