Bravo

By Cai Chunzhu

Once in a supermarket, I pointed at a balloon, asking Xihe, my son, what it was. “It’s a balloon,” said Xihe.

I held him up and praised him immediately, “Bravo!” Then, a faint voice came to my ear, “Do you really mean it? He must be older than three, isn’t he?” It was an old granny.

In fact, I agree with her. It is nothing extraordinary for a three-year-old boy to know a balloon.

He could only recite thirty pieces of Tang Dynasty poems when he was three, while some other kids could recite more than 300 pieces—this is nothing extraordinary; when he was in the kindergarten, he never wetted his pants—this is nothing extraordinary; he attended an elite primary school—this is nothing extraordinary. He came third in a math exam; he went to school all by himself; he participated in the Olympic Physics Competition but failed; he was admitted to Peking University but not to his favorite major; he passed the postgraduate entrance exam of an ordinary university; he failed to enter Petro China after graduation but got another offer; he had a beautiful girlfriend who was from the rural area; he had a stable marriage but didn’t have a child; he had a child. All of these are nothing extraordinary.

…

Then, how do we define something as extraordinary? As I see it, when a person does something beyond his capability, you would say he is awesome. For example, in my eyes, my autistic son is awesome in every aspect. When I put his shoes on for him, he is sensible enough to lift his feet; when he is offered a piece of cookie, he says “give me” in advance; when visiting the aquarium, he shows his curiosity to the marine fish; when his pants fell down, he had the sense to try to lift them up, though he failed at last; he learned to use the potty; he took a look of me; he took another look of me; one day, he called out “Mummy”; his kindergarten teacher told me that he could sit still for two minutes; he could jump, more or less; when I hold him in my arms, he wraps his own arms around my neck; he can walk behind us for some distance even if we don’t hold his hands; once he wanted to open a packet of cookies, I told him to seek help from his mother, and he took it all in and turned to his mom—My good boy!

…

I continue to ask less and less from him, and maybe one day, when I see that he is breathing, I will still think he is doing a great job. When another parent heard of my opinion, she not only agreed with me, but even envied me, as her son cannot live without a respirator.

(From Dad Loves Xihe—You’re Always Playing Games with Yourself, Hunan Literature and Art Publishing House. Translation: Zhu Yaguang)

真 棒

文/蔡春猪

有一次在商场，我指着一个气球问喜禾是什么，喜禾说：“气球。”他说完，我立即把他举得高高的，还不吝赞美：“真棒！”这时，旁边飘来一个幽幽的声音：“这还棒呢，他有三岁了吧？”说话的是一位大妈。其实我很同意这位大妈的说法，一个三岁的孩子认识气球，这确实称不上棒。

三岁的时候他能背三十首唐诗，但有的孩子能背出三百首呢——这还不能叫棒。上了幼儿园，他一次屎尿都没拉在身上——这还不能叫棒。他上了重点小学——这还不能叫棒。他数学考了全班第三；他不用家长接送，自己去上学；他考上了重点中学；他参加奥林匹克物理竞赛，但没取得名次；他考上了北大，但不是最理想的专业；他考上研究生，但学校不怎么样；他毕业后有了工作，但没进中石油；他的女友很漂亮，但女方家里是农村的；他婚姻很稳定，但没孩子；他生了一个孩子；这些都不能叫棒。

……

到底做了什么才能叫棒呢？我的观点是：当他什么都不会做、做不了的时候却做了，你才会觉得他棒。比如，我觉得我的自闭症儿子就很棒，什么都棒。给他穿鞋子时他知道配合地伸一下脚了；给他一块饼干时他先说了一句“我要”；去“海底世界”，他对鱼有了好奇心；裤子掉了他知道提，虽然没提上，但有这个意识了；他能坐在小马桶上解手了；他看了我一眼；他又看了我一眼；那天他真的叫了一声“妈妈”；幼儿园的老师说，他也能安静地坐两分钟了；他好像会跳了；抱着他的时候，他会搂我们的脖子了；不牵他的手他能跟在我们屁股后面走一段路了；他拿着一包饼干，我说去找你妈妈让她帮你打开，他真的听懂了，而且过去了——真棒。

……

我的要求只会越来越简单，简单到也许哪天看到他还在呼吸，我就觉得很棒。有个家长听到我的说法，不只认同，还非常羡慕——她儿子还戴着呼吸机。