With Joshua on my arm and the phone in one hand I walk into the kitchen. I open the kitchen cabinet where we have taped up a paper with some phone numbers. I want to phone my mother who should be at work now. From the cabinet three Lego cows in a row stare down at us. Joshua gives out some exciting noises and starts jumping up and down on my arm. I laugh and takes the cows down to him. He clutches all three between his chubby hands and casts me a happy glance before he wants down. Soon he is immersed in play with the cows.
Questions the children may ask:
What did the cows do up in the cabinet in the first place? And where is the fourth band member? The little cute brown one?
Questions the mother may ask:
How can four Lego cows (two white with black blobs and two brown ones) be the most exciting toys in our lives? And the fact that we have one cow for each small hand: why is it that they cannot be shared?
We are proud owners of two dangerous lions (only cubs but hey, still sharp teeth), an ice bear, a giraffe, a black shiny horse named Lukas, a grey cat, a rooster and, not to forget, a little grey elephant. All exciting, fierce creatures, I say. I for one would not liked to be picked at by a angry rooster, would you? But in the world of Maja and Joshua these animals are nothing compared to four grass chewing mammals with pink nipples that say moo.
The cows go boat riding, get washed, are tucked in on a flat pillow with a scarf as a blanket. Basically - they live an ideal toy life. When Maja is in Kindergarten, Joshua's little hands carries two of them around. He sometimes take them for a ride in his wagon. These cows are happy cows indeed.
At times they have to confine to a dark inside of a cabinet. Is it an easy price to pay to be a favorite toy? I imagine that they are smiling down at us every time the light hits them.
The rest of the day we will search for the lost one. Maja will not rest until he is safely back in her care again. Then all of them will take a bath before bed.
I wish I had my own cow.
The Blonde
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Aware of surroundings - cannot find worm
I have started a new life. The image of this life is me sitting still and observing a pale green worm slowly crawling on a shiny big leaf. Sadly the essence of November renders it impossible to actually find a fresh worm sliding up on a new strong leaf. I will close my eyes and try not to equal my particular worm with that of The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle - I have to have some imagination of my own - and with some luck I will enter a superior state of zen or whatever. Oops I forgot, Joshua wants to ride his Winnie the Puh car around in the flat. He pulls on my pyjama pants and makes noises (they are a bit like mating noises of some birds in the wild - push back that notion and please continue) - impossible to ignore. What is it with our children's enormous ability to get our attention? That must be a strong drive by both of us: Joshua to get my attention and me giving it in all situations. Like yesterday when I picked up the receiver to phone a particular good friend that I have not talked to for a few weeks.
Maja is playing nicely in her room, Joshua is busy emptying the contents of the kitchen drawers (he looks like out of a cartoon where he stands bent over the drawer and throws things over his shoulder on to the floor) and I am actually standing in front of the espresso machine contemplating if I should venture a try for a double cappuccino or not. I see the golden moment and picks up the phone instead, coffee can wait - I never make good ones anyway.
My friend and I speak about three lines each before my children's radar has started to shake in indignation that their particular mother is not paying them them full attention:
What?! She is no longer observing us. Can that be? What about all that crap about green worms creeping up leaves??? She should be in quiet observation right now. We have to do something about this. NOW.
And they do. Brilliantly. Maja has one of her worst fits ever, screaming, kicking and hitting me, Joshua and everything in her way. I try to ignore it and listen to my friend's very disturbing account of her eldest daughter trying to combat swine flu. At one point I am holding up the door handle to Maja's room to prevent her coming out. My god she is strong! She must be hanging with all her sixteen kilos on the handle. Joshua is standing at my legs, clutching my jeans and crying his eyes out. His face is red and his cheek very hard and pointy.
What do I do? I contemplate running upstairs, shutting the bedroom door and ignore the fact that I have children at all. But I guess I am a woman with some sense of propriety and instead I tell my friend that I will call her back. Obviously it is impossible to leave Joshua alone. I sigh and hang up.
Worms, think worms. This is an opportunity for growth. Take it. Go in there with a humble countenance and try to understand her. Be her. A three-year-old that is angry, tired and only wants mother's attention - or something like that.
I have a godsend thought. I will ask her what I can do for her. What does Maja want? What could this little child with her red eyes, scruffy hair and a array of different types of clothing want?
This question takes her back for a while long enough to calm her down. She ponders for a while. I renew my invitation to do something for her and she looks at me. Her face is soft and wet.
"Do you see my tears?", she asks.
"I see your tears", I answered.
