The walk of shame

Yesterday I sunk further down into slummieness than ever before (but still had a rather nice day). Here’s a summary:

We got up at 6 a.m. as Pappa Kas wanted us to see a second-hand car at a dealership before he went to work. I staggered out of the bed, prepared Little H, her bottles and other essentials for the day, and off we went even before the neighbors had taken in their morning papers.
After two bus rides and a brisk 10 minutes walk we arrived at the Car Dealership, only to discover that the car had been sold the previous evening. As we stood there talking to the sales man I got a whiff of a rather unpleasant but oh-so familiar smell. Looking down at little H’s forced red face it confirmed my suspicions. It was her morning “load”. Good job little lady…
After a quick and discrete change of diaper, our happy family walked along a path following the river towards the city centre of Drammen. It was a lovely morning and my spirits rose. Total family bliss.Pappa Kas had persuaded me to come on this early excursion by offering breakfast at Cafe Grua, a new lovely coffee place we recently have discovered. Of course - when we got there it did not open for another hour. We could see the staff baking inside; we got a whiff of the freshly grinded coffee beans and a sniff of the dark chocolate brownies. Instead we sat down on a bench outside where Little H got her milk and I got a slice of rye bread with Chorizo.

 Soon after we kissed Pappa Kas goodbye outside the Pilates studio (Attic). For once we were the first to arrive in class, as normally we come rushing in 5 minutes after it has started. Little H was also sleeping, not crying her heart out as usual, so more yummy points to us! The class was great as always, 15 mummies, all with their toddlers next to them on their mats, breathing yoga breaths while drawing in their belly buttons, squeezing their pelvises and breastfeeding crying babies at the same time. It is an impressive sight.
After the class my two yummy mummy friends (they are both on their second offspring, and a part of my expert panel) went for a coffee at the local mummy hang-out (Condelica). Despite having jeans in my bag I did not change from my sweat pants, but strolled happily along wearing black cotton drawstring trousers found at the very bottom of my gym-wear drawer. The worst thing was that I did not feel that bad while wearing worn-out comfy clothes. They were rather perfect for my post work-out binge (I had a half a Danish after my sandwich). Also with Little H’s frequent spit ups it was very convenient to wear a washed out t-shirt.
The three of us laughed at going for lunch wearing gym-clothes, having no make-up and flat hair, being the kind of maternity leave mummies we never wanted to be. How could I? I blame the still raging hormones.

It was not until I was alone, having said goodbye to my fellow mummies in comfy lycra, walking through the local shopping street and caught a look of myself in a shop window I realized: I was doing the walk of shame! This was not the walk of shame from my youth, walking down Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow on a Sunday morning wearing last night’s outfit and smudged make-up on my way home from some Art School after- party. This was my new grown up slummy mummy walk of shame! And suddenly it felt like I had one of the worst hang-overs ever.

Will I ever recover?

Little H and Pappa Kas laughing their heads off

Pappa Kas, Lady B and the cars

The Castro-Nyhus household has never had a brand new car, not even an almost new car. Our cars (think we have been through three) have not even been charming vintage-ish but proper old, shabby and soon ready for the scrap heap ones (Sorry Gordon- not the Rover of course, that was a beauty).
This is all about to change – perhaps.
Our car(s) have caused countless discussions, but again - our cultural differences are not always easily reconciled. I believe these differences add to the flair of our marriage, at least I convince myself of that when we slam doors and give each other the silent treatment for at least 30 minutes now and then.
Back to the cars. In Spain you buy the car you can afford, in Norway you borrow from the bank and buy the car of your dreams. Sensible Pappa Kas was only buying cars fitting the size of our savings, while if it had been up to me I had pawned the house and gotten a Jaguar XK8. So when the negotiations started we were pretty far apart. It has taken years to reach a compromise, but it looks like we’ve finally agreed.
We sold our safe, solid all-expensive-parts-recently-replaced Opel Astra 96 on Sunday. It was picked up on Monday and then the rain started pouring. After we had waved the Astra farewell and cleaned the oil stains from the leaks from the garage floor, I installed an app called RunKeeper on my IPhone to track me and Little H’s walking activities this week. It has been great fun, and encourages more and longer walks than earlier.
A new car has yet to be found. We are eagerly searching the internet for an almost new, spotless, less than 50.000 km driven, family car at a bargain price. So far, nothing, but at the weekend we’re aiming to visit some car dealers and see what we can find- if the dealers are in walking distance from home of course…

And the winner is.....

