The Language Barrier

Pappa Kas and I normally manage pretty well language-wise with each other’s parents, but today was a day where it all got mixed up.

I speak terrible Spanish. Aitxite Sebas once said that I speak like Tarzan. I actually took that as a compliment; I thought he would say that I spoke like a monkey. Despite attending a couple of different courses my progress is slow. It comes down to mainly one thing- I do not practice enough. At home we have fallen into the trap of mainly speaking English between each other. It has always been that way. However we’re trying to raising Little H as bi-lingual, Pappa Kas speaking Spanish and me Norwegian with her. Of course that makes us pick up a word here and there but the vocabulary is somewhat limited and not very usable when not talking to someone older than two (or another monkey).

Today we had a hitch.
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Grumpf and Gran

 It was a lovely day and I had taken some time off to spend quality time with the little “Lady” (she’s very stroppy these days, and I think that Lady is a suitable nickname for someone as fuzzy and determined as her).



Grandma B was suffering from Little H withdrawal syndrome, not having seen her “Little Princess” for about a week. We agreed to meet in the city centre of our lovely town -Drammen, for a stroll and a picnic by the beach (- yes, we have a beach in the city centre, and it is rather nice for the little ones. I would not be seen dead sunbathing there, but for the young, fit and hip ones it is a place to show off, and good for the kiddies when they get tired of shopping with their parents).

Before leaving the house I had spoken with Amama and aitxite about the possibility of meeting up in the town centre around 4 pm. What I thought I said was that I would call Pappa Kas (at work) and ask him to call his mum IF we were going to meet to avoid misunderstandings due to the language barrier… Apparently, what I said was something like: if I do not call, we will meet on the square around 4 pm.

So when me and her Royal (pain) Highness returned home and disturbed Aitxite in the middle of “the Tour” he got confused. After stuttering, pointing and playing pantomime (you should have seen it) I understood that Amama had gone to the square to meet Little Lady Stroppy and myself. Crap! When these things happen I go completely off my hinges, I called Pappa Kas and demanded that he sorted the situation, as if it was his fault... Then I got really really sorry and wanted to go and fetch Amama with the car, as she must be getting tired of staring at the pigeons and the pensioners on the square.


Amama and Little Lady H



But Little Miss Totally-Unreasonable was overdue her snack and would rather be placed in her bed (as if) than back in the car seat. There was no way I could take the car to go and get Amama. After calling Pappa Kas a hundred times whereby he called Amama for then to speak with Aitxite (standing next to me, but we were unable to go into details of what to do due to my Tarzan-Spanish and his limited Spanglish).



After countless telephone calls while trying to feed Little Miss Grumpf, we all agreed (I think) that Aitxite and Little (now) Miss Sunshine (funny how the mood changes as soon as she sees her grandparents) would walk to meet Amama. So now they’ve hopefully met somewhere, and what am I doing? In true Lady B style I am baking Amama’s favorite chocolate cake and practicing my Spanish verbs as to try to make up for all the trouble caused and to avoid similar misunderstandings in the future. ..

Grandparents and Little Miss Stroppy

An amateurs mistake

The sun has been shining over Lier the last couple of days, so we have removed Hannas wollen clothes from her drawer, bought a small inflatable pool and stocked the fridge with ice-cream. Of course it’s pouring down outside today. It seems like the summer is over.

Nevertheless this is a “sunshine story”:

After our holiday in Denmark, Little H has suffered from diarrhea from time to time (if this is too much information, don’t read the rest, it gets a lot worse…) the poor little thing. Luckily I have been to work when it’s been at its worst, so Pappa Kas has suffered the consequences of a little daughter with a lot of runny poo - the hard way. Well, that is what you get on paternity leave; it is not all fun and games.

Since the weather has been so nice and little H’s bum so sore, I decided to give her sore parts some “air”. After a change, where I put on a super cute pink and green cotton dress with girls and umbrellas on it (sadly it is in the washing machine, so no photo) but left out the rest of clothing - and the diaper. Big mistake.

We went out on the veranda to watch Pappa Kas cut the grass. He is the best gardener even when it brings out his allergy he cuts and fixes the garden relentlessly. He’s the best! To see over the veranda railing I held little H on my arm and while we were standing there waiving to the super gardener I felt something warm running down my arm, and heard a splat on the veranda floor. I bet you can guess the rest.

