Mei Xiao Mi's Self-Selected Collection: Who Am I

Author: Mo Xiaoxi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
Features: Readers who have read Mo Xiaoxi's articles say that her writing is truly like Xiaoxi—though small, it is filled with the fragrance of Xiaoxi. Upon careful reflection, there is a subtle depth of thought in her writing, a contemplation of life and humanity. Though simple, it is indeed thoughtful and earnest. Xiaoxi's works are concise and powerful, filled with the light-hearted nature of literary sketches. It is akin to Liu Yong's Little Words from the Bedside, but it always feels more humanistic and humorous. Such works are like modern cultural fast food, but not the kind that leaves no impression after reading. Instead, they make one want to read again, to savor them slowly and appreciate their freshness. The editor has spoken too much—let the readers themselves (taste) it. This book is a collection of essays by Mo Xiaoxi about her life and work. For the first time, the author reveals her bittersweet journey of growing up. The book is accompanied by numerous old and new photographs, with simple yet highly readable text.
Bathing
This person of mine is not wealthy in any way—except for having five brothers! I have five brothers, so I had such a childhood. When I turned 12, the youngest was two years old. We were like rungs on a ladder. My mother was a primary school teacher, too busy to begin with, and had to attend political study sessions during summer vacation. So, all five brothers were under my care.
The other day, we were all "naughty," playing in the playground and among the bushes (we lived in school dorms) without a time limit. When my mother came back, she probably saw six "mud dumplings." It was clear she was angry, but she didn’t scold us (I believe she didn’t even have the time to). Instead, she started preparing dinner and gave the younger brothers their baths one by one.
As we sat on the playground counting stars, she had to wash a mountain of clothes. Seeing how exhausted she was, even unable to speak, I, as the eldest daughter, felt a sense of responsibility and thought deeply.
The next day, I announced a grand bathing plan to my brothers. I thought my second brother, at eight, could bathe himself. My older brother, in addition to bathing himself, was also responsible for bathing the youngest. My third and fourth brothers, of course, were my responsibility. And I said, it had to be done before my mother came back.
To my surprise, they all enthusiastically supported the plan. Especially my older and second brothers—they probably felt grateful for my trust and nodded solemnly. The second brother even smirked at the third.
The mistake, however, was mine—I gave the youngest brother to my older brother, not realizing he was the most difficult to handle.
As I was washing my fourth brother’s hair, the youngest started crying sharply. I rushed over, only to find him already on the ground, covered in white soap bubbles, his small hands and feet flailing, constantly shouting "Mom." My older brother stammered, "He’s so slippery, I couldn’t hold him."
My older brother and I quickly lifted the youngest and rinsed him off under the faucet, checking him over for injuries. Luckily, he wasn’t bleeding—just a bump on his head.
The baths were finally finished, but when I checked the clock, there was almost an hour before my mother came back. I told them to play with blocks in the shade, no running, or all their hard work would be wasted. I started doing laundry.
A while later, my second brother came to report that my third brother had fallen in the corner of the playground. He pretended to go to the bathroom and slipped down the slide, probably running too fast.
I looked up to see my third brother covered in mud and down to see a pile of dirty clothes. I was both angry and hurt, almost to the point of crying.
I was about to scold my third brother when my mother returned. I bit my lip and said nothing. My older brother, with a tone of apology, recounted what had happened.
My mother picked up the youngest and asked, "Does it hurt?" The youngest shook his head. She walked over to me, gently stroking my hair, then my cheek, and used her finger to wipe away a sweat bead on my forehead. Tears fell silently.
I turned away—I couldn’t let my brothers see. In their eyes, I was an adult.
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