The rest is history. Happy to say it worked. An hour later I phone my friend again. Joshua is napping and Maja is constructing a farmhouse out of Lego. My friend and I were able to talk for thirty one minutes and twenty six seconds.
It pays out to master the art of empathy. A lesson in the worm-finding business.
The Blond Chick
Maja is playing nicely in her room, Joshua is busy emptying the contents of the kitchen drawers (he looks like out of a cartoon where he stands bent over the drawer and throws things over his shoulder on to the floor) and I am actually standing in front of the espresso machine contemplating if I should venture a try for a double cappuccino or not. I see the golden moment and picks up the phone instead, coffee can wait - I never make good ones anyway.
My friend and I speak about three lines each before my children's radar has started to shake in indignation that their particular mother is not paying them them full attention:
What?! She is no longer observing us. Can that be? What about all that crap about green worms creeping up leaves??? She should be in quiet observation right now. We have to do something about this. NOW.
And they do. Brilliantly. Maja has one of her worst fits ever, screaming, kicking and hitting me, Joshua and everything in her way. I try to ignore it and listen to my friend's very disturbing account of her eldest daughter trying to combat swine flu. At one point I am holding up the door handle to Maja's room to prevent her coming out. My god she is strong! She must be hanging with all her sixteen kilos on the handle. Joshua is standing at my legs, clutching my jeans and crying his eyes out. His face is red and his cheek very hard and pointy.
What do I do? I contemplate running upstairs, shutting the bedroom door and ignore the fact that I have children at all. But I guess I am a woman with some sense of propriety and instead I tell my friend that I will call her back. Obviously it is impossible to leave Joshua alone. I sigh and hang up.
Worms, think worms. This is an opportunity for growth. Take it. Go in there with a humble countenance and try to understand her. Be her. A three-year-old that is angry, tired and only wants mother's attention - or something like that.
I have a godsend thought. I will ask her what I can do for her. What does Maja want? What could this little child with her red eyes, scruffy hair and a array of different types of clothing want?
This question takes her back for a while long enough to calm her down. She ponders for a while. I renew my invitation to do something for her and she looks at me. Her face is soft and wet.
"Do you see my tears?", she asks.
"I see your tears", I answered.
The rest is history. Happy to say it worked. An hour later I phone my friend again. Joshua is napping and Maja is constructing a farmhouse out of Lego. My friend and I were able to talk for thirty one minutes and twenty six seconds.
It pays out to master the art of empathy. A lesson in the worm-finding business.
The Blond Chick
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Mr and Mrs Hesse
I am a housewife in Germany. A Swedish housewife in the country of the housewives. I believe the word and concept of a housewife was coined and perfected in this country. At the moment I am trying to sort out my own household and to organise it in a certain way so that I hardly notice that I have anything to do with it. But I have come to a realisation. The more you do housework the more it becomes. It seems to accumulate actually. Instead of the odd hour I did before I could easily spend the whole day doing obscure chores that lead to nothing.
To my immense gratification I live door to door with a older couple that has taken housework to the next level. To the highest level. There can be no other level. His name I know but I will call them Mister and Missus Hesse just to simplify the matter and to protect their privacy. (They have nothing to do with the great author, just to clarify.) Why is this of pleasure for me? Because of one reason only: I am so far behind them in efficiancy level of this particular branch that I would be reaching for the stars in housework to come close to their league. I can therefore sit back and enjoy the little quirks they deliver on a regular basis.
Yesterday I got another of those kicks and it made my day. I had done a quick lunch for Peter and Joshua and I opened our dining room window to call them in. They were playing in the garden. Peter was trying to assemble the wooden table without any success and Joshua sat in the sand pit and watched him intently. I call them and then I lean out a bit more to take a close look at the Hesse´s garden. It does not actually classifies as a garden per se as it is more a organised storage of grass, paving stones and green bushes with pink ball flowers on them.
Then I discovered it. Leaned up against the vanilla colored plastic partition-wall stood two garden umbrella stands. The umbrellas themselves where not present. (Surely they are protected with a plastic wrapper somewhere in the cellar.) The stands were the sort that weigh a ton and therefore not easy to move about all the time. I am always pissed off when the sun moves and I have to drag our stone stand around. But Mr Hesse has draged them both to the wall and positioned them next to eachother on a strip of small pebble stones which indicates that he has to have lifted them up a bit. Well, that might pass for some people. A hassle but not out of the ordinary. I agree. It is ok. But Mrs Hesse (Now, I just assume that is how they divided the work up.) has taken two cream cups, cleaned them and slid them over the metal pipe for protection. It is not that I don´t understand why they do it, for I do. I bow in awe for their foresight and their never ending energy to conjure up more chores and better way to keep things neat and cleaned.