The tummy trouble had returned and while little H waved to Pappa Kas brown yellowish stuff was running down my arm onto my trouser and on the veranda. What could I do? It would be stupid to run into the house, down the stairs and to the bathroom and put her in the shower. The whole house would be full of shit (literary). So I stood there until her face turned from bright red back into her normal Spanish glowing complexion.

I then ran downstairs to the bathroom and into the shower with our clothes on. Both little H and I was crying. After two rounds in the shower, the second one without clothes, we were ready to face the world again (read- clean the veranda- ugh), this time Little H with a diaper.

Bums will not feel the summer breeze for the foreseeable future.

Spring has sprung

Spring has sprung and I have started running again, but this is not what today’s entry is about. I just wanted to show off by saying that I have been running again, it’s a big deal for me. I did it by my own free will, without new running shoes, a fancy new pair of tights; I did not even have a new playlist on my Ipod! So it was quite a hurdle…

Back to the spring. With the lovely weather our intentions were to spend last weekend outside, and on Saturday we went walking on the paths in the hills of Drammen together with Little J and his parents.

The excursion had been planned for days and the back-packs were full of goodies. We had chocolate bars, hot chocolate, waffles with jam and with cheese, watermelon, oranges, grapes, bananas and juice, water and ice coffee to drink. I am sure we had more edible stuff, but that was as far down in our bags as we got.

Inexperienced as I am (in all ways of being a mummy), Little H was dressed to sit in her pram and look cool. She wore brown funky trousers (Pappa Kas always sings MC Hammer when he sees them), and a white woolly cardigan. On her feet she had leather soled socks. Well, the hat was on and I had put sun cream in her face so all was not bad. Had forgotten her sunglasses though... Can't remember everything.

We walked along the snow-free paths and found a playground / outdoors nursery complete with a sand box and swings. Little J jumped into the sandbox dressed in his appropriate waterproof all-in-one suit and Gore-Tex boots. What could I do? Little H was whining in her pram desperately trying to free herself from the straps keeping her from the mud and sand.

I said “ehrmm well, Little H does not really have the appropriate clothes on does she?”, while I lifted MC H. Junior down and into the wet sandbox, trying to place her on a wollen blanket I had brought, hoping she would sit still for a little bit. Nope, she wanted to walk, to crawl, to steal Little J’s shovel, to eat sand and all other activities that her mother should have foreseen a little girl of ten months would want to do…

“ I guess I need to get Little H one of those suits if she is going to play outside now during spring” I said and little J’s mum replied: “I never put on him anything else, could not be outside playing without such a suit this time of year”.

I took Little H, with her before so “funky” outfit now full of sand and dirt, under my arm and went to eat waffles on the bench where no specific outfit was needed.

Who's having the most fun?

Not exactly the right size

As a wanna-be yummy mummy, not only in the fashion sense, I try to “domesticate” myself in various ways. I have a long way to go. Pappa Kas says that I do not put my heart in it, but who can put their heart into cleaning pots and pans?

My preferred housework is baking and not scrubbing bathrooms, my chore of choice must be putting on a washing machine. If I have time to do some housework, I bake a cake, make home-made cereal or rearrange my wardrobe. Or I do crafty stuff…

Myth has it that I am a fairly crafty person. I can handle a sewing machine, I can halfway crochet, I can halfway knit and have many many other old-lady traits such as sewing on buttons, drinking tea, be partial to a glass of port on Sunday afternoons and wear woollen underwear when under minus five degrees Celsius outside.

I always have ambitions and ongoing projects. My I-want-to do-list is long, a knitted shawl for myself, some nice new pillows for the sofa, curtains for the down-stairs living room, and making some cute but funky clothes for Little H. The time for household chores are filled for the next couple of years at least. No time for vacuuming, have to sew trousers so that H has something to wear tomorrow…. – I am not sure such an excuse would work on Pappa Kas, but I might give it a try.

I have recently finished two knitted projects. Well finished and finished, buttons are missing, but all the treads have been fastened and the garments ironed. That is good enough for me, and certainly good enough for a fitting.

In a relatively good mood (I really wish those teeth would appear soon and stop the tantrums, on the other hand she might be a full-on moaner and will never stop, but that is not an option), I decided to try on the two knitted vests I have been working on for some time and felt rather smug and proud of the finished products.


Here are the results.

Too big

Not big enough

But I’m not giving up. The night will be spent watching a film and working on a new project.

A break from Little H

In the autumn I got an invitation from a group of colleagues, too good to be true- A weekend trip to the Alps. Living at a “castle”, skiing , yodeling, wearing lederhosen while drinking weiss-bier - the works. How could I decline? Or why should I decline?


