This was us, three years ago! Now I’m writing more about my experiences as an American living in Japan in other forums than my blog. 

In the anthology, Knocked Up Abroad Again, I specifically get into the question, “How can I even think of raising children in a place so foreign? In a place where, because of the language, my communication is reduced to the language of a small child?” 

~~*~~

In Japan, families celebrate their children with the blessing of shichi-go-san, Japanese for the numbers, 7, 5, 3. Girls dress in kimono for their first-ever time at 3, then again at 7. Boys take part just once, at age 5.

Or friends came over and we just had a day, a special day where you rise early and make sure you have some kind of time for coffee before the place is abuzz. The kind of day when a mother wakes her sleeping daughter to start the process of climbing into the silk folds  of her kimono.

And I swear I love any and all of the shots of me far more than at any picture, at any stage in my life. More than wedding pics. More than you-name-it. Just right here, as we are. Okay, clothed in kimonos, too. But nothing was done to my hair. I did my makeup in a rush, nursing. I have bits of gray hair showing, whatev. It’s all there–real and loved. And it’s ours. It’s us. I’m in love.

The work and peaceful presence of photographer and friend, Mel Willms, is all good.

We all just BURST with love for this little big girl. Baba, short for Obaachan, grandmother, is securing and tying our girl’s kimono.

little girl hands

ps i wrote about the makeup/picture issue for our girl here; that was re the day before. on this day, she had on nada, save some Chapstick, maybe.

Prom King sporting suspenders.

We then left our home, me, rather clumsily, & caravanned by taxi to Rikugien Gardens.

sweet sweet sweet  n  sweet                              sweet.

just walking around, looking for donguri/acorns & singing

“The Nutcracker Suite”.

just before we left, under a gigundo old old kuri tree

which is funny, cuz i read those kuri/chestnut trees take three years to mature, & here we are, celebrating a girl’s big 3.

(Do you know the kids’ song about the chestnut tree? )

ahhh the best day & we are totally sushified & feeling awesome

To read more accounts, more drama, more humor, more of what it may take being a mother abroad, come support our Kickstarter for Knocked Up Abroad Again!