Last week they kept me giggling for a few days in a row. Every time I walked to and from our front gate. Around all our houses in the whole neighbourhood there are red brick stones lined up next to the asfalt pavement. This is part of the design of this particular area of the town. Mr and Mrs Hesse take a keen interest in their realm of habitat. For several months now they have noticed that the brick stones lack an even surface and has started to crumble at several spots. Mr and Mrs Hesse take the matter into their own hands and hire two sweaty workers to lay new brick stones on the four meters that contains their rented apartment. The workers work long into the night and Mr Hesse is often seen out there to inspect. Even Mrs Hesse ocasionally comes out to watch the work progress.
I am only human enough to feel a pang of guilt when our 82 year old neighbour under us scratches up weeds between the paving stones on our lane. I smile at her apologetically and takes big soft steps passed her and make sure to close the gate behind me. I know that is important to her.
The Blond Gardener
To my immense gratification I live door to door with a older couple that has taken housework to the next level. To the highest level. There can be no other level. His name I know but I will call them Mister and Missus Hesse just to simplify the matter and to protect their privacy. (They have nothing to do with the great author, just to clarify.) Why is this of pleasure for me? Because of one reason only: I am so far behind them in efficiancy level of this particular branch that I would be reaching for the stars in housework to come close to their league. I can therefore sit back and enjoy the little quirks they deliver on a regular basis.
Yesterday I got another of those kicks and it made my day. I had done a quick lunch for Peter and Joshua and I opened our dining room window to call them in. They were playing in the garden. Peter was trying to assemble the wooden table without any success and Joshua sat in the sand pit and watched him intently. I call them and then I lean out a bit more to take a close look at the Hesse´s garden. It does not actually classifies as a garden per se as it is more a organised storage of grass, paving stones and green bushes with pink ball flowers on them.
Then I discovered it. Leaned up against the vanilla colored plastic partition-wall stood two garden umbrella stands. The umbrellas themselves where not present. (Surely they are protected with a plastic wrapper somewhere in the cellar.) The stands were the sort that weigh a ton and therefore not easy to move about all the time. I am always pissed off when the sun moves and I have to drag our stone stand around. But Mr Hesse has draged them both to the wall and positioned them next to eachother on a strip of small pebble stones which indicates that he has to have lifted them up a bit. Well, that might pass for some people. A hassle but not out of the ordinary. I agree. It is ok. But Mrs Hesse (Now, I just assume that is how they divided the work up.) has taken two cream cups, cleaned them and slid them over the metal pipe for protection. It is not that I don´t understand why they do it, for I do. I bow in awe for their foresight and their never ending energy to conjure up more chores and better way to keep things neat and cleaned.
Last week they kept me giggling for a few days in a row. Every time I walked to and from our front gate. Around all our houses in the whole neighbourhood there are red brick stones lined up next to the asfalt pavement. This is part of the design of this particular area of the town. Mr and Mrs Hesse take a keen interest in their realm of habitat. For several months now they have noticed that the brick stones lack an even surface and has started to crumble at several spots. Mr and Mrs Hesse take the matter into their own hands and hire two sweaty workers to lay new brick stones on the four meters that contains their rented apartment. The workers work long into the night and Mr Hesse is often seen out there to inspect. Even Mrs Hesse ocasionally comes out to watch the work progress.
I am only human enough to feel a pang of guilt when our 82 year old neighbour under us scratches up weeds between the paving stones on our lane. I smile at her apologetically and takes big soft steps passed her and make sure to close the gate behind me. I know that is important to her.
The Blond Gardener
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Kindergarten Blues
Yesterday evening Peter and I enjoy a quiet evening with Frasier – the one with the bar mitzvah. As fun as it was when Frasier mistakes Klingon for Hebrew it suddenly hits me that my life is about to change forever. My oldest daughter Maja will leave me tomorrow. She is taking her first step in to her own world. She is starting Kindergarten. The good old days of lazy play are over… now it is only a matter of time until she lives far away and we see each other only a few times a year. Did I mention that she is three?? Why this melancholy? Is it because she is asleep although it is only 9 pm? Or is it because she dresses herself? No, that last thing I love. When she left this sunny morning she had a wonderful outfit on. The red and white checked pants, which was my choice and I argued: it is summer fluff and easy to take on and off. She took it. The rest, the striped long sleeved t-shirt, Joshua’s knitted cardigan (too small for her but a golden moment of memory for me of us giggling together when I close the small white buttons and told her to hold her tummy in. The cardigan stopped right above her belly button and leaves a curtain of red t-shirt hanging.) her winter hat and Pippi Longstocking shoes. Socks are soo overrated.