I failed to realize that I would have to spend four days and three nights without little H, or perhaps I just repressed the thought at the time as I was so fed up with colic, spit-up, smelly diapers and so on, that I forgot that 99,9 % of the time I love being with our little funny, up-to-no-good squealing little charmer.

Happy H

Well, I went and had a great time. I only cried once because I missed Little H and I did not call home more than 11 times, 9 to Pappa Kas and 2 to Granny B. You can check my phone-record if you want.
 I am sure little H did not miss me a bit. On Thursday she was in a café where they sold home-made chocolate in all varieties. Guess who took her there? On Friday she was chauffer driven up to her grandparent’s cabin together with Pappa Kas and a ton of necessary baby supplies to spend the weekend being spoiled in all possible ways.



Grandad G and Little H in the mountains



When I arrived home at 8pm last night Pappa Kas was already in bed exhausted by the fresh air, the cross country skiing, Little H and her shenanigans and probably of being confined to a cabin with his parents in-law for a whole weekend. Pappa Kas is the best, there's no doubt about it.

I sneaked into Little H’s room, watching her sleep, together with Lucy Liu and Lagonxu. I could barely restrain myself from stroking her face, her fingers and the patches of darkish hair on her little head and to wake her up.

I was home; I was with Little H, exactly where I was supposed to be. But I'm going skiing again next year (if I'm invited).




 Heading for a fall...

  

Doing it for the kids

Two weeks as a working mother, and it’s going rather smoothly. I can live like this. Little H and Pappa Kas are doing whatever they’re doing until I get home late afternoon, and by the smirks on their faces I guess that they can live like this too.




O' has made "there's something about Mary"

 hairstyle on Little H.

Styling product: drool

 Yesterday I actually took a day off to meet with the Post-Natal group aka. The Skinheads. I am sorry, but the name has stuck although the little ones now have plenty of hair. They all got teeth as well, all except Little H that is, but at least she has enough hair now so that we can guess the color of it. Little H’s great grandmother is saying. “ohhh she’ll be really dark”, while I’m more heading towards perhaps dark blond. As long as she soon gets some teeth she can be ginger for all I care…

It was great to meet up with the mummies again. I am the first of six who has gone back to work, and I was eager to hear the chat from the last couple of weeks. We were at Little O’s house and I felt very much at home. O’s mum is almost like me. She does not have dust on her brain, is not ashamed for not having the dinner on the table when her husband comes home and does not remember the lyrics to the songs we sing at the kids swimming class. Just like me!

When she sent a text inviting us for hot chocolate and home-made sweet buns my instant reply was:”yes of course”, but also: “is your mum doing the baking for you?” – How rude of me! I really need to start thinking before talking! O’s mum replied: “yes, the buns are already in the freezer”. Priceless!
I do not care where the goodies come from, as long as they’re tasty, and O’s Gran has a reputation as the Queen of Cakes, so I did not need to ponder upon whether to take the day off for Little H’s play-date or not.
So there we were, us mummies sitting in the sofa chatting, enjoying our tasty treats and admiring the little ones. We could not avoid talking about how great it was for the kids to be able to play together and how they clearly enjoys each other’s company, for only to discover that they were sitting each by him-/herself playing alone as far away from each other as they could get…

We’re doing it for the kids.

First week back in the land og grown-upness and it is almost like I was never away. So far I like it and feel rather smug of how I have managaged both to get settled in work and be a mummy for Little H.

Let's sum up the week:

Monday: Slight delay on the train, as expected. Got to work, reclaimed my desk and explored my cup-board. Sadly I found no package of bisquits or other forgotten treasures.
I checked on Little H by texting pappa Kas a couple of times during the day, but made no phone calls and did not once hide in the loo to cry. Number of times I showed off pictures of little H: countless.

When I arrived at home, I was met by a cheery, but not ecstatic-to-be-reunited-with-mummy Little H and a rather smug pappa Kas. The first day had been rather painless, no tantrums, no accidents and very little spit-up. Beginners luck.
I was suspecting Little H to be on her best behavour to impress, just as she's doing when visiting her grandparents.

