“Are you going to the audition (试演) in the dancing hall tomorrow?” someone asked my friend Connie, as we came out of ballet class.

“What audition?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” sad Connie. “It’s for The Ed Sullivan Show. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Why not? I’d love to go!” I said.

A couple of girls laughed. Connie smiled at me kindly and said, “I don’t think you are ready yet, Eva.” I felt I was looked down upon, but I thought maybe she was right. Connie and the others had been studying dance most of their lives and had already been in some shows. I was only a green hand hoping to get a job in show business one day.

The Ed Sullivan Show was a big deal. It was an hour-long Sunday night show on CBS. It featured famous stars such as the Beatles and Elvis. This time, one of the performers was going to be Jimmy Durante. They were looking for six dancers to support him. Jimmy was close to stopping working but still quite famous. Frank Sinatra Jr. was also one of the performers in this show.

Later a few of us went for coffee. My classmates talked about the audition that I was “not ready for”. I listened to their discussions on the choreograph (编舞) and what to wear, and soon I realized I was not in their group as a dancer. I felt very disappointed.

But later that night, I thought a lot. Who said I shouldn’t go to the audition? I had a right to try. How would I ever know if I was good enough if I didn’t try? What did I have to lose?

I had a hard time falling asleep. When I finally did, I had a dream. A voice was speaking through a loudspeaker: it sounded like Ed Sullivan was talking about what a big show was going to be. It was only a dream but when I woke up the next day, my decision was made.

Paragraph 1: I packed my dancing shoes.

Paragraph 2: The audition began.

I had pulled another all-nighter and then spent a full day at the office. I just came home and had only twenty minutes before my three girls came jumping through the door, full of stories, requests and homework demands that would keep me on my toes until their bedtime. And, in those twenty minutes, I had to tidy up our house, return several phone calls, and cook dinner. I felt a headache coming on.

Our company was small, which meant a lot of work on my shoulders. I felt like I was spending so much time and energy on my work that it was hard to cheer up the enthusiasm (热情) for my children.

“Mommy! Mommy! You’re never going to believe what happened in school today!” There they were. My twenty minutes were over, and I hadn’t started on dinner. I put on my best cheerful voice as I greeted them, hoping they wouldn’t notice the effort it took to put cheer into my greeting. And so the evening went on in a blur (模糊) of dinner and homework, quarrelling and bath time. I nodded off on the couch three times in the middle of homework, much to my oldest daughter’s anger. And I responded impatiently, “Yes, sure,” when my four-year-old asked me how many miles away we were from the sun. I think I did okay otherwise, although I don’t remember all the details on account of my extreme exhaustion. I tried to give my all to my children, but after the day that I had had at work, I’m afraid my all wasn’t all that much.

After finally guiding the last one successfully into bed, I was back at the computer to work for just a couple of hours before heading to bed myself. I opened my e-mails to find a message containing the quote (引文) for the following week’s issue. I read the quote, moving back as if I had been physically hit. The quote read: “Our children deserve (值得) the best of us, not the rest of us.”

This quote resonated (共鸣) with me too well.

The following day, I gathered my courage to talk with my boss.

As an independent, self-reliant person who always handled everything by myself, I didn’t expect parenting to be hard. Oh, sure, it’s difficult for other people. I heard parents complaining all the time — kids are challenging; nothing is ever clean; there’s not enough time in the day to do everything. But that was “other people” and I knew I could handle it. How complicated could it be?

I’d always dreamed of adopting a child, and finally my dream came true one summer afternoon. Even though we had requested only one child, the worker asked, “Could you take another baby and his eleven-year-old brother?” Of course, we could. We had room to have all three boys together.

The first week after they moved in, I spent my days rushing from task to task, cleaning and making sure they had all they needed. I constantly organized our living room, which was suddenly full of toys, and picked up the path of destruction left in the boys’ wake. Cooking and cleaning after meals and snacks seemed to take half of my day. I hardly ever sat; something always needed to be done.

“I think we need a break,” my husband told me one evening as I was falling asleep on the couch as usual.

“No,” I refused. The idea of sending them to a stranger sickened me. However, with each passing day, I was growing more and more exhausted. Besides meeting the physical needs of the boys, there were medical and emotional needs. Both the little ones constantly clung (黏住) to me. It was never quiet in our house; I felt overwhelmed.

One night, my husband said firmly that he needed a break. Whether I “needed” one or not, we were going to take one. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I nodded, knowing it was true, although I didn’t want to admit my weakness.

I called my parents.

Asking for help is something I must keep re-learning as time goes on, but it’s getting easier.