She has never been away for me more than three hours. In her life. Never. And I remember when. When she was about one year old, Peter and I went to IKEA to buy bookshelves and she stayed at home with grandma and grandpa. When Joshua was born she was out with Peter and Oma for a loooong time when I was trying to breastfeed and sleep. Even if it was a bliss to be alone with Joshua and to relax I still missed her and thought she had grown when she came rushing in with glowing cold cheeks to tell me all about the sling and the climbing she had done.
We got three good years my little darling and now I am very jealous of the people that are allowed to spend time with you and who will tell you all kinds of stuff of the world that might or might not be true. They could be angry with her. (Only I am allowed to be angry with her…) Or comfort her when she is sad. (Nobody can do it as well as I.) And I hardly know them. Do they see her properly? Not only the fact that she loves to hide her head in plastic bags or has a clinical need to put strings around her neck. Not to say anything about the small objects that she keeps in her mouth. But do they see her? That she is really sensitive and that she gets scared when people laugh at her (or with her for that matter) or when people (mostly men actually) get to close too quickly. She wants to be included but wont take anything. She has her own will and own opinions. Will she fit in? Will she be accepted but also: will she accept them?
What was in her pink bag this morning? By me a pair of underpants and blue trousers for the event of an accident. She took a wooden bed from the playhouse, a velvet silk scarves, a wooden box with a red rose on it, a little pillow, a little red blanket and MiniMe. She wanted the Winnie the Pooh ball but it would not fit into the bag. She allowed her brother to play with it until she comes home.
Off they went, Peter and Maja, on the bike. She in her yellow helmet with pigs and dogs on it (I don’t know what pigs and dogs do together but they are dancing on her helmet) and the early summer sun shining on her lovely face.
Bye my little darling, go out and face the world. Take risks, play and have fun. And then you come home again.
The blonde mother
Yesterday evening Peter and I enjoy a quiet evening with Frasier – the one with the bar mitzvah. As fun as it was when Frasier mistakes Klingon for Hebrew it suddenly hits me that my life is about to change forever. My oldest daughter Maja will leave me tomorrow. She is taking her first step in to her own world. She is starting Kindergarten. The good old days of lazy play are over… now it is only a matter of time until she lives far away and we see each other only a few times a year. Did I mention that she is three?? Why this melancholy? Is it because she is asleep although it is only 9 pm? Or is it because she dresses herself? No, that last thing I love. When she left this sunny morning she had a wonderful outfit on. The red and white checked pants, which was my choice and I argued: it is summer fluff and easy to take on and off. She took it. The rest, the striped long sleeved t-shirt, Joshua’s knitted cardigan (too small for her but a golden moment of memory for me of us giggling together when I close the small white buttons and told her to hold her tummy in. The cardigan stopped right above her belly button and leaves a curtain of red t-shirt hanging.) her winter hat and Pippi Longstocking shoes. Socks are soo overrated.
She has never been away for me more than three hours. In her life. Never. And I remember when. When she was about one year old, Peter and I went to IKEA to buy bookshelves and she stayed at home with grandma and grandpa. When Joshua was born she was out with Peter and Oma for a loooong time when I was trying to breastfeed and sleep. Even if it was a bliss to be alone with Joshua and to relax I still missed her and thought she had grown when she came rushing in with glowing cold cheeks to tell me all about the sling and the climbing she had done.
We got three good years my little darling and now I am very jealous of the people that are allowed to spend time with you and who will tell you all kinds of stuff of the world that might or might not be true. They could be angry with her. (Only I am allowed to be angry with her…) Or comfort her when she is sad. (Nobody can do it as well as I.) And I hardly know them. Do they see her properly? Not only the fact that she loves to hide her head in plastic bags or has a clinical need to put strings around her neck. Not to say anything about the small objects that she keeps in her mouth. But do they see her? That she is really sensitive and that she gets scared when people laugh at her (or with her for that matter) or when people (mostly men actually) get to close too quickly. She wants to be included but wont take anything. She has her own will and own opinions. Will she fit in? Will she be accepted but also: will she accept them?
What was in her pink bag this morning? By me a pair of underpants and blue trousers for the event of an accident. She took a wooden bed from the playhouse, a velvet silk scarves, a wooden box with a red rose on it, a little pillow, a little red blanket and MiniMe. She wanted the Winnie the Pooh ball but it would not fit into the bag. She allowed her brother to play with it until she comes home.
