Making Way for My Child

My son has chosen mathematics and physics as his life's work, rather than medicine as his mother and I had hoped. At first I felt quite regretful, but thinking of my own life, which I have always lived according to my own interests, I felt I had no reason to stand in the way of the child choosing his own path.

I want to be a decent parent, not one who forces a child to become a dragon, so I chose to make way for him. Perhaps talent for mathematics and physics runs in our family; in my own school days I was best at math and physics too. I was deeply interested in both and rarely scored poorly in them, but I did not make them my life's work.

My child is different: he is happy to be a mathematician or physicist—the boy doesn't know the sky is high, and declares that his goal is to enter the mathematics department of Peking University, take physics as a second major along the way, earn a double degree in college, and devote his life to theoretical mathematics and physics.

Wang Meng said that no one's youth eats plain greens; a bit of cockiness in the young is not necessarily a bad thing, so I have no wish to teach him to be modest—I believe life will teach him modesty.

I put a lot of effort into training him for medicine, but when he insisted on following his own path, I still admired his courage in making an independent choice and was glad to make way for him.

Likewise, when he became interested in school clubs and signed up for the student union's clubs department, I fully supported him. Whatever interests him, I am willing to let him try. If he loses interest after trying, I will not accuse him of fickleness—after all, only by tasting it oneself can one know whether it is fine wine or horse urine.

I do not want to be like most Asian parents, burdening the child with exams and school advancement. He did not want to attend after-school cram schools, feeling they took up too much time he could spend on what he loved, and I respected his choice.

My child does not care about having a respectable income in the future, so he is not afraid of the austerity of being a pure theoretical mathematician or physicist. If a person does something solely because he loves it, rather than for various utilitarian reasons, I personally think he will be happy.

When the child talks about some mathematician or physicist he admires, the animated look on his face and the torrent of words convince me that he truly wants to dedicate himself to math and physics, so I have no wish to be the annoying roadblock.

In fact I could not stop him anyway. From an early age I fostered his independence, and also nurtured his interest in mathematics.

I spent a lot of time and energy accompanying my son as he grew up; I played with him and told him hundreds of stories I made up myself—stories full of steps requiring reasoning and calculation. Whenever reasoning or calculation was needed, I handed that work over to him, which trained his logical thinking. By fourth grade he could solve every logic-reasoning problem given to Tsinghua master's students.

From kindergarten on, I never stopped him from doing what he wanted—including dangerous things like climbing trees, jumping from heights, and playing on rivers covered with thin ice. When he asked whether he could do something, I always told him: if you want to do it, go ahead. But if your adventure costs you, you bear the consequences yourself; you cannot blame anyone, you cannot cry, and you cannot rely on your parents to bandage your wounds. He has fallen through ice, hurt himself, and gashed his hand badly while climbing trees, but never cried over any of it.

I do not care how much I have suffered; I care about how fully I have followed the choices of my own heart. In childhood I played many high-risk, thrilling games.

For example, I liked to flip a bench upside down and ride it like a scooter, sliding down the village's high slope. I paid a heavy price. A permanent scar remains at the corner of my left eye: once, sliding down a slope, I hit a sharp stone, gashing a large wound that required many stitches at the village clinic.

I also have two scars on the back of my head; as a child I climbed trees and performed lightness skills on the branches, jumping down from a fork and splitting my head open, which required many stitches. In my early twenties I did many adventurous things, paid many prices, and suffered much.

But thank goodness I did not die, nor did I become a scatterbrain or a hothead; instead I became a cautious person—life's lessons worked far better than my parents' nagging.

So my overall principle for my son is this: the road is under his feet; whichever he takes is his own choice. I will not be a stumbling block, but nor will I blaze the trail for him; he chooses and makes his own way. As a father I can accompany him, provide some of the necessities he needs to grow, and bring him a little fun. I think this is the best way to raise a brave, responsible child.

Young children are mostly both curious and brave. Our ancestors were right: the ignorant are fearless; a child who does not know danger will not fear it. But many adults caring for children, to avoid risk, exaggerate danger to frighten them, and such care often raises cowards. My parents did not deliberately cultivate my bravery; they were simply too busy in the fields to watch me, so as a child I could take a few risks unimpeded.

From my experience, adventure is not a bad thing. People with no adventurous spirit in their lives have their virtues, but they seem to lack a little joy. Perhaps not taking risks is the greatest risk of all. If we worry about our children's adventures and block them at every turn, or design for them a path we deem correct and refuse to let them walk their own, their lives will, I suspect, be unhappy.