And the winner is…. “The Secret History” by Donna Tartt. I first read it during my first or second year at university and really liked it, and am looking forward to re-read it. Here’s a short teaser:

It is the story of six classical students at a small posh (?) college in the States. The story essentially is about the murder of one of students, the events leading up to it and the impact the murder has on the lives of the rest of the group.

I just have to finish my current read, which embarrassingly makes me feel like a member of Oprah’s book club. I tend to stay away from bestsellers, but I forgot to cancel this one from the Norwegian book club…. Now I am sure to be an even more valued member ( I’m currently one of their most valued ones, probably due to forgetting to cancel the book of the month once or twice a year).

So now I confessing to be reading: Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. For synopsis and review read: EdgarSawtelle
Praise from Oprah:
"I think that this is right up there with the greatest American novels ever written," Oprah says. "Up there with Steinbeck and even Harper Lee."
Well so far it is not up there with The Grapes of Wrath, but engaging enough to take me past halfway. I will let you know my opinion once I get to the end, but so far I have to say the story is gripping and the language excellent. But as far as I can remember not up there with The Secret History, we’ll see…

What to read?

I have always been fond of the written word and especially books. Words are full of potential, sentences can be magic and then you have the physical object of a book itself - The smell, the texture of the pages, the crunchy sound when you open a hard-back for the first time.
I guess we can call it love. Sometimes from page one, other times it takes longer, getting into the pace, the history and to see the potential. Other times the relationship ends abruptly before it has run its full course, on the other hand, if I hang in there despite the pain and discomfort it can end in indefinite loathing and bad mouthing to all my friends.

When asked about favorite author and favorite books it is difficult to answer. How can you single out one author and one book, when there are books for every occasion, an author for every season, and a delightful combination of both which can only be right there and then?

Yesterday I was standing in front of my bookshelf literally looking at my past, and decided it is time to revisit some of the places, reacquaint myself with some of the characters and hopefully to rediscover something forgotten on the way.

But where do I start? I have three books which tickles my fancy at present.

Please help me choose by voting using the poll to the right.

Trude

Nature vs. Nurture?

When making a baby it takes a fertile egg, a wiggling sperm and hopefully a bit of love and tenderness in a tropical climate. But you never know how much of who or what will be in the mix.

We had a going joke, that Little H could inherit everything from the Castro’s or the Uribarrens except clammy toes and the famous nose. The vote is still out on the nose, but those toes… Cold and clammy from day one, but a lot more appealing in size newborn than a size 8 - sorry Pappa Kas.

As from the Ruuds and Nyhus’es I did not really mind. I turned out ok didn’t I? The double chin could be avoided of course, and the fear of swimming pools, but just now I cannot come up with much more. The double chin is very much there, charming and cute for little H, soon to be turkey neck for myself.
Growing mature is harsh.
I think that when it comes to Little H’s features it is more the behavior than looks we should have worried about. How frequent are the bowel movements, and how bad do they smell? Will she drool so that she develops a nasty rash under her chin (with the double chin, and me as her mum, this is very likely) or will she suffer projectile vomiting? Will she refuse to eat nutritious food? Rejecting anything green and end up on a diet of hot chocolate and pain au chocolate?

Today the sms correspondence between me and my mum (Granny B(erit)) has been like this:
Me: When I was a baby did I sleep much during the day?
Granny B: You hardly slept at all- wide awake from 8 am till 8pm. Impossible to get anything done.
Me: Hmmmmm, that explains a lot.
Me: Another quick question: did I spit-up every 10 minutes ruining your nice clothes?
Granny B: You suffered from severe spit-up at every inconvenient moment. I could only wear washed out t-shirts, no matter where I went with you.
Me: Ah, that makes sense. Thanks for the tip.
Cannot wait to find out which other charming traits I had as a toddler.

