My husband and I are both very ordinary people, yet we’re held in high esteem among friends, relatives, neighbors, and colleagues — all because of our nine-year-old daughter, Sang Sang. From the moment she was born, we worked together to nurture a shining little star, hoping to make up for our own regrets over the years. Thankfully, our daughter has made us proud. At such a young age, she already has a drawer full of award certificates: prizes from various academic competitions, as well as awards for guzheng (a Chinese stringed instrument), painting, dance, and more.
What amazes other parents most is how calm and gentle she remains in any situation — utterly free of the typical tantrums of her age. She is the perfect child in everyone’s eyes. Before long, we were dubbed “Prodigy Mom” and “Prodigy Dad.” Amid the fervent praise, we decided: This summer, we’d enroll her in two more tutoring classes so she could skip a grade next semester.
Sang Sang caught another cold, attending classes by day and receiving IV drips at night. Later, I took sick leave for her. After a deep sleep, her illness seemed seven-tenths better. My husband and I took no breaks, busy organizing and printing practice tests we’d gathered online to prepare her “extra meals.” Then the phone rang. The caller identified herself as the mother of Sang Sang’s classmate. She hesitated, then finally spoke: “My daughter insisted I speak with you. She says you push Sang Sang too hard — like two high-powered juicers.”
Like a machine racing to win certificates
I was speechless, but she continued without pause: “Sang Sang learned to recognize characters and count as soon as she could talk. She started school at four and was required to read Chinese and foreign classics by six. Beyond heavy academic burdens, she must master piano, chess, calligraphy, and painting. The cruelest part is that you demand she be number one in everything. She’s like a machine racing to win certificates, exhausted from the chase. How could you do this to such a young child?” She asked me: “Do you know what your child’s greatest wish is?” I blurted out: “Of course, it’s to get into Harvard.” She sighed: “That’s your wish. Your child wants to sleep soundly. She said: ‘Life is so exhausting!’”
I was shocked beyond words as the truth penetrated my heart. She was only nine — such a young age — and yet she uttered such words! From the printer, hot test papers kept spilling out. I silently pressed the printer’s stop button and made an appointment with my mother.
Being a ‘Tiger Mom’ had long since worn my daughter down
The mother told me earnestly: “Children come into this world not to live for their parents’ vanity. A child’s healthy mind and body matter more than parental pride.” We talked heart-to-heart on the boulevard, and I finally understood: The immense pressure of being a ‘Tiger Mom’ had long since worn my daughter down. Studying, piano, and painting — each filled her with dread. Only our “iron fist” forced her to grit her teeth and endure. Other parents envied us, yet she envied other children. They had toys, snacks, and the freedom to be playful and mischievous, to speak and act without fear of consequences. She, however, had to deliberately play the role of a little adult, always thinking about saving face for her parents.
The deeper our desires, the more exhausted our child became. During meals, Sang Sang had to listen to English; while brushing her teeth, she had to recite vocabulary silently; before bed, she had to review what she’d learned. In the name of love, we used many lofty principles to confine her within her studies. No wonder her spirit felt so drained.
After lengthy discussions with my husband, we decided to scrap the grade-skipping plan. He stammered: “But I’ve already bragged about it to my colleagues and hometown friends…” I patiently explained: “Stop being a juicer. By pushing so hard, we might gain a fragile, depressed child prodigy, but we’ll lose a resilient, joyful daughter.”
My daughter finally has her beloved stuffed animal and pretty butterfly hair clips. After finishing homework, she can daydream or go downstairs to play. On weekends, she can sleep to her heart’s content, go to the park with classmates, or eat snacks while watching cartoons.
Each day brought new discoveries
Then, each day brought new discoveries: The birds downstairs sang sweeter than in summer, autumn air carried a hint of mint, and the roses in the greenhouse bloomed as large as bowls. Amidst such simple, pure joy, her little heart of freedom drifted like a kite, blending into the white clouds. Watching his daughter’s cheeks grow rosy day by day, my husband finally stopped sighing. He realized that in this world, there are things more precious than saving his face.
The head teacher curiously asked my daughter: “Before, whenever you missed reporting a competition, both your parents would rush over to question you. One poor test score, and they’d repeatedly urge us to discipline you strictly. Why aren’t they worried now?” Sang Sang mischievously told the teacher: “Mom and Dad said having a healthy, happy child is what brings them the most face.” At my daughter’s birthday dinner, she vividly recounted this exchange, and we all burst into laughter. Her life needs the warm embrace of sunlight: illuminating her morning reading, caressing her during play. Only then will those passing moments — coming and going — yield endless surprises.
My daughter gestured and laughed: “My desk mate said I used to be all serious, just studying problems. Now I have lots of friends! We jump rope, swing on the swings, whisper secrets — it’s so much fun!” We burst into laughter as the sweet scent of cake filled the room. Her grades didn’t plummet completely. She still occasionally took first place, and sometimes stumbled. Before parent-teacher conferences, she’d fret nervously, asking if we’d feel embarrassed. I tickled her little nose: “Why would we? You’ve always been our pride. Besides, failure is nourishment — digest it, and you’ll grow smarter and braver!”
Her dream remains Harvard, though it’s just one among many aspirations
In the past, when my daughter was occasionally criticized by a teacher or had minor conflicts with classmates, it felt like the sky had fallen. She’d be teary-eyed and gloomy for a long time. Now, she’s like a brave little tree by the roadside, beginning to spread its branches, calmly facing a sudden gust of wind, enduring a light, chilly rain. Her dream remains Harvard, though it’s just one among many aspirations. She smiles and says: “If I don’t get into Harvard, it’s no big deal. There are so many other great schools in the world.” Yes, if your heart holds enough sunshine, even rainy days become part of the scenery on life’s journey. That spring, not only did our daughter grow taller, but we grew up too, shedding our anxieties.
At a lively gathering, many children performed astonishing talents. Our daughter recited a little poem she’d written on the spot: “Pears are green, grapes are yellow. I am a green mulberry. During nap time, the sun quietly dyed me red.” The crowd reacted indifferently, but I alone clapped proudly for her. I knew the sun’s hand had already touched my daughter’s heart. Embracing the gentle sunlight, my little mulberry sprouted boundless passion and courage to face every day ahead.
Translated by Audrey Wang and edited by Maria
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