Off they went, Peter and Maja, on the bike. She in her yellow helmet with pigs and dogs on it (I don’t know what pigs and dogs do together but they are dancing on her helmet) and the early summer sun shining on her lovely face.
Bye my little darling, go out and face the world. Take risks, play and have fun. And then you come home again.
The blonde mother
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Naked is COOL
The waiter at the Copenhagen cafe is both confused and forgetful. He passes our table four times before taking our orders and then he forgets to tell the coffee making staff to actually produce what we ordered. This gives me plenty of time to observe the other customers. The table next to us an older Italian couple with their grown-up daughter share a dessert to their black coffee. They are extremely well dressed, he in suit and the two women in skirts and blouses - all colours are low key and they form a nice picture together. How nice of the daughter to spend her holiday with her ageing parents!
Just ahead of me a woman sits with a teenage girl and a little child sleeping in her lap. The child has golden hair and no shirt on. She sleeps against the bosom of what I presume is her mother's. The woman and the girl talk in Norwegian and suddenly the girl gets up to look through the bags under the stroller that is parked a bit to the side. She takes out a purse and they start to exchange money. Well, the woman hands it out and the girl takes it. With some extra cash in her glitter purse the girl takes off. Oh, she is doing some girly shopping while her mother stays with the sleeping child, I think. I wonder if there is a brother somewhere or even a father? I like this picture of three women (if the sleeping child is a girl which I don't know at this point) out and about in Copenhagen on vacation.
My strawberries with cream come and Peter's eyes widen visibly. The large deep plate contains cut up strawberries in a sauce of plain cream. I giggle.
"That is how we Scandinavians eat our berries", I explain.
"Oh, right. Drinking cream. How wonderfully quirky!” he says with a sceptical look.
He watches me eat with big eyes. His family take turns to eat the lovely sweet strawberries. One spoon for Joshua, one for Maja and one for me. We are busy for a while. The children are calm. I have time to glance at the woman. She leans back in her chair and has the child tightly pressed against her body. It is a beautiful picture of a mother that takes time-out from the hectic life and fully enjoys the moment. A slice of blissful stillness in a busy town.
When my coffee comes ten minutes later the woman stands up and slowly and carefully lies the child down in the stroller and to my surprise and enjoyment I see that the little girl (for I see it is a she) is naked. The mother takes out a diaper and slips it on the sleeping child. Oh, how many times have I not done the same with Maja when she has fallen a sleep and I wanted to keep sane and protect the mattress? How great to see others do the same.
I cannot help but compare the Scandinavian mothers to the German ones. In Germany it is vital that the children wear undergarments under the shirts, socks and shoes should be worn at all times and dirt and mess are to be abolished. I have witness a German woman insisting that her to girls wear slippers in the house where I at the same time is dreaming about my bikini top at home.
Now I am a lazy person. If things can be left undone I am pleased to let it be so. But when it comes to this subject it is not only laziness why I give over the rule to Maja. Firstly she is stubborn and persistent. I much rather chose another issue to battle out with her. Secondly, I celebrate her independence (more time for me to do nothing...) and firm opinions when it comes to her appearance. I like that she dresses herself and that she has opinions on what she wants to wear. I strongly believe that she has a right to her own body and I am only there to make sure that she won't freeze to death or get burned by the sun.
Maja is more naked than not. Right now she is at the playground at nine a.m. with nothing on playing with the other children. She heard noises of the neighbour's children and left her yoghurt and milk to rush out in her pyjamas. A little later I found the pyjamas and diaper on the floor in the bathroom. She has gone naked.
In May this year, we were in Mannheim for a little shopping spree. Maja and I leave the shopping mall and as we pass the glass doors two woman stop me to ask if it is my child. I turn around a bit confused. I see Maja. The women also see Maja. What is the problem? The older woman points at Maja’s blue rain boots.
“Do you know that your daughter has the boots on wrong?”
I am dumbfounded. Then I soften. These women take time out of their sunny Saturday to inform me of something they think a) I don’t know b) I need to know.
“Well, she dresses herself and I have no say in it”, I reply with a smile.
That brightens the women’s faces. I give them credit. Although German women are more organised, have more set of rules etc – they think our ways are charming and exotic.
