The Father #2

It's been such a pleasure to observe my husband becoming a Father to a son all over again. His first born is 23 years old now and the bond between them is strong.

When #2 was born, it took awhile. As the Mommy, and with a Nanny, my poor Hubby never had a hope in hell. "Here, I'll do it." "I'll get up." "I'm taking him for a walk." I shut him out almost completely. He never rocked him to sleep, rarely changed a diaper and with the exception of showing him YouTube videos on the computer, I rationalized that it was "easier/faster/more efficient" for me to do it all (or the Nanny). I didn't "have the time" or more truthfully, want, to delegate any responsibility for baby care to Dad. And the thought of them going anywhere alone and the associated anxiety (what if he starts to cry? what if he poos? what if he starts to cry?) was enough for me to silence any thoughts of either a) giving myself a break or b) allowing for some bonding.

So I did almost all of it. With Dada as my wingman, on occasion. Not that he didn't love the little rascal. Not that he wasn't there capturing moments with his camera to share with our far-away family every chance he got. But in those first months, I had built up some resentment. Why doesn't he ask to take him on an outing? Why doesn't he want to spend some quality time with our son? Doesn't he love him? Looking back, I realize it was me. It was my fault. I pushed him away.

But my continued persistence at doing it all with our son did little to discourage either of them from bonding...thankfully. It started off simple enough. The little man grew too big to be bathed in the baby bath and Dad offered to bathe with him. It became a nightly ritual that still continues to this day. Every night, Dad and the Man splash around in the tub. It's their time. Together. Alone. And then I added swimming lessons to the mix. Sort of by accident because I had no time to shop for a bathing suit. And now, every Thursday tub time extends to pool time.

I honestly don't know which one of them is more excited for our weekly trip to the local watering hole. I have never seen either of them grin so much. And as the only other parent who sits poolside to observe the fun, my face is seriously sore by the time lessons are over.

"Did you see him dunk his face in the water? His back float is getting better because I hum in his ear when his ears are in the water and he likes the sound. That second time, he jumped right in. He has no fear!" All excited comments from hubby and all music to my ears.

And yesterday we dragged Dad out grocery shopping. A rather mundane chore for me and the little guy. But this morning, after lunch, over 24 hours later, "Did you hear him scream out, 'Look Dada, Lemons!'?" Yes honey, I did.

Our little tyke has had the same very early morning ritual for the past 6 months. Every day at around 5am, I can expect to see his sleepy face at my bedside. Most mornings I don't remember pulling him into bed with us. But every morning, we find him tangled up in our sheets and babbling a morning greeting. Our little rooster. Well one morning, my husband woke to find his body missing from our bed and was in full panic mode. "Where is HE?!" I rushed out of the room only to find our baby fast asleep in his own bed (due to a late night the night before).

I think, depending on what kind of marriage/family you have, the bonding between father and child comes a little later on in the game. When baby is no longer breastfeeding every 2 hours and does more than discover his toes, crack a smile or accept a spoonful or pureed whatever (though the latter is always exciting for everyone). When that baby develops a personality and becomes a little person, Dad enters the picture in a much larger way. At least this is the case for our family.

And from the way my son insists on giving sleeping Dada a kiss before we leave for school, asks for him the instant I pick him up, crawls all over him looking for some wrestling and genuinely enjoys every second they spend together...I wouldn't have it any other way.

What about your family Moms? When did you let Dad join in the fun?

Moving Sucks

For so many reasons really. I mean there's the usual crap associated with any move.
1. Boxes: finding them, begging for them, buying them, never having enough
2. Thinking you really don't have all that much and it shouldn't take all that long. Then discovering you have triple what you thought you had and it takes you twice as long as you thought it would.
3. Shaking your head at the junk you accumulate in such a short period of time. I mean, who needs 3 balls of string? How many more shish kabob sticks are there in this drawer? I should have gotten rid of A, B and C years ago. How did this useless gadget make it through the last move?
4. Realizing at the last minute that things would have been sooo much easier had you decluttered PRIOR to the actual packing.
5. Finding a new place to live. That part is sucking hard right now.

In the past three years we've moved to two different countries, neither of which is an English-speaking country. So on top of all the general boxing up our lives crap, we have all these cultural adjustments to make. In Montenegro, it took me weeks to figure out exactly where and how to pay my bills (at the post office, through a very mean old lady who refused to even attempt to communicate with me). In Sweden, it's back to online banking, all in Swedish, and with the added security of this little doohickey that you have to type codes into in order to access codes to input into the computer in order to login, pay and confirm bills. It sucks.

