Today was one of those days where you have high hopes and then some things start to go wrong and you start building on that momentum.

First issue was going to the post office to open an account (like a bank account) to transfer money when I want to buy something from someone or receive money. Since there is no system like this in the States, I have no idea of what is available. Add to that the linguistic challenge that I face. So, I go in and due to my nervousness begin to make mistakes here and there.

"Ummm....I don't have an account. Regular account I start."

Okay, Rain Man, get it out.

"My Japanese is quite strange, and I don't have the words. I'm sorry."

Still looking at me and probably wondering what he did in a former life to have this brush of karma's fate, he begins to make that sucking sound that is sort of the Japanese equivalent of a deep sigh. This begins to further affect me.

He asks if I want an account for depositing and withdrawing money. Yes, now we're talking. But I have to make sure that we're clear on this.

"Interest is not interesting to me. I don't want interest."

He looks over his shoulder for an available person. He asks someone to please help me in English. WAIT, I want to scream. Don't go calling in the foreign minders yet! I haven't yet exhausted all the possible ways that I can make an illiterate ass of myself. You might think this is bad, but I can really build up to much more!

"No interest, you can't do that?" I ask.

The friendly female foreign minder smiles enthusiastically as I have written down the kanji character for interest that I just looked up prior to walking through the door. "No interest, okay."

I am handed a form to fill out of course in Japanese because I am in Japan. Fortunately I have had to fill out these forms before, but they seem to be encouraging me strongly to fill them out in Japanese characters. I usually use the alphabet, thus Romanizing the words, so I am still practicing my Little Engine that could spiel. Yes, I think I can, I think I can. But, he wants to hold my foreign registration card that marks me a foreigner (as though there is any uncertainty about that) to make a copy. I'm screwed. If the space were small enough, I would probably have tried to put one paper over the other and traced the characters. Except of course there's carbon copy in between, and I would not be able to see through the top layer. So, game as I am, I start on it and appear quite stuck.

I am summoned back to the counter for some reason that I can't remember, and I am making it painfully apparent by not having written the address yet that I am kanji challenged.

"Can you do it?"

"Um, well it's quite difficult."

"Here let me write it larger on another piece of paper for you to copy from on your form."

Actually, it would be so much easier if he would simply write my address for me. My pride and also having been through this at another post office to send cash to renew my passport, get in the way of my grovelling. After all, if they could do it, wouldn't they? Spare a sister the embarrassment? But, no, he writes the characters that I am particularly struggling to write on a larger piece of paper for me to copy with sharp inhales when I do the strokes for the characters in the wrong order. It's almost like surgery, it seems---the tension and finally the relief when it's all over. I'd ask him to go grab a beer with me except I don't drink beer. Ah well....

But, wait, there's more. I have written my name in both kanji (as the last name is technically kanji) and katakana (a system for dealing with foreign words). I know as soon as I've done it that it will no doubt be another issue. Because names may be similar sounding, it is imperative that the character matches that person's legal name. I have one form of I.D. which has my name written in romanized alphabets. It was then changed and is stated so on the back that my name is kanji and katakana, though I just realize after it is pointed out to me today that they did not romanize my middle name.

"You can't do it?" I implore knowing the answer already.

"I'll be right back."

I rejoin my daughter sitting on the vinyl covered dark green sofa that has been used by many bottoms in the past. I see him on the phone as he is wanting to clarify what he can do with this situation. I know that probably it will result in me having to start all over fresh on a new piece of paper, struggling through the whole mess again. How do I know? Because together with my Japanese husband, we slew many a tree at the bank when we changed my account. It is The Way of the Foreign Wife. And, let's not forget that if there is a way to do something wrong, I'll find it.

I'm called back to the counter and explained that it can be done but we have the problem of the name. What would I like to do?

"Can I just take a new document with me and bring it back later?" I don't want to endure this debasement any longer. I just want to leave, find the closest ,and drown my sorrows in a Value Meal followed by whatever crap that looks enticing but ultimately disappoints me at the grocery upstairs.

"Yes. Do you not have time to do it today? When do you think you'll bring it back?"

I promise to bring it back Monday, and they further ask me if I have another appointment that I'm in a hurry to get to.

"No," I begin, "but I've made far too much trouble for you," as I stumble to find the words that are not found in my brain when embarrassed and under a state of wanting to bite the nearest person who provokes me.

