The Intrepid Sentimentalist

Below the waist

Up until last week, I thought I had already had the most awkward phone conversation possible with my father-in-law. I was certain that the record had been set in early January 2007, when I was in labour with my daughter. As if the contractions weren't uncomfortable enough, I also had to listen to my husbands's father inquiring about my cervix. "So, ahem, how dilated are you, exactly?"

"Dilated." That has got to be up there in the Top Ten Words You Never Want To Hear Your Father-in-law Utter, right? Along with, I don't know, pretty much any word that is remotely related to anything that occurs below waist level. I am usually far from prude, but it would appear that I have my limits. Never mind the fact that my husband is the (shudder) fruit of this man's loins and he therefore clearly must have some knowledge and experience of the subject matter, I would just so much rather pretend that he is entirely, blissfully clueless. In my personal utopia, my father-in-law is a jovial eunuch Santa Claus who smiles and pours me large glasses of wine, but never EVER inquires about the state of my vagina. Which is why my ears started bleeding last week when I answered the phone and he said "So, how was your smear test this morning?".

The memory still makes me feel faint. 

I immediately sent my husband some angry growling text messaging demanding to know why he had felt it necessary to share details about my medical appointments with his dad, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and the record set, hopefully (please PLEASE) for good. 

Anyway, I had a smear test. I didn't want to, but I did. It was awful, of course. Last time anyone with some sort of medical degree went near my private parts I ended up with approximately seven hundred stitches. It was traumatic. Yes, I also ended up with a rather gorgeous baby boy, but it turns out that I still remember the stitches. Ouch. Ouch. And also, sob. But I felt I had to have the smear anyway, because you should, shouldn't you?

As it turns out, yes, you should. Because a week later I had a letter saying that I my test showed some abnormalities and could I please make an appointment and come in for a colposcopy. 

Naturally, I freaked out. I cannot remember it exactly but I believe there may have been some tears on my husbands's shoulder and dramatic moments in which I threw myself on the floor and sobbingly declared that I didn't want to die. 

Then I told two of my friends and my mother, and it turned out that all three of them had been through the exact same thing. Ah. Needless to say, they are all still very much alive. So it turns out that these abnormal cells of mine aren't exactly a death sentence. More of a nuisance, apparently. I need to go back to Princess Anne Hospital (also the location of the Stitches of Pain as well the Antibiotics of Near Death, but more of that some other time), and have some nurse/doctor type poke around a bit more and decide whether or not I need The Treatment. 

Nobody seems to be able to tell me exactly what this Treatment consists of, but it may or may not involve a tiny carriage drawn by unicorns, sent into my nether regions to slay the cellular dragons. Alternatively, they might burn something off. Or freeze something off. We'll see.

So, another fun-filled appointment to look forward to. Anyway. Other than that, all is well. With any luck, I will be returning to blogging regularly from now on. So I suppose I will see you around.

 

 

 

 

So much is new - here's a tentative attempt at rejoining the blog world - let's see how it goes!

Number four

Well, well - only a few days later, and here I am, ready to add number four on my list of things that have made me smile. This will have to be brief, though, because Dave is about to take Esther to the beach for a walk so that I can have a long, leisurely bath and read The Time Traveller's Wife until I am as wrinkly as a prune (from water, not sudden ageing by time travel).

In the last month or so, Esther's imaginative play has really taken off. Whereas she used to just feed dolls, or tuck them into bed, she now has long conversations with them and sends them off on various adventures. This morning, she was sat on our bed with her collection of plastic fish and sea creatures and kissing them all good bye. I asked where they were going.

"To the swimming pool," she declared. "They're packing their little fish bags and going to the pool."

Their little fish bags indeed. Where did THAT come from?

Seven things that have made me smile.

Well, then. This isn't going too well. I am itching to write something, anything, but every time I sit down and actually have the time to do it, I am overwhelmed by how much there is to say. So I say nothing at all. Not that I have any particularly exciting news, or any groundbreaking discoveries to share - quite the opposite. Aside from the fact that July involved a lot of travelling, my life still revolves around the usual things - providing Esther with breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks, clean clothes, warm baths, and an assortment of fun and interesting excursions and play opportunities. The usual mothering things.

Nevertheless, every day is filled with little moments that I really don't want to forget. So for now, I want to make sure I share seven of them with you - whoever you might be.

1. We've done a lot of flying in the last month. London - Boston - Chicago - Boston - London - Helsinki - London. That's a lot of airmiles, and jet lag, for anyone to deal with, never mind a two-year old. But Esther coped beautifully, thanks to an assortment of snacks, a DVD player with Peppa Pig and seven hundred trillion little animal stickers which she stuck to any available surface. I was proud of her. But the moment that stayed in my mind came just after witnessing her squeal with delight as the plane hurtled down the runway, shuddered and groaned and finally lifted into the air ("What's THAT!!!???", she giggled.) She peered out of the window as we climbed higher, and higher, and higher. Eventually she turned around and looked at me. "Mamma," she said, "look. The clouds have fallen down!".