But eventually, we get the hang of it and it's never as big a deal as it is the first few weeks.

The suckiest part about yet ANOTHER move (same country, same city this time at least), is having to explain away another upheaval in our three year old's life. In less than a year, he has lost his nanny and the 2nd language he was learning, moved, started daycare, had to go to a new daycare in the summer and started a new daycare in the fall. Just when he's finally seemingly adjusted and blossoming (turning into quite the little Swede), here we go again...

But our little man is a real trooper I tell ya. My hope is that all of these life-shaping experiences in his youngest years are building up his little character so change is never a frightening thing. As you can probably tell, it is for his Mommy.

You know you've become a Bigger girl when...

I wrote this for my BFF. We're dieting together to lose those stubborn last 10lbs. Maybe some of you can relate :-). Our definition of a Bigger Girl: One who has to lose about 10lbs..ha! Caution: This is all in good fun.

You Know You've Become a "Bigger Girl" when...

1. You have gone the longest you ever have gone before washing a pair of of jeans. Because you just know when they're clean, you will need to exert every muscle in your body to pull them on. But hey, that's good exercise!

2. You read every single Nutritional Values label on every thing you're about to consume. You're either checking for fat, carbs or both. Then you promise yourself you'll only have 1. But you have 3 and live with the guilt.

3. You dread opening your closet in the morning because you just know your skinny jeans will be staring back at you. And every morning, you vow that in X weeks, months, you will fit into those skinny jeans again, even when they're clean.

4. You suddenly hate shopping for clothes. But you're down to like 2 pairs of fat jeans (that are almost turning into skinny jeans) and your co-workers are remarking, "You know Jane, I just love those jeans everytime you wear them."

5. On said shopping trip, you rationalize that you will indeed buy a pair of jeans that fit. You can always give them away after you lose the weight, you say to yourself. You walk out of the store with the trendiest $100 pair of jeans...in your old size. You vow to fit into them in X weeks, months and will brave the muffin top until such time.

6. The phrase, "Give me 5 minutes, I'm just gonna throw on a pair of jeans" becomes, "I'll meet you in the car".

7. "Who the fk stole all my clothes?" Noone stole your clothes bitch. You just can't find anything that fits.

8. You become a magician in the art of sitting at staff meetings. Legs crossed to minimize thigh spread, check. Back straight to camouflage back fat, check. Notebook placed strategically to mask belly flab, check. Elbows out to reduce appearance of Oprah arms, check.

9. Your date night with your partner is over before it starts. Instead of sipping fruity drinks in the latest hotspot, you're slumped over defeated in a pile of clothes crying that either a) nothing fits or b) I have nothing to wear.

10. You promise yourself that you will not stray from whatever fad diet it is you're on at the party. That's right. You are there to satisfy your craving for intellectually-stimulating conversation, not the gooey goodness of the nacho dip. You manage to avoid the snack table for the longest time by pounding back the liquor. Now you're drunk and double dipping.

11. Your shopping buddy now says, "That looks great on you...you should buy 3 in different colours", instead of, "You look awesome. Let's check out the spandex".

12. You wonder why your Mom hasn't stopped by with her homemade fudge in the past two weeks. Your question is answered at Sunday Family Dinner when, as you absent-mindedly reach for seconds, your Mom sweetly inquires, "You're really not that hungry are you dear?"

13. You dread running into people you haven't seen in X weeks/months. "Jane! (furtive up and down glance) You look great!" Seriously, who the fk says that? You know what they really mean, "Jane! You used to be so thin and I used to be so jealous. But look who's having the last laugh now fat ass?"

14. You miss the wild sex. Sex with the lights on or even dimmed. Sex in every kama sutra position imaginable. Sauntering around the house in all your nude glory. Now you might as well be living in the Victorian Era, laying fully clothed and covered with a sheet that has a hole in it.

15. You used to think of sex as a great form of exercise. Now sex has become an exercise in ensuring your partner doesn't mistakenly grab a love handle, feel your round belly or catch a glimpse of your cellulite.

