weekend

Sunday evening. The girls are finally asleep. I reheat my tea for the third time and sit down to plan next week’s schedule. A family from Germany emailed today — they want a 14-day trip covering Shanghai, Guilin, and Chengdu. I’ve done this route a dozen times but every family is different. This one has two kids aged 7 and 10, so I’m thinking: fewer temples, more food markets, and at least one panda encounter they’ll talk about for years. Sunday evenings at home are my reset button.

The weekend is almost over. Both girls are asleep. The kitchen is clean (finally). I'm sitting on the balcony with a cup of cold tea that I reheated twice and forgot to drink. Sunday evenings always feel like this — a little tired, a little grateful. This week I'll be planning trips for a Swiss family who wants to see Zhangjiajie and a Canadian couple who want to eat their way through Chengdu. Not a bad way to start the week. Goodnight, everyone.

Sunday evening ritual: both girls in the bath, water everywhere, my younger one using her rubber duck as a submarine to "attack" her sister's boat. The bathroom floor is a lake. I'll have to mop it later. But right now I'm leaning against the doorframe listening to them giggle and negotiate bath toy treaties. This is the part of parenting no one puts on Instagram. And honestly? It's the best part.

Called my mom this afternoon. She asked if I fed the kids properly this weekend (I'm 40 and she still asks this). Told her about the pancakes. She laughed so hard she started coughing, then said: "That's what you get for letting them watch YouTube instead of learning from your grandmother." Then she gave me her recipe over the phone — no measurements, just "a handful of flour, not too much, you know, until it feels right." I wrote it down but it's just three lines of "until it feels right." Classic.

Woke up at 7:30 today. That's "sleeping in" in this house. Found both girls already in the kitchen with their dad, "making breakfast." Flour on the counter, flour on the floor, flour in my younger one's hair. They'd attempted pancakes from a TikTok video. The pancakes looked like deflated footballs. I ate two and told them they were the best I'd ever had. The smiles were worth the flour cleanup.

Saw a confused tourist at the ticket machine in Chongqing North Railway Station today. He was holding a printed booking confirmation and trying to figure out what to do next. I told him: you don't need a paper ticket. Your passport IS the ticket. Just scan it at the gate and walk through. His face went from stressed to relieved in two seconds. That interaction reminded me how much has changed. 15 years ago I was the confused one — queuing for paper tickets, showing up an hour early just in case. Now? I book on 12306 while cooking breakfast, scan my passport at the station, and I'm on the train. The whole thing takes 10 seconds. I told the guy: if you're nervous about the train system, download 12306 and practice searching a route before your trip. Even if you're not booking yet, just get familiar with the interface. And remember — your passport is your ticket. No printing needed.

This afternoon I dragged both kids up a mountain trail on the outskirts of Chongqing. The four-year-old complained for the first 15 minutes. Then she found a stick. The stick became a sword. The sword defeated every bush and rock on the trail, and suddenly hiking was the best activity ever invented. Chongqing is surrounded by hills that most tourists never see. A 30-minute drive from the city center and you're on trails that cut through bamboo forests, past small temples, with views of the Yangtze winding through the valleys below. We stopped at a little pavilion halfway up. An elderly couple was there with a thermos of tea and a bag of sunflower seeds. The wife offered some to my kids, who accepted with sticky hands and huge grins. We sat together in comfortable silence, looking out at the city far below. My oldest asked me on the way down: 'Mama, why do the old people in China always go to the mountains?' I told her: because they know that a mountain doesn't ask anything of you. You just walk, breathe, and remember what matters. She didn't fully get it. But one day she will.

Sunday lunch in our house is never planned. I open the fridge, stare at it for five minutes, and then improvise based on whatever my kids haven't rejected yet. Today's menu: hand-pulled noodles (the store-bought kind, don't judge me — I'm not my grandmother), a tomato egg stir-fry that's so simple it barely counts as cooking, and the leftover braised pork from yesterday that somehow tastes even better than when I first made it. My oldest insisted on 'helping' crack the eggs. Two out of three made it into the bowl. The third one ended up on the counter, where my younger one immediately tried to draw in it with her finger. I counted to five and decided this was fine. The best moment of cooking with kids isn't the food — it's the quiet that falls over the kitchen when they're both focused on a task. Chopping scallions. Tossing noodles. Licking the spoon when they think I'm not looking. We sat down at 1pm, the table a mess of mismatched bowls and spilled soy sauce. My younger one announced: 'Mama, this is the best lunch ever.' She says that every week. I still believe her every time.

Saturday 8am and I'm already losing an argument with a six-year-old about why 2+2 equals 4 and not 5. She was so confident about it too — 'Mama, think about it. Two and two. That's five.' The conviction in her voice almost made me doubt basic arithmetic. I try to make Saturday mornings our slow study time. No rushing. No pressure. Just the three of us at the kitchen table with textbooks, crayons, and a plate of cut fruit that I spend more time arranging than anyone notices. My younger one 'helps' by coloring the margins of her sister's workbook. I pretend not to see. She's so proud of her artwork that I don't have the heart to stop her. An hour later we've covered: 4 math problems, 3 pages of Chinese characters, 2 minor meltdowns, and 1 breakthrough — she finally agreed that 2+2 is indeed 4, but only because 'you said so, Mama, not because I believe you.' Weekend mornings in our house. Chaotic, loud, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.