Props to Mr. Johnson!

So, in my previous post, I perhaps painted in an unflattering light the care the children receive on Mr. Johnson's watch. I felt instantly guilty of this when I stood in the lobby of the Crowne Plaza in Beijing Friday night on my mobile phone listening to the report: Bea had a fever. 

I had just dined on a delicious can't-get-it-in-Qingdao Mexican meal replete with chunky guacamole and was about to share a glass of red with my friend Rita. I was scheduled to spend the next 48 hours unencumbered of children, in the company of 10 other adult women. We would dine at restaurants where I would not have to ask for a kid’s menu. I would converse without interruption. And… we would be shopping. I was planning a gluttonous weekend of eating, chatting, shopping, and, did I mention, a trip to the spa. By contrast, 600 kilometers away, my husband’s weekend promised to be demanding. 

My guilt increased Saturday morning when, on a subsequent phone call, I discovered that throughout the night Bea had been both feverish and croupy. Anyone who has spent a night, or in all probability many nights, dripping with sweat in a steamy bathroom, or bundled up in the cool night air with a barking baby, knows that coup: a parental right of passage, leaves one worried and tired, and in Mr. Johnson's case without a spouse to take a wee hour shift.

Mr. Johnson successfully navigated the croup, managed to corral three kids and schlep them to the dentist. (Bea's fever subsided by Saturday morning.) He arranged Millie's play date. He invited the ayi for a cooking class: Saint Ayi Lucy taught him how to prepare his favorite Chinese dish... gan bian la jiao (spicy dry fried beans.) And then invited her to stay and eat dinner as our family’s guest. Which leads me to a second confession: the kids had vegetables. I had all but accused my husband of feeding the kids a diet completely filled with carbs, but he arranged a veg!

Sunday morning Mr. Johnson (aka Superman or Mr. Mom) presented an acceptable (though perhaps not coordinated) ensemble, complete with brushed hair and teeth, in our row at fellowship. He showed his further skills by then single-handedly teaching Sunday school we were assigned to team-teach.

When I walked in the door at 5:00 p.m. Sunday night, he had the table set, and the remnants of the cheesy baked mosticioli I had prepared for them in my absence ready to serve. The girls had prepared sweet Welcome Home signs, and by all reports had behaved beautifully. And to top it all off --homemade cinnamon rolls were rising in the oven.

I’m not planning any girls’ trips in the near future. But in case I do, I know I can leave our troops in the capable hands of Mr. Johnson.