Trude

En helt vanlig dag på jobben

Da jeg ble gravid tenkte jeg: åhhh, så bra dette skal bli! Tid til å gjøre hva jeg aldri ellers har tid til. Nurket kommer til å bli eksemplarisk, sove hele dagen, spise til de samme tidene uten magevondt og ellers ligge drømmende i vuggen sin. Lite visste jeg om hva som ventet.

10 måneder senere med en liten kolikkbaby som sjelden sover på dagtid, er jeg heldig om jeg får strikket tre rader, snoket litt på Facebook og redd opp sengen før Pappa Kas kommer hjem fra jobb i 18-tiden.

En helt vanlig dag:

Våkner litt før åtte av at Lille H grynter og sparker vilt rundt seg. Tid for frokost. Pysjbukse og kardigan på. Tusler trøtt opp på kjøkkenet med en ganske så sint Lille H i armene. Hun er sulten, jeg er tørst. Varmer melken i mikroen mens jeg lager en kopp kaffe. Vi drikker i stillhet.

45 minutter og tre rap senere rulles yogamatten ut. Rekker nesten å komme igjennom en nyoppdaget morgenrutine (sjekk:morgenyoga) før lille H vil ha oppmerksomhet. Deretter er det morgenstell for mor og datter og vips så er det tid for formiddagsmat. Ambisjonene er definitivt senket fra pre-preggers stadiet, og dersom vi er ute og triller før kl 13 så har vi en god dag.
Vi triller ned mot Drammen sentrum. Går langs elven og spionerer på andre mammaer. Hvordan barnevogn har de? Hvor slitne ser de ut? Har de finere joggesko enn meg? Er været dårlig så er selvsagt gummistøvlene på, hvilken farge og merke? Passer de til barnevognen?

Ofte ender vi opp på kafé. Soya Mokka er obligatorisk. Vi henger med andre mummies i samme ærend - påfyll av koffein og voksenstimuli. Vi bytter kafé fra dag til dag slik at de ansatte ikke tror at vi ikke har andre aktiviteter. En yummy mummy fyller jo dagene med babysang, babysvømming, babymassasje og bootcamp / trilletur med personlig trener. Full pakke.
Arbeidsdagen avsluttes med trilling oppover bakkene hjem, men om vi er heldige plukker Pappa Kas oss opp med bilen(etter litt masing). Så venter enten en haug stryketøy, en løpetur eller et glass vin. Noen ganger rekker jeg alle tre før jeg sovner mens jeg gir lille H dagens siste flaske og stålsetter meg for nattskiftet.


Kjapp hoderegning viser at det er ca. 175 dager igjen til permisjonen er over…

Trude

Stuck in a moment....

Once upon a long long time ago, let’s be honest and say in my youth, I swore that I was not going to be one of those sad grown-ups who live in the past, one of those frequently referring to how good everything was 10 years ago, sighing and saying that everything was much better before and they do not make the same quality films, music, festivals, etcetera any more.

But for a while now I have been noticing that I am living in the past, something last weekend’s activities surely proved. The Saturday had been marked in my calendar long before the summer began and Pappa Kas had agreed to spend quality time with little H, while Slummy Mummy T was drinking wine, catching up with colleagues and dancing to popular music, ehrmm…. I was going to see A-HA in concert, hardly the band of the moment, more the band of yore.

I remember it as clear as if it was yesterday watching MTV via satellite waiting for the synthesizer to play the catching first keys and the cool rotoscope video for “Take on me” start rolling. I wore brown and black strings of leather as wristbands, white sport socks, pale jeans shirts and slightly ripped stonewashed jeans (wops, while writing this I am still wearing stonewashed jeans… well, the fashion moves in cycles, and denim is still hot this autumn/ winter).


