This morning, Hamer woke up early all on her own, got washed, dressed, packed her school bag, and finally came to hurry me up to take her to school. I still felt like I hadn’t rested enough, but seeing her all ready, I pulled myself together and got up. She managed to wake up so early thanks to going to bed early last night. When we got to school, the gates hadn’t opened yet, so we waited in line for a while.
Once at the office, I dove straight into implementing the right-click menu and properties panel—so many little details to tackle. Before I knew it, it was 12:30, and I’d only just finished putting together the basic framework. I grabbed a pasta snack from Lawson downstairs, eating quickly while standing, which oddly left me with a sense of “melancholy.” Part of it was the rush, and part of it was the feeling that eating had become just another task. After lunch, I headed to Hamer’s school for the parent-teacher meeting, having taken the afternoon off for it.
The meeting stirred up complex emotions—both disappointment and unease. It started with the language teacher, who assertively directed the kids to get ready and launched into a series of class demonstrations. I didn’t like this approach; it felt pointless. No wonder Hamer said she was afraid of this teacher—the teacher indeed came off as very forceful, and the kids seemed cautious and tense around her. I couldn’t help but wonder: What are the kids actually gaining from these demonstrations? Why is this staged show necessary for parents? What I really wanted to see was natural interaction between the teachers and the students, not something that felt like a task to check off a list. If this sort of performance is typical in the classroom, I’d feel genuinely uneasy. As a parent, I already keep an eye on Hamer’s learning progress, often helping with her assignments, so I have a fair sense of her growth. I don’t need this kind of “report” to feel reassured. By contrast, I appreciated the second half of the meeting, where teachers shared small milestones in the students’ learning journey and their hopes for the future. That part felt valuable, much more useful to me.
After the meeting, I took Hamer to the hospital to check out her persistent cough. She’s been coughing all week, with no sign of improvement. It was close to 4 p.m., and the pediatric waiting area was still packed. We were number 89 and had to wait nearly an hour. The doctor, young and very thorough, diagnosed it as a regular cold, prescribed some medicine, and reminded us to keep her warm. Afterward, as is tradition after a doctor’s visit, we went to Xibu Mahua for noodles. Coincidentally, our table number was also 89. Hamer and I enjoyed the meal immensely.
In the evening, the whole family went to the National Stadium to watch a basketball game—Beikong’s home game against Zhejiang. It was our first time watching the CBA. Xiaoyan and I were quite into it, while Hamer seemed unimpressed and eventually fell asleep. Beikong won in the end, and as the crowd began to leave, we suddenly heard a loud popping noise. We thought someone might be setting off fireworks to celebrate. But then we remembered that fireworks are banned in Beijing, and we realized people were stomping on their inflatable cheering sticks, making sounds that resembled firecrackers. We joined in and stomped on our sticks too; it was surprisingly fun.
We didn’t get home until late at night, and everyone was exhausted. After a quick wash, we all headed to bed, ending the day on a satisfying note.