Tuesday: I was right. When I arrived back home Pappa Kas told me that I had no idea of how difficult Little H could be. After 8 months at home with her, I think that I have an inkling, but I could be mistaken. She had delivered three smelly packages, refused to eat her porridge and not wanted to play alone on the floor for so much as a second. Her supposed to be long morning nap lasted only 20 minutes. Poor Pappa Kas, I knew exactly how he felt. This is life with Little H, unpredictable, smelly, fun, challenging and fulfilling all in one, you have to take it or leave it, and leaving is not an option.

And so the week passed. By the end of it, when we packed our bags and headed toward the mountains for Little H's first cabin trip, both myself and Pappa Kas started getting more comfortable in our roles. Him settling into his dream job as a househusband and me slowly but surely re-entering the world of nail-polished ladies and morning commutes.

Back in Biz

Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am going back to work after eight months at home with Little H. 8 months of an introductory how-to-be a mummy course, now it is time for Pappa Kas and his four months crash-course.
Am I nervous? Exited? Happy? Worried? Or all of the above?


Nervous: Starting work again is like going back to school after the summer holiday. Everything is the same, but still different. There will be people I haven’t seen in a long time, lots of catching up to do, and the challenge of getting back into the routines, perhaps create some new ones. There will probably be some new classmates ehrmm... colleagues, new scary software and new pregnancies. All will be as usual, but not quite. And me? A little older, a little wiser, but in a mummy- kind-of-way which I do not yet know if I can translate into business acumen.

Excited: for almost the same reasons as above. I am also excited about being amongst grown-ups in a workplace again. I am excited to re-start in a job that I really liked before I went on leave . And the excitement of whether I get a seat or not on the train in the morning is almost unbearable. Every morning and afternoon Monday till Friday I’ll be standing on the platform getting ready for the battle of Seats. Fellow commuters- be aware!

Happy: For changing less diapers. For being able to wear nice outfits without the danger of spit-up or other nastiness hidden in those hard to see places. For seeing my friends and colleagues again. For not having to walk 3 ½ kilometer for a double soy latte (we have several coffee bars close to my workplace).

Worried: For the missing fashion police at home. Who will check the outfits Pappa Kas picks for Little H when they are going out and about?
Well if that is my biggest worry, I guess that I am more than ready to go back to business.

Wish me luck!

The final countdown

I am entering the last week of my maternity leave before Pappa Kas starts his paternity leave, and it is with mixed feelings I hand Little H over to him.

On one side I am thinking “Ha ha, now he’s going to see what it is like to be at home with Little H and her tantrums ten hours a day”. But on the other: “how will I survive without her wet kisses, her random “singing”, her smelly farts and the look on her face when she smiles or the sound of her laughter?”

I was not prepared for motherhood; I do not think you can as a first time mum. Of course I had read books and magazines for how-to’s, spoken to other mummies and talked with a mid-wife. But upon arrival, Little H was Little H and no reading or talking to others could have prepared me enough.

I cannot say that it all came naturally, ask Pappa Kas (he taught me a trick or two). But little by little we made our own routines and Little H and I settled into everyday life together. We have had the same weekly schedule for a long time now, so Little H must be desperate for some change (that could explain the recent grumpiness). And I think that I am ready for some change too.

There are five days left with business as usual: swimming, Pilates, coffee-shop dates with other mummies, post-natal group get-together and all else we normally fill our weekdays with, and oh not forget the muffin-top shakes/walks.

Unfortunately Little H has come down with a bad cold and a fever, so I might have to go for the back-up plan – watch as much day-time TV as I can with little H on my lap- farts, smiles and all…





Sooooo last season

Typical Basques ;-)

According to the inhabitants of the fashion capital of Spain, Elorrio, Hanna and her pram is sooooo last season. There’s a new pram in town and it is owned by everyone who’s anyone in this little Basque town. It’s called a Baby Jogger City Mini (no more, no less) and is the only pram which works with the latest hiking boots, fleece jackets, Lycra hill walking trousers and mullets, as displayed by the local fashionistas (for more Basque Fashion).

One of the biggest and most important fashion statements a yummy mummy can have is the pram. So I did not take lightly on researching the most practical, durable and ehrmmm fashionable pram I could find (and afford) before the arrival of Little H. And as Pappa Kas is a man of method and thoroughness he scouted the internet, interviewed friends and read consumer tests. We were talking about an investment buy here, more often used than a Mulberry Bayswater, so we needed to make sure that we took the right choice. And so we thought…

International as we are, we did not end up with one of the Swedish sturdy, solid and snow compatible prams with footbags (whatever that is) but proudly bought a Central European design winner- the Bugaboo.