Last Saturday I wanted to be taken back to the magic moments of my youth and to relive my first experiences with popular music, fashion and male worshipping. Sadly it was not as expected. What failed?

Instead of having dressed up for a night out, I wore comfy jeans, a sequined cardigan and sensible (yet “funky” )trainers, a typical slummy mummy outfit, and a crime the fashion police might have arrested me for. Luckily the rest of the concert goers were other mummies on a ladies club night out fuelled by red wine and or couples in their early forties re-living their honeymoon days.

When Morten, Magne and Paal entered the stage I truly believed I was in for a magic couple of hours. They stilled looked the part. Magne, the cool synth player, now turned graphic artist, still rock star handsome. Paal still slightly reminded me of a young namesake from the Beatles, and the band member with the most “cred”. While Morten, well he was Morten, the most narcissistic singer I have ever come across, dressed in a shiny tight (bronze coloured) shirt.

I was back in 86’; the songs, the band, their image and all it made me feel was bored and uncomfortable. Bored because I had forgotten how monotonous the music was, and that I never really was that much of a fan. Uncomfortable standing behind some tall farting (yes) middle aged guys, I had no decent toilet to go to, and no bottle of water to quench my thirst. Thank god for my comfy trainers.

When the final song started playing I was already sneaking out from the stadium, longing back home to Little H, Pappa Kas and my CD collection.


Nostalgia is a beautiful thing – as long as you don’t try to re-live it live….

Trude

The name game….

There are times when Pappa Kas and I recognize that the cultural differences between Spain/ The Basque Country and Norway are bigger than what we originally thought.
It is not necessarily a bad thing, we are able to pick the best from both worlds and add some Scottish customs for good measure (from our time there). This means we can drink wine at lunchtime while eating deep fried mars bars – if we choose to. There list of benefits are inextinguishable.

Growing up in a small family I am now happy being part of a typical Latin extended family. It seems like the whole population over 70 in the Basque town of Elorrio has become my tio, tia or abouela (granny) regardless of family ties. Can you have too many nice aunties? They feed you and pinch your cheek no matter if you are three or thirty. I also find some of their customs rather amusing. Before we became pregnant with Little H, one of our tia’s insisted on always feeding me crusts as it supposedly is good for the fertility. My friends back home found it hilarious. Does it work? Who knows?

Back to the point: When choosing a name for Little H we felt challenged. The list of criteria’s were long and we had to chose a name which could easily be spelt, pronounced and recognized as a girl’s name in most parts of the world (European and Latin countries at least).

Hanna was on the shortlist and got chosen unanimously by the family board (Papa Kas and myself) although it presented some challenges with pronunciation for the Castro’s, Uribarren’s and the Reta’s. They have all been practicing and it now sounds a lot more like Hanna, than Anna, as their H at the start of a word, usually is silent.
When it came to surnames I understood that a family name is serious business in Spain and you cannot mix and match the way you prefer. It is set in stone and cannot be changed. What do they do if their name means something offensive in let’s say Norwegian? Or is unaware of who is their dad and will then be shamed to only having one surname? … I see many difficulties here….

So when it comes to surnames in the Basque region the rule is that upon your birth you get two surnames, your mums and your dads. Easy peasy with our little H then, Hanna Castro (as her dad) Nyhus (as her mum). Hanna Castro Nyhus, not bad at all we agreed.

Then came the form from the public registrar to fill in so that Little H would become “official” with her own personnel number and all. Here we got in trouble. As the two surnames are equally significant in Spain, there is no middle name. Here in Norway, Castro would be Hanna’s middle name to her dad’s despair if we did not link the two surnames together. So officially we now have a daughter with the name Hanna Castro-(hyphen)Nyhus. And we like it! It gives her an extra flair when we have to give her name, doesn’t it?

Trude

Highlights - Hanna 2 months old

Hello world! 10.06.10

Loungeing H 20.06.10

Hanna Ballerina 18.06.10

Happy Hanna 11.07.10