The Exotic Blonde
Just ahead of me a woman sits with a teenage girl and a little child sleeping in her lap. The child has golden hair and no shirt on. She sleeps against the bosom of what I presume is her mother's. The woman and the girl talk in Norwegian and suddenly the girl gets up to look through the bags under the stroller that is parked a bit to the side. She takes out a purse and they start to exchange money. Well, the woman hands it out and the girl takes it. With some extra cash in her glitter purse the girl takes off. Oh, she is doing some girly shopping while her mother stays with the sleeping child, I think. I wonder if there is a brother somewhere or even a father? I like this picture of three women (if the sleeping child is a girl which I don't know at this point) out and about in Copenhagen on vacation.
My strawberries with cream come and Peter's eyes widen visibly. The large deep plate contains cut up strawberries in a sauce of plain cream. I giggle.
"That is how we Scandinavians eat our berries", I explain.
"Oh, right. Drinking cream. How wonderfully quirky!” he says with a sceptical look.
He watches me eat with big eyes. His family take turns to eat the lovely sweet strawberries. One spoon for Joshua, one for Maja and one for me. We are busy for a while. The children are calm. I have time to glance at the woman. She leans back in her chair and has the child tightly pressed against her body. It is a beautiful picture of a mother that takes time-out from the hectic life and fully enjoys the moment. A slice of blissful stillness in a busy town.
When my coffee comes ten minutes later the woman stands up and slowly and carefully lies the child down in the stroller and to my surprise and enjoyment I see that the little girl (for I see it is a she) is naked. The mother takes out a diaper and slips it on the sleeping child. Oh, how many times have I not done the same with Maja when she has fallen a sleep and I wanted to keep sane and protect the mattress? How great to see others do the same.
I cannot help but compare the Scandinavian mothers to the German ones. In Germany it is vital that the children wear undergarments under the shirts, socks and shoes should be worn at all times and dirt and mess are to be abolished. I have witness a German woman insisting that her to girls wear slippers in the house where I at the same time is dreaming about my bikini top at home.
Now I am a lazy person. If things can be left undone I am pleased to let it be so. But when it comes to this subject it is not only laziness why I give over the rule to Maja. Firstly she is stubborn and persistent. I much rather chose another issue to battle out with her. Secondly, I celebrate her independence (more time for me to do nothing...) and firm opinions when it comes to her appearance. I like that she dresses herself and that she has opinions on what she wants to wear. I strongly believe that she has a right to her own body and I am only there to make sure that she won't freeze to death or get burned by the sun.
Maja is more naked than not. Right now she is at the playground at nine a.m. with nothing on playing with the other children. She heard noises of the neighbour's children and left her yoghurt and milk to rush out in her pyjamas. A little later I found the pyjamas and diaper on the floor in the bathroom. She has gone naked.
In May this year, we were in Mannheim for a little shopping spree. Maja and I leave the shopping mall and as we pass the glass doors two woman stop me to ask if it is my child. I turn around a bit confused. I see Maja. The women also see Maja. What is the problem? The older woman points at Maja’s blue rain boots.
“Do you know that your daughter has the boots on wrong?”
I am dumbfounded. Then I soften. These women take time out of their sunny Saturday to inform me of something they think a) I don’t know b) I need to know.
“Well, she dresses herself and I have no say in it”, I reply with a smile.
That brightens the women’s faces. I give them credit. Although German women are more organised, have more set of rules etc – they think our ways are charming and exotic.
The Exotic Blonde
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Baby Drive
I saw it happening. Joshua walks with his walking stroller and then stops to sway a bit. Like in slow motion he suddenly starts falling backwards. My father and I both sit and watch how it happens but neither one of us can connect action to the knowledge that our experience of life has taught us - he will hit his head on the wooden floor. And he does. And screams. I rush there and swoop him up in my arms.
Parts of me cherish these moments. His pain is my gain. I get to hold him, caress him and he is still and receiving. He is injured in battle and he hides in my arms. He snuggles his soft face in the corner of my neck and I feel his cheeks with my chin - does it get better than this? But he is well rested and has just eaten and this slice of motherly bliss is soon over for he has discovered the standing lamp just next to the sofa. Is not the baby brain amazing? The drive for knowledge is pure and explosive, like an avalanche - impossible to stop and takes everything with it. Joshua starts using me as the climbing aide to get to his goal and after some attempts he can grab the pole with his chubby hand. He starts to rock it. Suddenly I remember two years ago another little soft baby doing the exact same thing. Then we had a few months of battle us against her which she won flat down. All our IKEA lamps broke by our then 1 year old Maja. Now I just smile. This is his life and I have just had front seat to it.