Overall I am very happy with the pram. It is light, easy to assemble, practical, and if you have to take the bus, it is so small that you can enter at the front of the bus rather than having to shout to the driver: “Open the back door please”, only to be ignored and left at the bus stop. The easiness of pushing it in the snow is not to be discussed here, but I can now understand why Scandinavian Design is for Scandinavians and adapted to their (winter)-needs.

The color of the Buggie was a blip though as we bought a chocolate brown one, despite me knowing that it did not match my wellies, my winter parka, my hundred black tunics or cardigans or any other item of clothing a yummy mummy is supposed to have. Well, the Chocolate color works with jeans and my hair-color, so I am one of those trying hard- getting nearly there- but oh so wrong. This seasons gray nail-polish? Don’t go there.




Me, Little H in the buggie, Amama and Aitxitxe

Staying in

This morning started (way too early) with bright sunshine and snow sparkling like diamonds outside.

We had just gotten accustomed to sleeping through the night, when we moved Little H into her own room. I guess it had to happen one day, but it is hard. I keep saying to Pappa Kas: “I do not think Little H is happy in there, perhaps she should move back to our room?”. What I really mean is “Can we please move her back into our room so that I do not have to wake up two times a night to comfort Little H”. But pappa Kas is hard, there’s no room for bargaining.

My poison of choice

We aim for a walk every day. The fresh air does good for both me and Little H, and it is the best way to get her to nap during the day. I also get to shake the muffin-top on the way to feed my coffee addiction. There are three and a half kilometers (the shortest way) to the nearest town and coffee bar. So if I want one I know what to do.

Oh, so wrong

You might know that I struggle with the mummy uniform and how to walk from the countryside and stylishly into town. I always seem to get it wrong. When the other mummies are wearing wellington boots, I am wearing hiking shoes (I know it is a no-no, but so comfy!) When they are wearing their winter parkas, I am wearing my woolen coat. Their outfits always matching the pram and their baby’s outfit, while Little H’s pram is brown and I do not have any items of clothing which is brown, beige, tan, vanilla – you get the point, and get it wrong in grey, black and more recently navy.

So today we’re staying in. Sad but true.

To be used when?

Another week in MaMa Land, and what have we done?

Let’s recap-

Monday: baby swimming- Little H loves to go swimming and so do some of her friends. We’re four mummies with our babies who every Monday afternoon go to baby swim class. Well, I and Little H attempt to go to baby swimming every Monday afternoon, but sometimes there’s no chance we’ll get there in time and have to stay home for no good reason.


The Little (H) Mermaid



No matter how long in advance the bag has been packed, it is always something that comes up last minute. A tantrum held because Little H does not want to put on clothes, an express -delivery spilling out of the diapers and everywhere else, me not finding two equal socks, or having forgotten where our swimsuits are. Not going because my legs have stubbles of hair has never been an option, then we would never get there…

Mostly we manage, rushing in at the last minute. Last week, we were early, In fact we were so impressively early that the changing room was almost empty and when one of the other mums arrived a couple of minutes later she exclaimed: "I KNEW we were late when I saw Little H’s pram standing outside…."

Tuesday: Pilates as usual, and for smugness factor we walked about 12 km on the iced and snowy pavements and roads. Remember how I was jealous of another mummy and her super sporty walking outfit? Well, when I went to get something similar I came home with a stylish back to-work-shirt from the sales and a sequined black knitted hat, far nicer than the wannabe-pro-cross country skier hat the other mummy had! And my hat works as well in the country side as in the city, but it looks silly in the ski slopes, so there I change to my white woolly hat with knitted ears…

Wednesday was sore….

On Thursday the “Skinheads” met again, unfortunately we came an hour late as Little H decided that she needed a two hour nap after breakfast. I was so in awe of that she actually slept inside at that time of day that I did not make the most of the hour-S and did some much needed housework. My theory was that if I got really into something (cleaning windows or polishing cutlery) she would wake up immediately, so I surfed the net and made Banana Loaf.

On Friday we went out walking again. There’s no place to get a decent coffee around the fields of Lier, so we have to boogie into town to fuel up on caffeine. You might think that fresh air and a quick stroll could wake me up sufficiently, but I need stronger stimuli to keep Little H entertained all day.


So this was our working week, pretty average I would say. Here’s a summary:
Lots of walking, sleeping, coffees and lateness, a little laziness and so much crawling around on the floor with little H that my used to be nice dark skinny jeans looks more like faded denims with ragged hems and has a new worn out look. Despite all my efforts, Little H does not crawl at all, but that’s another story.

