East or West, a Mom's instincts always win the test

As little boys go, he was adorable, and he knew it. That his grandmother and mother fussed over him was clear from the two flavors of ice cream (in addition to the one that he carried in his hand) that dribbled down the front of his t-shirt. The red Olympic mascot, Huan-Huan, danced amid stains of chocolate and what appeared to be strawberry.

The small boy scampered and raced across the rocks, and was momentarily my only companion on the stone steps near the Temple of the Sea of Wisdom inside the beautiful Summer Palace.

It was a hot day and the grown-ups were seated on rocks nearby in the shade. The grandmother slowly wafted a fan back and forth. The mother and father chatted together and occasionally called to the young boy, as parents will, when a child is exploring.

I glimpsed a golden glazed rooftop, then the spire of a stupa, and went down the rock staircase to investigate. As I crouched to navigate the uneven steps, an airborne body came angling towards me. Even as I realized that there was no landing site available, my hands were reaching to catch what turned out to be the boy. He fell heavily against me and we tumbled together onto the wide top stair.

A cacophony of Chinese voices erupted around me, not unlike the sound of 20 excited parrots. I cautiously opened my eyes to find two surprised warm-brown Asian eyes peering into mine. They were attached to the small boy who sat smack in the center of my stomach, and whose hands were clenched firmly in my t-shirt.

His mother scolded him anxiously as she snatched him up and examined him. After I scrambled to my feet, the father approached me and put a hand on my arm. He scanned my dusty length and then peering up into my face, gave me a heartfelt "xie xie xie xie" and then spoke a bit more, which I didn't understand in my still-dazed condition.

They sat me down on the shady rocks and proceeded to adopt me. I soon found myself with water and my own ice cream in hand, as we watched the little boy get over his fright and begin to caper about again.

I gradually began to remember all the times at parks and playgrounds with my own sons, when other young mothers and I gathered and shared communal duties and watched over our active offspring. Any of the superficial aspects of life, i.e., which suburb we lived in, how we dressed, where we vacationed, or which schools our children attended, faded in importance. Each "Look at me, Mom!" was attended to, each small development was approved, and then discussed with the other caretakers.

As I took pictures of the Tibetan temple on the north side of Longevity Hill and then made my way back up the rocks, it occurred to me that the focus of all interaction then, as now, had been on the well-being of the little ones at play. I smiled to myself as I celebrated finding yet one more shared similarity between the Chinese culture and my own: the existence of that multicultural language, "Mommy".