I’ll admit it. I can be a complainer. After all, there’s so much in this life to complain about: the dirty clothes that don’t make it into the basket, that annoying neighbor’s loud music, my husband’s shoes spread out at the front door, rainy days, traffic...

Complaining is a habit I cultivated since childhood, a skill I developed through the years. My parents didn’t seem to mind—they were great complainers, too—though I do recall some eye-rolling and long-drawn sighs from friends and schoolmates when I would voice my negative opinions. In fact, I can distinctly recall the exact moment when I first realized my complaining habit reached its expert level.

One day, as I reminded ray husband once again to remove his bills from the dining-room table, put his shoes away, and lower that bothersome radio, he put up his hand.“Stop! You’re your complaining. It’s driving me crazy.”

I looked at him blank-eyed.

He took a deep breath. “You never hear me complaining, do you?”

“Well,” I answered, “you’re complaining about my complaining, so actually, yes, I am hearing you complain right now.”

His eyes widened. A drop of sweat formed his upper lip. Then he grabbed his car keys and ran out of the door.

Perhaps I’d gone too far, I thought. Maybe I really did complain too much. But, what to do about it? After all, it had been a lifetime habit. And habits are hard to break.

I took a break and sat down to think about solution. When I felt annoyed, I could lock myself in the bathroom and scream. No. The neighbors would probably hear me. Phone a friend? She probably wouldn’t be a friend for very long. Then it hit me.

I’d been in the habit of keeping a journal for most of my life. It provided a sort of timeline for me，and I liked to review past entries occasionally to review the path I had been on at that point. Journaling kept me honest with myself, and I liked it for that reason. Perhaps, I though, a complaint journal might be the answer I was seeking.

That day, I decided to give it a try.

Besides the improved relationship with my husband, I saw other effects soon.            .

An unexpected change on the road

It was a damp evening in September 2013 when I landed in Kuching, the capital city of Sarawak in Malaysia. I was a 19-year-old Dubai-raised kid away from home for the first time to start my undergraduate studies in mechanical engineering.

Alone and homesick, the wet welcome I received at the airport didn’t make me feel any better. I had never travelled alone before and the seven-hour flight from Dubai was the longest flight I had ever taken. I pushed my luggage and headed to the airport exit to find a grey van with the name of my university on it. My ride, I assumed, and I was right.

As we left the airport, the driver began talking to me; he told me that I was the last of the new students he had to pick up that day. He shared information with me about the city and its people and what I should see and do. As I am a driving enthusiast myself, we started talking about cars and driving in Dubai and his accounts of driving in Kuching.

“Never make a Sarawakian angry” he warned. “No road rage (路怒). Very dangerous!” He then went on to list his experiences of road rage and by the time he had finished, I had made up my mind to be very passive on the roads.

Not long into our journey, the lights of the car behind flashed at us. This continued more aggressively and my driver started to panic. We pulled over to the roadside in a well-lit area. My heart was pounding but I tried to put on a brave face as the man from the car emerged and made his way to my side of the van. As he reached my window, I lowered it and tried to force a smile. He reached into the van and I let out a loud “Whoa (used to tell someone to become calmer)!”

Then I looked down at his hands to see that he was holding a travel bag. 

With a sigh of relief, I took my bag and thanked this stranger. 

When Aiden asked me to go with him on a camping trip to the mountains, I thought it would mean a cottage with a wood-burning fireplace and hot chocolate. My comfortable image of camping became a nightmare (噩梦) when Aiden and his older brother, Lebron, showed up with camping supplies-tents, rolled-up sleeping bags, and canteens! I did pack a backpack, as instructed, but I had no idea we were going on survival training!

Lebron had a perfect plan, and he hurried me to get in so we could leave the busy city life behind us. Ahead, the mountains appeared bigger than I had remembered them: the trees were larger, and the environment was much more dangerous. At least the weather was amazing-cotton-candy clouds dotted the deep blue sky.

Before we began hiking, Lebron had a sleeping bag stuffed into my pack and told Aiden and me about hiking rules. The first part of the road looked easy. Soon, the path became narrower and rougher, forcing me to talk less. As we went higher, I could see the road zigzagging (蜿蜒) up the mountain.

“It looks closer than it is,” Lebron said, reading my facial expressions. “This is the most difficult part…watch your step, not the view. Loose rocks and tree roots make the road dangerous.”

Finally, we reached the top. My legs aching, I dropped my pack and complained. “No time to rest,” Lebron said, looking up at the sky. The weather had been warm all day, and it felt good to relax in the cool wind. “The weather up here changes quickly, and that cool air means a storm is around the corner. We need to set up camp.”