Little H hanging with the Skinheads

When Pappa Kas saw the first pictures from our local postnatal group, he started calling the group of toddlers for the Skinheads. It is not the nicest name, but when said in an affectionate way I find it quite funny.




Little Miss Nyhus


Little H is definitely the baby with the least hair of the six of them, but I guess that was inevitable. I was called the bowling ball (affectionately I hope) due to my round head shape and no hair up until I was a year old, so I guess that she’s her mums daughter.




Little Miss Castro-Nyhus

 
Today most of the small ones have at least a little bit of hair however patchy, but the name The Skinheads has remained in our household and Pappa Kas always asks how the play-date with the Skinheads has been when the group has had its weekly get-together.


Being a part of such a group is great, but it’s also hard maintenance, as every time we meet it is time to compare. I cannot talk for the other mummies, but at least, shallow as I am, I compare. Does Little H drool less than any of the others? (no). Do any of the babies scream louder than Little H? (no). Has any other than my precious stains on her clothes? (no) and so on. We are often the last to arrive, Little H with snots under her nose and me with a wet patch on my sweater where I got spit up just as we were leaving the house. We’re always playing it cool though, happy as hamsters, concealing stains while laughing away the fact that I have forgotten Little H’s food.


But apparently I have fooled noone. My yummie mummy facade is a shamble, leaving the hiking shoes or not. Last Thursday one of the mummies confided: “When I feel like a slummy mummy for not having dinner on the table, when my husband comes home from work I say to myself: I am sure that Little H’s mum never has dinner ready for her husband when he gets home”.


Well last Thursday she had…

Ready, steady, go!

After not making any New Year resolutions - not deciding to lose weight, or get in shape or read less glossy magazines I feel strangely un- achieving. Or to be brutally honest: I have become a lazy slob.

Pappa Kas has taken our loss of youth and elasticity seriously and is now out on his cross-country skis twice a week, while I work on leaving my bum-print permanently on the sofa. This week, before I achieved a moment of sanity during a girly lunch today, I have eaten my way through a whole duty-free (MEGA) sized bag of sour sweets. This has been justified by saying to myself that I am only eating the sweeties to finish the bag so that I can start dieting… I could just have thrown them in the bin, but I do not throw away food unless fouls smelling and/ or walking by itself –ehrmmm…

So today I started the RunKeeper on my Ipod (first time since end of October), and power-walked down to me and Little H’s lunch date. We walked an extra long route just to build our appetite. Our appetite? Little H was snoring happily in the pram, and not moving a muscle to help her mum push through the 10cm deep snow on the pavements.

But here’s the dilemma. Power walking and pushing the pram through snow makes you sweaty. Going to meet other mummies, I was obviously not wearing tracksuit bottoms and hiking boots (walk of shame), rather mid-calf boots, skinny jeans and a black knitted sweater under a thick parka.

On my way I met another mummy who came in the opposite direction. She was walking so fast that I did not manage to observe her for very long, but what I saw was a super-fit-kick-ass mummy. She came towards me at the speed of a moped wearing gore-tex trainers, black running tights, black and red cross-country mesh and nylon jacket, topped off with a multifunctional hat with sponsor logos on it. All color coordinated of course and matching the pram. She smiled smugly while passing. What the F****?

I thought I had cracked the code for maternity leave yummieness with the jeans, the tinted moisturizer and the earrings. When did the code change? Probably when 2010 became 2011 and all the yummies made their super healthy resolutions while I was busy gulping down Rioja.

Well, let the battle begin! Today I have walked almost 8 kilometers, half of them uphill, and half in snow reaching up to, if not my ankles, then very close. And tomorrow I am going shopping for that super-fit mummy outfit, hat included.

Being a first time parent is rewarding, fulfilling and hard. I have been skimming through “manuals”, asking fellow mums, trawling the internet, reading parenting magazines- all in order to find out how I join the ranks of super-mums, but it is all very confusing.

The information out there is so overwhelming that I now rely mainly on instinct and (what I have of) common sense. In addition I have a panel of yummy mummies whom I trust and whose babies seems healthy and happy and importantly: they answers my emergency text messages in a flash.

I have asked about everything:

• Little H’s poo has changed from pesto to mustard- should I stop feeding her banana?
• She is in a very foul mood, can it be the teeth or is she already rebelling against her parents?
• Do I dress her as a boy?