2. When we were in Finland, we had a lovely time, as always. My whole family was there - parents, brothers, girlfriends. Everyone is crazy about Esther and there was always someone there to read a book, kick a ball or play a confusing toddler version of of MasterMind. She had all the love and attention that she could possible want, and she enjoyed it - but she missed her dad. A lot. I'm ashamed to say that I was surprised, initially. I hadn't really thought about the fact that it had been a year since she was last apart from Dave for more than a night, and I must admit that it hadn't occurred to me that she would feel so strongly about it. I know she loves her dad, but I figured that she'd have me, and the rest of my family, and so she probably wouldn't even notice. I was wrong. 

The first three days, she asked after him every morning, and here and there during the day. "Where's my daddy? Where's Esther's daddy? When's my daddy coming?". On the fourth day, she must have decided that I didn't understand who she meant, because she shot me a somewhat stern look and said "Mamma, WHERE is the one whose name is Dave?"

   Luckily, we were able to Skype every day, and she spent those sessions in a somewhat manic state of delight, attempting to show off her piano playing skills and her very fast running, simultaneously. If I tried to get a word in, she would suggest that I go and sit on the chair "over there" because "Esther's talking now, NOT mamma." Aha. 

   When we got back, she was literally running next to the luggage trolley, and threw herself into Dave's waiting arms in what can only be described as a classic airport tearjerker moment. I fully expected all the grumpy taxi drivers, sour-looking girlfriends, swarming Sikh families and bleary-eyed airline crews to break into a unanimous AAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW!!! but of course they didn't. Bastards.  They clearly don't recognize a Kodak moment when they see one, but I did. And I was delighted that my little girl is so besotted with her dad.

3. Esther has been out of nappies for a good few months now, and it's going well. Even with jet lag and travelling, we usually manage with just one accident a week, or less. Having said that, we experienced a bit of a set back a couple of days ago, when we suddenly had four accidents in 24 hours. Unpleasant. I assumed it was because we'd only just got back from Finland and Esther was feeling a little unsettled, so I decided it was time to provide a bit of an incentive again. I brought out the chocolate buttons, but then I also told Esther that it makes me very happy when she wees on the potty. For some reason, this seemed to stick in her mind. She sat down, and when she had finished she grinned at me. "Now you're happy!" she declared. I hugged her and said that yes, I was very happy. "Me too!," she smiled, with her big, toothy, exaggerated todder-grin. "We are both happy now!". And we were.

Yawn. I am tired now. The rest of the seven will have to follow tomorrow.

I know, I know.

So,I obviously got far too ambitious. Writing every day? Ha. Try not even every month. What happened? Well, as you may have gleaned from my last post, my brother arrived. Sadly, so did tonsillitis. Simultaneously. So I was ill, and then I took a while to recover, and then I was just too busy catching up on other things. Blog: neglected.

I've been wanting to get back to it, but for some reason that even I can't quite fathom, I always feel as if the blog has to come last. In other words, I can't write a blog post if there are other things that I really ought to be doing. Running slightly behind when it comes to work? Ignore blog. Digging to be done in the garden? Stay away from the keyboard. Not yet sent that birthday card to my brother-in-law? Crumbs in the sink? Peppa Pig underwear to fold and put away? Don't even think about logging in to TypePad, because it would be Wrong.

Well, tough. I AM behind on some things, and there IS a mountain of ironing leaning at a perilously steep angle over the bed in the guest bedroom, but I am going to write anyway. So sue me.

Wish me luck. I am making no promises about frequency, but assure you I have only the very best intentions. 

Spring, springing.

Okay, so the whole post every day thing didn't start off so well, did it? Esther has a cough and a slightly runny nose, and was feeling generally out of sorts yesterday. So when I was about to sit down and blog, she woke up, refused to go back to sleep, and insisted on coming into our bed instead. Where she perked up considerably and chatted endlessly about her uncle Jonas, who is coming to stay with us on Friday. "Jonas will do play-doh with me! And read the ABC-book! And draw!"

The following morning she woke up, opened her eyes, and launched immediately into a new tirade about Jonas and all the excellent things they will do together. I had to work hard to convince her that no, he did not yet need a cereal bowl set out on the table because he won't be here until FRIDAY. Toddlers, tsk. They know nothing about time. Which is why she fell asleep tonight muttering about how when she wakes up in the morning Jonas will be here. Only he won't, because it will be Thursday. But still, it is very sweet.