The Proud Blonde Chick
Parts of me cherish these moments. His pain is my gain. I get to hold him, caress him and he is still and receiving. He is injured in battle and he hides in my arms. He snuggles his soft face in the corner of my neck and I feel his cheeks with my chin - does it get better than this? But he is well rested and has just eaten and this slice of motherly bliss is soon over for he has discovered the standing lamp just next to the sofa. Is not the baby brain amazing? The drive for knowledge is pure and explosive, like an avalanche - impossible to stop and takes everything with it. Joshua starts using me as the climbing aide to get to his goal and after some attempts he can grab the pole with his chubby hand. He starts to rock it. Suddenly I remember two years ago another little soft baby doing the exact same thing. Then we had a few months of battle us against her which she won flat down. All our IKEA lamps broke by our then 1 year old Maja. Now I just smile. This is his life and I have just had front seat to it.
The Proud Blonde Chick
"Do you want a cup of coffee?"
I look blankly back at her in the mirror. I hesitate. A coffee? Do I want a coffee??? Why do I hesitate? I sit in a comfortable chair at the fancy hairdresser studio called something like "scull" which I don't make out completely. The are in the business of hair, why name the head?? Well, the establishment looks chic and they sell shampoos that have silver in them and cost a fortune and Emma sprayed some hair shine over my hair and a whiff of mint and vanilla emerged. No children to look after and some gossip magazines on a high black table at arm length complete my Saturday morning. Again it is mind boggling that I hesitate at her question. Say "yes!" goddammit and make the golden hour a special hour, an hour to remember, talk to friends about etc.! So I do and five minutes later I have a steaming cappuccino in white cup and saucer from Nespresso. I know it is steaming after I burn my tongue at the first sip. But nothing can take my good mood. I am turning blond today and I am alone! Yippee!!!
Later when Emma washes my hair I feel something bumpy moving up and down my back. A dog? is my first reaction. Or the water swifting down in some pipes that has been embedded to the chair? After a while, when the bumpy movements take form I realise it is a massage I am getting. Oh, my god! Scull even have massage chairs for the horrible hair washing scenario. Just to clarify, I don't mind having my hair washed, it is actually quite nice, but I always get a soar neck afterwards where the ceramic sink cuts into my neck. Now, it is vital that I hold up the image of me as a international chick that has seen one or to hair saloons in her day. I am not to mention this not entirely unpleasant sensation. So, no orgasmic noises right now.
Fifteen minutes I come out of there looking great! I would not go as far as ravishing although it was the first word that hit my conscious... Now, every time I see myself in the mirror I get some weird "I love you too, and hey you look gre... no ravishing today!" - moment. Today is a good day.
The very much blonder chick
I look blankly back at her in the mirror. I hesitate. A coffee? Do I want a coffee??? Why do I hesitate? I sit in a comfortable chair at the fancy hairdresser studio called something like "scull" which I don't make out completely. The are in the business of hair, why name the head?? Well, the establishment looks chic and they sell shampoos that have silver in them and cost a fortune and Emma sprayed some hair shine over my hair and a whiff of mint and vanilla emerged. No children to look after and some gossip magazines on a high black table at arm length complete my Saturday morning. Again it is mind boggling that I hesitate at her question. Say "yes!" goddammit and make the golden hour a special hour, an hour to remember, talk to friends about etc.! So I do and five minutes later I have a steaming cappuccino in white cup and saucer from Nespresso. I know it is steaming after I burn my tongue at the first sip. But nothing can take my good mood. I am turning blond today and I am alone! Yippee!!!
Later when Emma washes my hair I feel something bumpy moving up and down my back. A dog? is my first reaction. Or the water swifting down in some pipes that has been embedded to the chair? After a while, when the bumpy movements take form I realise it is a massage I am getting. Oh, my god! Scull even have massage chairs for the horrible hair washing scenario. Just to clarify, I don't mind having my hair washed, it is actually quite nice, but I always get a soar neck afterwards where the ceramic sink cuts into my neck. Now, it is vital that I hold up the image of me as a international chick that has seen one or to hair saloons in her day. I am not to mention this not entirely unpleasant sensation. So, no orgasmic noises right now.
Fifteen minutes I come out of there looking great! I would not go as far as ravishing although it was the first word that hit my conscious... Now, every time I see myself in the mirror I get some weird "I love you too, and hey you look gre... no ravishing today!" - moment. Today is a good day.