This question is especially relevant today as it happened again. An elderly lady asked: “what is the name of this cute little boy?” – A boy? Does little H look like a BOY??

To prevent such situations and to save such ladies from embarrassment when I answer “HER name is… “ I have started to dress Little H in a pink hat regardless of temperature, and with no thoughts on the color scheme of the rest of her outfit. But there are still nearsighted and colorblind pensioners out there so I have to stop fussing over this and worry about more serious mummy business, such as porridge or vegetables for Little H's lunch tomorrow?

Perhaps I should have done what is customary in Spain, and something which would have made Amama Socco, my mother in law, very happy. Perhaps I should have pierced Little H’s ears as soon as she got out of the hospital? This way she would easily be recognized as a little Senorita. With Little H's ears bejeweled in fresh-water pearls it would never be a question of her gender. Funnily enough, when I sent an sms asking the the yummy mummy panel of their thoughts they advised against it…..

New year - same me

With Little H around there is no way to predict what 2011 will bring, except snot, wet nappies and stains on unimaginable places.  But I can also predict winning smiles, smelly farts, teething tantrums and my feeling of pure happiness every time I see the little Lady’s face or hear her infectious laughter. This year is gonna be a good one!

Many people make New Year resolutions and fail to stick to them in the long term, and so do I. I have made them all, one year after the other: No sugar on weekdays, no caffeine, no impulse shopping, going to the gym five times a week, not watching C.S.I and other rubbish, but highly entertaining TV-series. Who am I kidding? Well, as we all know, no one but me, ending up making myself feeling miserable having failed to go to the gym for the sixt day in a row, so I comfort munch pick’n’mix in front of Horatio and the cringe-worthy C.S.I. Miami. Ah, guilty pleasures.
This year it’s all gonna change – yes, it is! I am a sucker for all life-coaching tips and tricks and have decided that instead of making resolutions I am going to set myself goals, and by being past mid-January (it has taken me that long to figure this out) such goals cannot really be compared to new year resolutions – gotcha!
I’ll share the first one with you, also inspired by life-coaching mumbo-jumbo (read common sense).
Every night before I go to bed I am going to write down five things to be grateful for.
This is tonight’s list:

1. I am grateful to Pappa Kas for watching Little H while I was rumbling the sales this morning.
2. I am grateful for Little H sleeping all through the night
3. I am grateful for not having finished all the home made pizza last night so that I could indulge the leftovers this afternoon
4. I am grateful for being able to snuggle in the sofa while the snow is falling heavily outside
5. Most of all today I am grateful for being able to spend most of this Saturday close to Pappa Kas and Little H, feeling how great a family I have!
   

Trivial I know, but I am smiling so it seems to be working so far.

Time flies when you’re having fun and it is certainly flying by Concorde when on maternity leave. Before the weekend we had agreed on a long overdue catch-up with two of my non-mummy extremely stylish and yummy friends. One of them said before Little H’s arrival that I had to be weary of becoming one of this mummies dressing in a boring and mumsy way. I am very glad that she has not seen me walking around recently. The slippery pavements have demanded hiking boots, which is not even allowed lower than 400 meters above sea level. I have walked around shameful but safe, and always with mascara on, as if that counts.

Needless to say I spent some time on planning the outfits for this highlight of the week(Little H’s also of course), but whatever I planned in my head it did not work out. Why? All potentially wearable items were in the laundry basket full of smelly spit up. I am so behind on the laundry that I did not even have one pair of clean jeans. So no skinny black jeans, high boots and a tunic –cardigan combo (yes I know how mummy is that! - but it was my best bet).

Just when I had settled on a neutral but not entirely mumsy outfit and Little H was dressed to impress in home-made Lady B Couture, I heard a deep rumbling from her tummy followed by a volcanic eruption from the nose and mouth region. Suddenly we were covered, not in lava, but lumpy, cod liver oil smelling leftovers of milk, banana and pear yoghurt. It was only one thing to do, go downstairs, change and settle for second best, which if I had had time to think, I would not have left the house in pre-preggers.

We finally managed to leave the house smelling just faintly of sour milk and cod liver but relatively stain free. That is until I discovered lumps of what could be porridge behind Little H’s ears. Funnily enough, she had not had porridge for a couple of days. It could definitely explain the smell.


Mittens does not only keep hands warm,

but works perfectly to cover up delicate ears

when the hat it too big.