16. You constantly come up with clever and inspired excuses to eat that chocolate bar/buttered popcorn/bag of chips/litre of ice cream, Big Mac, Halloween candy. "My boss was mean today, It's my/my sister's/my best friend who lives halfway around the world's birthday today, I hate stubbing my toe, My dog shat on the carpet, My partner was late for dinner, Watching a movie without chips is a sin, I can eat this because tomorrow I will do 20 sit-ups."

17. Every time you consume a forbidden food, or way too much of a good food, you say with conviction, "I'll start my diet tomorrow. That's it. Tomorrow I'm getting serious!"

18. You and your best friend, also a Bigger Girl, make a solemn oath to lose X pounds by X date. You take before and after photos, you record your lost/gained pounds, you disclose when you cheated, you even send each other supportive emails with tips. You think a little healthy competition will get you both healthy again. So far, you've stayed the same and your friend gained back the 4 pounds she lost. But you promise yourselves you will SUCCEED.

18. Your Dad remarks loudly and with great surprise, like he just made some earth-shattering scientific discovery, "Geez Girl, you're gettin' BIG!!!"

It's been awhile

Dang it...I can't believe I haven't blogged in 2 whole weeks. Well, I had an excuse...a guest for 10 or so days, then hubby got ill (worse than a child a man is when he's sick I tell ya), Halloween and general life issues.

Now I'm back and for the life of me, have no idea what to rant about. Actually, I have a really hot topic boiling just beneath my fingers right now. But because it's about a particular person and this person would likely know it if she read it and it wouldn't be a flattering portrayal of her and I can't remember if she has my blog address or not, I have to let my fingers blister..for awhile anyway. And when I feel it's safe...a hot mess of lava will flow, I'll tell ya that readers (all 6 of you? ha!).

But that's when I blog...when there's some pent up passion that needs release. It could be a mundane topic, oh like that post on the kitchen utensil that picks up peelings, or a tribute to motherhood. The passion could happen 3x/week or twice a day. I never really know until I'm wandering down the street and it hits.

Just a sec..gotta run up a coffee to the Mr. Ok, I'm back. Not that you noticed I was gone. But I did. And I wanted to be polite and excuse myself.

Because I have no grand theme for today's one-sided discussion, ere's a recap of events of late:
1. We're moving...again. Landlord has decided to sell and we have to be out mid-January. Anyone know of a decently-priced 3-bedroom for rent in Uppsala? Prices have gone up twice what they were this time last year, which sucks.
2. We're going home for Christmas. Home being to Ontario to spend the holidays with hubby's fam. My folks will fly to Ottawa to meet us for a few days with some extended fam there. I'm thrilled!
3. My not-so-little-anymore cousin came to visit for 2.5 days. Currently studying in France, she decided to travel a little during her school break. This 20-year old student not only was thoughtful enough to bring us a hospitality gift but even got me a birthday present. I was touched because a) she's family b) she's young enough to have no manners or concept of hospitality and c) the poor thing is a starving student for crying out loud (starving in the eats-pasta-everyday-cuz-it's-cheap sense) It was great getting to know her over shots of Limoncello and rum..urghhh...
4. My birthday was on the 28th! Happy Birthday to ME! Went out with an old friend from here and her cousin, who also happens to be my Swedish teacher. Kinda sad that I've been here for over a year and have no new friends :-(. But that's Sweden for ya! And I was as happy as a clam to get out alone for the first time in God knows when with some dear friends.
5. Halloween in Sweden. They're really just starting to celebrate it here. We had a total of 16 kids come a knockin' and we dressed the little guy up as an elephant so hubby took him around, "Tick or Tweet". A testament to how safe these Swedes feel: Imagine opening up your bag of candy to find ONLY unwrapped loose candies? My Dad, self-appointed candy checker in our household, would've thrown it all out. We did too actually but that's only cuz we had so much darn candy leftover ourselves. Speaking of which, I got rid of the temptation by dropping it off to old friend's daughters today..phewf.
Well I think that's it for now. I know, kinda "meh" today. Hope there aren't prospective readers stopping by right now. If there are, please don't judge me on this pathetic excuse for a post. I'm a better blogger than this, honest!

Toilet Humour. In Sweden.

Permit me to be crass or vulgar for a few moments. Now, if you're reading this and you're Swedish, well you may not see this post as either.

Now "apparently" here in Sweden, it's perfectly fine to make the business you have going on in the bathroom public knowledge. It's ok to announce exactly what you plan on doing when you head on over to the toilet. And if you have a raging case of diarrhea, feel free to let your co-workers in on the frequency and consistency.

