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/蔡春豬

有一次在商場，我指著一個氣球問喜禾是什么，喜禾說：“氣球。”他說完，我立即把他舉得高高的，還不吝贊美：“真棒！”這時，旁邊飄來一個幽幽的聲音：“這還棒呢，他有三歲了吧？”說話的是一位大媽。其實我很同意這位大媽的說法，一個三歲的孩子認識氣球，這確實稱不上棒。

三歲的時候他能背三十首唐詩，但有的孩子能背出三百首呢——這還不能叫棒。上了幼兒園，他一次屎尿都沒拉在身上——這還不能叫棒。他上了重點小學——這還不能叫棒。他數學考了全班第三；他不用家長接送，自己去上學；他考上了重點中學；他參加奧林匹克物理競賽，但沒取得名次；他考上了北大，但不是最理想的專業；他考上研究生，但學校不怎么樣；他畢業后有了工作，但沒進中石油；他的女友很漂亮，但女方家里是農村的；他婚姻很穩定，但沒孩子；他生了一個孩子；這些都不能叫棒。

……

到底做了什么才能叫棒呢？我的觀點是：當他什么都不會做、做不了的時候卻做了，你才會覺得他棒。比如，我覺得我的自閉癥兒子就很棒，什么都棒。給他穿鞋子時他知道配合地伸一下腳了；給他一塊餅干時他先說了一句“我要”；去“海底世界”，他對魚有了好奇心；褲子掉了他知道提，雖然沒提上，但有這個意識了；他能坐在小馬桶上解手了；他看了我一眼；他又看了我一眼；那天他真的叫了一聲“媽媽”；幼兒園的老師說，他也能安靜地坐兩分鐘了；他好像會跳了；抱著他的時候，他會摟我們的脖子了；不牽他的手他能跟在我們屁股后面走一段路了；他拿著一包餅干，我說去找你媽媽讓她幫你打開，他真的聽懂了，而且過去了——真棒。

……

我的要求只會越來越簡單，簡單到也許哪天看到他還在呼吸，我就覺得很棒。有個家長聽到我的說法，不只認同，還非常羨慕——她兒子還戴著呼吸機。