Winter has arrived and with its cold and snow comes the challenge of maneuvering out-and-about with Little H in her pram. It is hard work, and could suit as a new discipline in the Winter Olympics. Imagine slalom, downhill etc. with prams. Just think of the entertainment value!

Either the snow is not removed from the pavements so you are pushing the pram through the snow and sleet (while swearing), or the snow has turned into ice and you slide sideways.

A few days ago we had planned to go Christmas dress browsing for little H together with another mummy and her little one. She had already seen a dress for her daughter and was determined to get it, while I just wanted to have a look. I had not really thought of a Christmas outfit for little H, more a full plastic cape/ bip construction to try to avoid porridge in all possible places, but its fun to shop! – if you can get to the shops without too much hassle that is.

Cheeky H

On the morning of our big shopping excursion we woke up to a couple of centimeters of sleet and snow. As sporty mummies we agreed to challenge the elements and go anyway. My main reason not really the shopping, but that I really need to shake the muffin top before the festive period with all its temptations start. How can I deserve my coffee treat if I take the car 4 km to the city centre? There’s no other option than walking.

Well, we ended up having a really nice day, browsing the shops for small dresses and having a good chat about the things that mummies talk about; snot, type of porridge, passing wind and how to avoid poo sneaking out of the diaper and up the back. We’re talking about the babies’ here-not us. We also felt very brave and we had truly deserved our coffee treat.



Imagine Pappa Kas' matching tie

 No dress was bought for little H that day, but I saw a puffed sleeved taffeta creation that her grannies would be delighted with. I am not sure I can find an outfit to match though, neither a tie for Pappa Kas...

After the experience of pushing through the sleet, working hard not to swear out loud, I decided to swap the wheels around and put the small loose ones at the back for sturdier bigger fixed wheels at the front of the pram.

Good idea, it worked a treat, until the day after when the road had turned into ice. I was sliding down the hill towards the baby swimming class (how yummy is that!-baby swimming), losing all control. On the way back home one of the other mummies said that it looked as if I was drunk “driving/pushing” the pram as I was sliding around so much. I have now put winter wheels for Little H’s pram on my Christmas wish list, so until the 25th of December (I hope) we’ll have to take the Super Car and swap to boring small non fat lattes instead of the usual “double chocca mocca”.



There's always an excuse...

One morning earlier this week little H and me were preparing to go to our weekly mother and child pilates class. We were running late (what a surprise) and I was determined to take the new Super Car.

As Pappa Kas will confirm I have been postponing driving alone with Little H in the (Super) Car for weeks.I have made many excuses some more silly than others, but for me walking 8km with the pram to get some exercise instead of taking the car is a very valid one. The muffin top needs to be shaken now and then, and especially now when the festive season is coming up.

The excuse for not making Pilates on Tuesday, the REAL one, I promise, cross my heart, was that I could not get the garage door open. Seriously, I could not open the gate. It was really stuck. I have seen Pappa Kas do a hit and push trick earlier, but not bothered to learn it. But now when I also realized that the garage door was the portal, not only to a comfy mode of transport in icy weather, but also the gate to warmth and coziness- all our firewood is in that garage, it became more important to be able to get hold of the treasures.
No firewood to snuggle in front of the fireplace, no car to drive to pilates? What to do? I sent a message to my fellow pilates mummies and told the truth – car, garage, stuck, impossible – but also: “coffee after the class? We’re out walking anyway...”. A bit shameful we arrived at the café before everyone else, so when they arrived, smug after downward dogs and baby massage, it looked like we had been sitting there all morning. I promise we had just arrived; the half drunk decaff-Soy-mocca in front of me must have belonged to someone else…

Ambitions

When planning for maternity leave I had many highflying ambitions. Early on I tampered with the idea of studying for a Masters Degree, but after having talked to some of my friends ahead of me in the family game, I put that one on the shelf- at least for now.

Then I looked to other rookie (yummy) mummies out there and then random internet mums, colleagues and friends were spied on to find out what they were doing while on this year long holiday. Holiday my a**, I have never been so busy!

I was aware of the nesting period while pregnant, had heard about redecorating living rooms and new kitchens, but suddenly die hard party vixens became domestic goddesses knitting socks, making home-made crisp bread and writing blogs… Well, this seemed achievable, so this is where I have set my ambitions. So far I am struggling somewhat, but practice makes perfect and I still have five months to go before Pappa Kas becomes a Domestic Daddy.


Ambitious fellow citizens of Drammen:

Ambitions - Donkeyboy

Enjoy!