Was having a discussion on all that is the washroom with my Swedish teacher, who happens to be from Armenia. Not exactly sure how we got on the subject but there we were. Now in Armenia, if you need to "go", you never actually use the words "toilet", "washroom" or "bathroom". Even if you're a young student in class and need to be excused to take care of your business, you just ask the teacher if you can leave the class. Noone questions your destination. You could be going anywhere really, to meet up with your bf for a makeout session, grab a quick ciggie with your friends or home for a nap. But it is assumed that if you're asking to "go", it means, well, you're on your way to the bathroom for a #1 or a #2.

Uttering any such word associated with what comes out of your body is taboo.

Where I'm from, we DO indeed say the words "bathroom" or "washroom" or not-so-frequently "toilet" when we need to go. We're a bit more specific on that front.

But I cannot imagine an occassion where I turn to my co-worker in the middle of frying up some burgers and exclaim matter-of-factly, "Gotta run and take a dump. Cover my station for me? Be back in 5 or 10 depending on how hard I have to push and how intriguing my reading material is."

Apparently that's the way it is here in Sweden though. My appalled Armenian friend, a real classy young lady btw, explained to me that her co-workers, whom she is not particularly close with, frequently update her on their bathroom habits. They didn't share a womb, don't necessarily share the same social circle and have really only known each other for a year or so. But, "Dominika, can you run this sushi platter over to table 4 so I can take a shit? That's the last time I'm mixing a litre of Absolut with Tomato Juice."

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

Another expat girlfriend recently told me her boss called in sick the other day. "I have diarrhea so bad I've been on the toilet all night." Let's give her the benefit of the doubt here. Maybe she was really playing hooky. You know when you're pretending to be sick, you always give WAY too much detail about your illness in an always failed and exagerrated attempt to convince your boss and others that you really are sick? Never works.

But c'mon people, who goes THAT far?

Well, by all of two accounts so far, the Swedes do. Fellow Swedes, am I right here? Can we extrapolate these two isolated incidences to a national epidemic? And if so, what the hell? Keep your shit to yourself. Pun intended. :-)

Thanksgiving in Canada

Well, we're not in Canada. We're in Sweden. Another holiday passing without the comfort and craziness of being surrounded by those we love. And this is also the first holiday in a long time without our dear Tanja (little man's Montenegrin Nanny). So, just me, the boy and Dada and an 8lb turkey. I've always had a turkey mentor close to me on such special occasions. But this time, it was me on my own with the big bird.

It went well. The bird was great. All the side dishes perfectly timed. I am the champion my friends. We stuffed ourselves and now, it's over.

For over three years now, with the exception of being home for the holidays on a few occasions, we've celebrated our traditional holidays in other countries. And this is the first time we were truly alone. It was nice and it was sad. Thank God for Skype though.

And speaking of being thankful, here's my list of things to be thankful for. Of course I'm thankful for the usual: health, happiness, husband, child, parents/extended family, roof over head, food, etc. so here's a list of stuff I'm thankful for lately.
1. Thanks to the makers of Play Doh for inventing a product that is forcing me to create bad interpretations of a Stegasaurus, a turtle, a tiger, a shark and...repeat. Oh and also, big thanks for that distinct play-doh odour.
2. Thanks to my brain for finally realizing that the little guy's bad potty aim was a direct result of him standing on a bench to pee. Removal of bench = pee IN toilet.
3. Thanks to the neighbour lady for letting me crash my son's first official playdate with her daughter. She actually thought I was leaving..bahahahahahhaaha.
4. Thanks to my husband for being creative and making Play Doh creatures that actually resemble the real thing!
5. Thanks for living in a country where a clothes dryer and a dish washer are staple appliances. I challenge ALL you friends in developed countries to live without either of them for over two years. It CAN be done, but it's not pretty.
6. Thanks to all the North Americans in Sweden who overhear me speaking English and immediately begin chatting up a storm.
7. Thanks to the lady I cornered in the grocery store today for a) not freaking out because a random stranger was speaking to her, and in English and b) for being 100% sure that the box she pointed out to frantic me was indeed cornstarch. FYI: It was NOT.
8. Thanks Swedish businesses for booking appointments for me. "You have an appointment for your winter tire change at X o'clock on X date." "Your child has a dentist appointment at...." I seriously love this. I always leave these things to the last minute anyway. Swedes are so bloody efficient.
9. Thanks to all those wonderful law breakers who post free streams to my favourite TV shows.
10. Thanks to me for remembering to pack that little liquid strainer thingy from Montenegro. Otherwise, we would have had gravy flavoured with turkey bits and clumpy flour.