It's been lovely and sunny outside this week. It's all daffodils and magnolias and green grass, enough to make my parents very jealous (made worse by the fact that I send them smug pictures of all the greenery). Esther and I have been gardening, which seems to consist mainly of her watering the same pot for ten minutes while ignoring my instructions to water all the other pots, too. Oh, and of me using my new, handy little saw to saw off far too many branches of our already tiny trees and shrubs, with Esther unhelpfully squeaking "More sawing, mamma! More sawing!". We have also been counting ants and studying earth worms and planting sunflower seeds. It's been a nice week, so far.

Over to food now, for those who care. Yesterday, I made a classic bolognese sauce, enough to go in the freezer for two future dinners. We ate it with penne and garlic-sauteed courgettes and peas. Obviously, Esther approved (what toddler doesn't love pasta bolognese?). Tonight, we had a tomato risotto, with broccoli. Esther though the risotto was yummy (although for some reason she won't even try to pronounce the word risotto, and calls it helicopter soup instead. Yes, helicopter soup. Apparently that's easier?!), but forgot that broccoli is her favourite vegetable and hardly ate any at all. Sigh.

Daddy says "birdie"!

One of the fun things about speaking two languages in one family is that it makes you realise things you've never really thought about before. My first language is Swedish, Dave's is English. We're both adults, reasonably well educated, and we grew up in surprisingly similar families. So you'd think we'd have fairly similar vocabularies in our own languages, right? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Once you think about it, it makes sense. My dad was, and is, an avid birdwatcher (hej pappa!). My mum was, and is, somewhat bonkers about gardening, plants and trees (hej!). It's no surprise that I know my starlings from my thrushes, and my oaks from my aspens. Dave, on the other hands, knows that there are birds. And trees. Yes, he knows the difference between a swan and a magpie, but that's more or less it (hi Dave!).

Because Esther is at an age where she wants to know Absolutely Everything, I have been teaching her the names of birds that we see in the garden, or when we're out and about. She's a little information sponge, so she has already surpassed her father and knows all about gulls, crows, pigeons, swans, blackbirds, robins, and a few more.

The other morning we were having breakfast when a blackbird landed on the patio outside. "Titta, mamma, en koltrast!" (Look, mamma, a blackbird!). Then she gave Dave a slightly puzzled look, before turning to me again. "Mamma säger koltrast, " she informed me, "and Daddy says birdie!".

(She likes doing those little word comparisons, partly because she knows I'm always suitably impressed.)

So, who is going to teach her about birds and plants in English? I suppose I could, later on, but I don't know most of them in English. School, perhaps, although judging by Dave's lack of ornitological and botanical education I shouldn't pin my hopes on that.

Similarly, who's going to teach her computer terms in Swedish? Do computer terms in Swedish even exist? Hmm. I will have to look into it.

Change of subject: let's talk about food. I don't have time to take photos or write down recipes. But how about I try to tell you what we have for dinner each day? Then I'll hopefully get around to updating this thing more often, and you'll get to read what we ate. Don't laugh, I have at least one friend who really wants to know! And I can tell you whether it was easy or not, and if the toddler approved. And if there's a recipe out there, I will link to it.

So here we go. Tonight, we ate gnocchi with a creamy tomato sauce and spinach. It was very easy, the whole thing took 20 minutes, if that. Simple tomato-garlic sauce, stir in some mascarpone, or cream. Boil the gnocchi, throw in some spinach at the end so that it wilts. Mix it all together, sprinkle with some basil leaves and parmesan. Yummy. The toddler approved.

Tarts and such

In honour of the fact that this used to be a food blog once upon a time, I would like to point you in the direction of this excellent recipe for Pasteis de Nata. I first came across these scrumptilicious little custard tarts when we went to Madeira last year, where I used to have two for breakfast every morning. (When I say for breakfast, I actually mean for breakfast dessert. After the rest of the breakfast. And when I say two, I think I may actually mean three, although I have partially blocked that memory. It's  good thing I swam around with my daughter on my back a LOT that week.)

Ever since we got back, I've been thinking about finding a recipe and trying to recreate the magic, and last week, I did exacly that. Do they taste exactly like they did on Madeira? Not really, but they are close enough. And they're very, very easy to make - you use puff pastry, ready-rolled, so it's not really proper baking. And this particular recipe uses milk rather than cream, which makes them rather virtuous, if you ask me. Virtuous enough that I ate, ahem, eight, on the day that I baked them. Yes, eight. Never mind.

That's it for now, really -I have to go and take the second batch out of the oven!

IKEA, I love you. A lot.

When I was a little girl, we lived in Stockholm for a few years. Because I was so young at the time (we left when I was four), my memories are random, at best. I remember the neighbour's white poodle, the scary twisty-bendy merry-go-round in the playground, and the pear-flavoured ice lollies they sold in the kiosk. I also remember IKEA.