The very much blonder chick
Thursday, July 9, 2009
I blog, therefore I am - or think - or breathe ... or whatever I am suppose to be doing
Dear All,
This is a call for help. My muddy brain needs cleaning. Who would be proud to say that she forgets that her husband is allergic to nuts? On a ongoing basis. I sprinkle nuts in salads, on desserts and last Thursday I brought him an ice-cream at the Falsterbo Beach with a thick chocolate layer with embedded almonds. And I don't think it has anything to do with him or our marriage - lets face it, I am not trying to kill him or anything. I love him. But my brain has gotten a bit rotten lately. Muddy is only the tip of the dirty ice-berg. We can call it anything that has the consistency of porridge, New Oreans food or Vaseline. Yesterday I stored a package of butter next to the CD-player. It must have something to do with the fact that I heroically had to save J from his big sister, or a stone, or a stick - anything that could make me take the butter in to the living room - I just have to hold on to the fact that everything has a logical explanation.
To come to the point: I will blog to unclog and at the same time I will conveniently forget that my brain was never really sharp or clean before - but heck, that is my right as a wannabe to ignore that nagging fact. What is to have brains anyway? I cannot sum up numbers in my head, (addition is easier than deduction but my brain hurts when I try) put circles in squares or whatever that weird IQ thing one must know, hear the difference between Beethoven and Bach (not to say Beethoven and Bryan Adams...), or remember anything other than authors' names and book titles (where I am surprisingly good).
In this blog I will vent things from my life, big and small, in order to find my creative self and to write, write, write. (And to face the fear of being read.) I write in English although I am a Suede - a blond chick actually (to quote a good friend that can be mistaken for a younger version of Moses) with my husband Peter and two living children, Maja and Joshua. My little angel in heaven, Fred Oliver would have been four years old the first of August this year. I think of him daily and my being breathes his existence every moment of my life. I am him and he lives in me.
My new town lies in Germany. I am a housewife in exile actually and lots will be about that, I expect. Like how the German average housewife cleans, irons, and cleans again. And how I am not like the average German housewife. I let my Maja dress herself (sometimes she wears nothing...) and how I hate grocery shopping, cannot cook very well, and cleans one hour a week max.
Will anyone read? I would be surprised if they did. And scared! I am doing this for me, for having some sort of organised writing, some finished work for viewing. To explore events in my life and to investigate my mind. I refuse to accept that I am an average person with an average life - no, I want to describe mundane things in my life for it to take on new lights, new insights. Through it I hope to gain brain power, happiness, and a personal history.
The Blonde Chick
This is a call for help. My muddy brain needs cleaning. Who would be proud to say that she forgets that her husband is allergic to nuts? On a ongoing basis. I sprinkle nuts in salads, on desserts and last Thursday I brought him an ice-cream at the Falsterbo Beach with a thick chocolate layer with embedded almonds. And I don't think it has anything to do with him or our marriage - lets face it, I am not trying to kill him or anything. I love him. But my brain has gotten a bit rotten lately. Muddy is only the tip of the dirty ice-berg. We can call it anything that has the consistency of porridge, New Oreans food or Vaseline. Yesterday I stored a package of butter next to the CD-player. It must have something to do with the fact that I heroically had to save J from his big sister, or a stone, or a stick - anything that could make me take the butter in to the living room - I just have to hold on to the fact that everything has a logical explanation.
To come to the point: I will blog to unclog and at the same time I will conveniently forget that my brain was never really sharp or clean before - but heck, that is my right as a wannabe to ignore that nagging fact. What is to have brains anyway? I cannot sum up numbers in my head, (addition is easier than deduction but my brain hurts when I try) put circles in squares or whatever that weird IQ thing one must know, hear the difference between Beethoven and Bach (not to say Beethoven and Bryan Adams...), or remember anything other than authors' names and book titles (where I am surprisingly good).
In this blog I will vent things from my life, big and small, in order to find my creative self and to write, write, write. (And to face the fear of being read.) I write in English although I am a Suede - a blond chick actually (to quote a good friend that can be mistaken for a younger version of Moses) with my husband Peter and two living children, Maja and Joshua. My little angel in heaven, Fred Oliver would have been four years old the first of August this year. I think of him daily and my being breathes his existence every moment of my life. I am him and he lives in me.
My new town lies in Germany. I am a housewife in exile actually and lots will be about that, I expect. Like how the German average housewife cleans, irons, and cleans again. And how I am not like the average German housewife. I let my Maja dress herself (sometimes she wears nothing...) and how I hate grocery shopping, cannot cook very well, and cleans one hour a week max.
Will anyone read? I would be surprised if they did. And scared! I am doing this for me, for having some sort of organised writing, some finished work for viewing. To explore events in my life and to investigate my mind. I refuse to accept that I am an average person with an average life - no, I want to describe mundane things in my life for it to take on new lights, new insights. Through it I hope to gain brain power, happiness, and a personal history.
The Blonde Chick
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