What are you thankful for lately?

The Notebook

In case you haven't noticed, I've been doing a lot of writing lately. Whether it’s company-related, the odd note on facebook, blogging or just changing my FB status, the verbal diarhea is running rampant. I can never spell that word..diarhhea? no...wait, let me check Google. D-I-A-R-R-H-E-A. Just in case you needed the spelling for this awful word. And of course now you have the visual too and are thanking me.

I love publishing Notes on Facebook the most because, depending on the topic, I always get wonderful feedback from fellow "friends". The best part is, I get to hear everyone's story. Another great part, I won't lie, is getting encouragement from friends to "write a column/an article/a novel". That just brings some pink to my white freckly cheeks. I never thought about doing it, the writing thing that is, for anything other than work or self-expression to be honest. And I only write when I have something I feel compelled to say, something I'm passionate about like oh, potty training woes or getting ID'd at the liquor store or most recently, the sex abuse scandals in the Roman Catholic Church. Or the idiot who engineered the Swedish shopping cart (that post is coming)!

So really, my writing coincides with my ADHD (which my Mom has, in all her great wisdom, diagnosed). How does anyone expect me to write something as complex, time-consuming and focus-demanding as a novel? And you also need imagination for that. I write about my life. I'm all about non-fiction, but in passionate, short outbursts. And then, I move on.

Now my husband, to his credit, has humoured me and my writing fetish. He reads what I write, offers suggestions but generally takes a backseat. He stays "mum" on the issue. Until yesterday when his actions spoke louder than my words ever could.

Yesterday he went to London to have tea and strumpets with the Queen and to discuss the state of the monarchy. No he didn't. He did go to London with a box of kanelbulle (Swedish cinnamon buns) for a meeting with a big company, whose biz dev guy has a love affair with kanelbulle from a specific bakery in Stockholm. So, of course, my charming husband brings the guy a box. It was a fly-in-and-out-the-same-day mission. I waited up. He walked in bearing gifts, mainly for the little man, who was extremely disappointed when he realized the nicely decorated box of kanelbulle we took with us in the car to the airport was NOT for him.

After going through a sweet assortment of toys and shirts, he then presented me with a sturdy baby blue gift bag adorned simply with the words "Smythson of Bond Street Est 1887" in an understated, old-fashioned font. And directly above, four emblems representing the highest offices of the monarchy, “By appointment of his/her majesty...”

The bag, tied together with a black ribbon, was impressive enough. Then a matching blue thick cardboard box inside. And inside THAT, a soft blue cloth bag nestled delicately in tissue paper. And inside that?

A fushia leather bound notebook filled with empty pale blue lined pages. It is gorgeous. It took my breath away.

On the back page of the notebook is The Story of Smythson Featherweight Paper and Bindings. It details the severe craftsmanship that goes into the manufacture of this brand of notebook, including its copyrighted floppy leather exterior (that apparently can be rolled up and squashed and will improve with age) and handmade “stitched spines and gilt-edged pages” (say THAT five times fast). And then there’s the extreme difficulty in creating a watermark on paper this thin. Who knew?

“Smythson Featherweight Books are internationally popular with many distinguished writers, journalists, travellers and explorers. Used by ‘the great and the good’ over many generations, they have been called a ‘secret social passport’. “

They have been used by Queen Victoria, Diana, Princess of Wales, Sigmund Freud and Grace Kelly to name a few.

And now, I have one.

What will fill its pages? I don’t know. I didn’t realize the impact of this notebook until I began to write about it. This gift is so precious. I both fear and revere it. So many thoughts running through my brain. Like, "Crap, I need to work on my penmanship. What if I make a mistake? white-out vs. scribble out. Should I use it for story outlines or the real deal? Where should I put it? Does this mean I'm a 'writer'? Am I worthy of owning such a coveted treasure?

One day I will open it and put pen to paper (yes, he got me two graceful pink pens too). I don’t know when this D-day will come. But what I do know is that I love my husband for this incredible symbol of his faith in me.

With this gesture, he has given me my very own, but not-so-secret, passport. "Permission to officially enter the wonderful world of prose?" "Granted."

And so begins a new chapter, in life and in love.

www.smythson.com