"Oh, it's nothing. Here just strike through this....do you have your inkan (a registered seal for stamping important documents) with you?"

"Yes, I do," sweet God in heaven, I fortunately prepared for this knowing that I'd need it.

After a little more back and forth, being told to wait a few more minutes while he manually entered my information into the computer, and then told to start thinking about what I'd like my 4 digit numeric password to be (with four fingers held up to make sure that I'd understand 4), I am called again and given my beloved passbook. A green little book that now holds within it the reward of having completed something on my own without waiting to know how to do or having someone bail me out.

But, given my emotional state, I couldn't help but to draw more nervous energy to myself. E ensconsed herself in the kids' play area of the store when I wanted to look at hair barrettes for her. Okay, I remind myself, she was very well behaved at the post office. Let her play. What else do I really have to do today?

A little boy comes into the play area a bit later, and he's either hopped up on sugar or allowed to run wild. He comes with his grandmother who then tells him that she's going to wash her hands and will be right back. I don't know whether or not that is the truth, but true to her word, she does come right back.

He's already trying to keep E away from all the toys that he rounded up, even the ones we were playing with but didn't have our hands on. I told E to be patient and we need to share, ask him to play with you. And she does. And he laughs at her and says no.

So, she comes to me, and I encourage her to have another go. He finally admits her into his lair, but he is alternately trying to push her out as well. While she's not happy about it, she keeps going back. I tell her we can leave and don't have to play with him. I finally engage both of them in something, but he wants more of my attention.

When he is playing, he is quite rough. I estimate him to be possibly a year older than E. I ask him politely several times in my sing-song Japanese, "Play nicely. Let's play together nicely." His response is to laugh. He starts to squeeze E's cheeks and then harder. I remove his hands calmly and explain, "That looks so painful."

"No, it's not," he laughs.

He has repeated go's at her, and I still retain my invested but partially detached teacher modus operandi. "That's painful. Let's not do that."

More laughter, "No it's not." It seems that all the world is a stage for this little guy.

I begin to look at the grandmother, who is leisurely relaxing by putting her legs up on the cushions. No response from that direction. Actually she seems to be quite pleased with him when he runs over and speaks to her. I see that I'm on my own.

I tell E that we can go and she doesn't have to play with him if he's going to hurt her. If he's going to be mean, we don't want to play with people like that, do we?

He has another couple rounds with her. She has gone to get her remaining drink from lunch, and I am sitting on the other side of the padded corner that denotes the end of the play area. I look as he has gone in that direction as well. He wants her drink. Quite understandable, and I tell her to put it away. She does not want to, and so he has a much stronger go at her cheeks. I tell him to stop as that hurts, and I tell E in English to put it away. I go around the corner to get my purse, and when I return, his back is to me as is E's. But, what I can definitely see by the straining and shaking of his arms is that he is either choking her or squeezing her shoulders with all the cheese he can muster.

I immediately go there and try to retain a thread of sanity and say that it hurts and to stop.

More laughter.

I look him dead in the eye and give him the voice that means business. "This is bad. This hurts."

He laughs more, and I wonder about grabbing him by the arm and thrusting him at the uninvolved grandmother. I ponder it for a nanosecond and see how it might play out: she clucks happily and says that he is a boy after all and boys will be boys which follows with me planting a middle finger in her direction and saying, "Do you understand that, Grandma?" I quickly decide that perhaps that is not the best road to take.

"You are mean. This hurts, and you are very very mean."

I do not look at him further as I jerk E up, grab our shoes, and try to get out of there before I lay hands to this child. I realize that my theatrics will probably be lost on him and the grandmother. I put our shoes on as quickly as I can while he is waiting at my side for some recognition. I give him none. I put E in her stroller, and of course have to fumble with bags and such, but do not give him the requisite high pitched sing-song, "Thank you so much for playing with us. We really enjoyed it."

I want to scream. I want to lash out at anyone who comes within my path next. I want to complain to my husband about the culture we are raising our daughter in at his bequest. But, part of me knows wisely that the same thing happens with kids of the same race all around the world. The issue is that I don't have the words to deal. Defeat at such a small thing makes me wonder how I'll manage when E goes to school. Trial by fire?

Sigh.