We used to go to IKEA in Kungens Kurva. This is the IKEA mothership. The largest IKEA in the world is a big, round monstrosity of a building, full of all the things you would expect - furniture, cheap candles, and meatballs. But what I remember is the play room, which had a ball pit. It was exciting, and a little bit scary, as those things always were. Separated from your parents by a net, at the mercy of other, unknown children, possibly about to drown in a sea of plastic balls, all the while holding your breath to avoid the stench of sweaty socks. Scary.

After moving back to Finland, we used to return to Stockholm and IKEA once a year, as far as I remember, and although I soon outgrew the ball pit I still enjoyed it. Particularly all the cute little rooms, with their inviting beds and expertly arranged lighting, and real books on the shelves. Fabulous.

Eventually, IKEA opened its doors in Finland, too, just in time for me to kit out my student apartment with cheap bookshelves and springy mattresses. The desk I still sit and work at every day is also from there. But then we moved to England, and there was no IKEA within easy reach. I had to make do with Homebase, and John Lewis, and other places which sell really ugly things for stupidly high prices. I missed IKEA. But I held out, because I knew the end was in sight.

In February, IKEA Southampton finally opened its doors. Yesterday, Esther and I stepped through those doors for the first time. And now, Homebase and John Lewis might as well burn to the ground, as far as I'm concerned. Because I am home again.

Despite the name of this blog, I am not sure I'm particularly intrepid anymore. However, I am certainly sentimental, and being in IKEA brought out that emotion in absolute bucketloads. It sounds ridiculous, since I'm very happy in England and wouldn't want to move back to Scandinavia, but IKEA felt like a little bit of home, lifted up and planted smack bang in the middle of Southampton. Bizarre. I read all the silly product names, silently gloating about the fact that I was the only one who could pronounce Ektorp correctly or knew what a Domherre was. I picked up the books on the shelves, and was a little bit disappointed that I couldn't buy them (they're real books! and some of them are quite new! by actual,famous writers!). I ate prinsess cake and kokosbollar and bought blankets and cushions and napkins and a brilliant, cheap easel that Esther loves.

I also loved the fact that I was there with my daughter. And although this is sillier than anything else I've admitted to, I somehow felt better about speaking Swedish in public when I was there. Not that I struggle, normally - quite the contrary, I don't mind who can hear me when I chat with Esther in Tesco or the library or the playgroup. But in IKEA, I felt... proud. As if I belonged. As if Ivar the bookshelf was about to come alive, ent-style, and mutter: "Listen, all ye other shelves. She's one of us!". Considering the fact that Ivar was probably made in China using Russian pine, this didn't make a whole lot of sense. On any level. But there I was, skipping along, rejoicing in the fact that Esther would grow up knowing that it is EE-KEH-AH, not EYE-KEE-AH. 

Because sometimes, when you're living far away from home - even when you're really, truly very happy - it's those little things that matter.

It happened again

Yes, I know, I have been missing in action. Sorry. I am here now. I am sure there are lots of things I could tell you but at the moment I cannot remember any of them. I will get back to you when I do. For now, I just wanted to share my latest tale of humiliation at the hands of a two-year-old.

I am sure that most such tales would involve a misbehaving toddler. You know the sort of thing I mean: tantrums in the supermarket, loud usage of the wrong kind of words in public, biting other children. Normal things.

My daughter, on the other hand, humiliates me by being Smart and Organized. Now, I am not a slob. And I am not a hopelessly absent-minded professor type. But have strong tendencies in those directions, tendencies that I have to fight quite hard in order to live in a clean and tidy house with food in the fridge and even numbers of socks in the drawers (that last one never quite works out, actually). Esther, on the other hands, reminds me to floss after I brush my teeth in the morning. She insists on emptying the cutlery basket of the dishwasher, often re-organising the drawer because she wants to find a way to give the three different spoon sizes their own compartments rather than making them share. Every week, she impresses the teacher at the art club with her determination, focus and attention to detail.

Today, we were going to the supermarket. We put our coats and shoes on, I got my bag, found my keys, and opened the door. I was just about to leave when Esther suddenly turned and went to grab something from under the stairs. "Take these too", she insisted, and pulled out the reusable carrier bags.

I was flabbergasted. I haven't had the bags for that long - only a month or two - and I usually forget to bring them. This time was no exception and I would definitely have found myself in Tescos again, slapping my forehead and being annoyed with myself for having to use plastics bags for the millionth time. However, I have remembered to bring them a couple of times, and apparently that was enough for Esther to make the connection and realise that we needed them today, too.

I was proud, of course, and very impressed. But I was embarrassed, too. She is only just two. And I am ancient by comparison.So why am I frequently the more forgetful and disorganized one?!! It's just wrong!

Well, she is helpful. And incredibly cute.

So I'm not actually complaining. It's just, well, not what I would have expected. But then that's part of the fun of being a parent, isn't it?