Category Archives: Children

You should see the other guy….

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This morning, I was imagining in my head a conversation between Per Christian and his little friends at the local barnehagen. It went something like this:

*****

Nameless baby at barnehagen : “Dude, you look pretty messed up today. Scrapes and bruises everywhere and – wait – is that a chipped tooth in your mouth?!”

Per Christian : “You bet it is. And you should see the other guy…”

*****

Random mind ramblings aside, it is true that our little warrior now has a two chipped front teeth. He slipped while furiously crawling around the terrace the other day and went tumbling nose-first into the cement floor. All I heard was a resounding “crack!” of something or other, and then lots of heart-breaking tears.

The tears finally dried and the blood was finally all wiped away to reveal a cut on his upper lip and two cracked front teeth. He’s eating normally (“with great gusto” is how he normally eats…), so I’m assuming the injury isn’t painful any longer.

I asked the doctor during a routine appointment what I should do about the teeth, and he just shrugged and laughed. “Get the camera,” he said. “You’re going to have a lot of goofy photos for a while.”

So here’s my attempt at capturing the injury for y’all:

Oh well, what can I say? This kid may be injured, but he’s still way too squirmy to pose for a photo!

For better or for worse

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There’s a long list of people out there who say that having kids changed their marriage forever. And they’re usually none too positive when they say it, seemingly hoping to travel back in time and remain childless if the opportunity were available. “Don’t get us wrong, we love our kid(s),” they all insist. “But…..”

And there it is – the BUT heard ‘round the world. The BUT that only married people with kids can understand. The BUT that scares couples everywhere away from the baby path.

Here’s my thinking – there’s really no way for a marriage not to change when a little one comes along. It’s an entirely different life, made up of three people rather than just two. It’s a threesome (or foursome, or fivesome…) for all eternity. I think anyone would find an eternal threesome a difficult relationship to manage.

Before having children, a marriage is pretty black and white. Every month at work, you receive a salary to confirm that you’re doing your job correctly. You have rational, adult conversations with rational, adult people and decisions are made, well – rationally. And then you come home, and you have all your free time to spend doing exactly what the two of you love to do together.

It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s your own.

Things inevitably change when you invite a third person to the party. 80% of your days are like your good days at work – and when they’re good, trust me, they’re really, really good. Your child does something simple, which seems extraordinary to you, and you smile lovingly across the table at your spouse. You both smile a lot on those days, and you feel closer to this family unit you’ve created than you ever imagined. You’re bound deeply together by a miniature package of extraordinariness. This is how children change a marriage for the better.

You don’t always hear that side of the story, and that’s a shame.

More often, you hear about the other 20%. On those days, you’re dealing with an irrational boss who refuses to issue clear instructions, and who just does whatever they damn well please. On these days, you’re moody and almost definitely short-tempered. You feel like a failure in one way or another, or maybe in a hundred ways all together. It’s been a bad day at work for one or both of you – there’s tension in the air, one or both of you is pissed off, and angry words may be spoken.

It happens. For better or for worse.

At Casa Svendsen, we’ve definitely had an 80/20 split over the past year. There is truly a domino effect of emotional happiness in our house, which begins with the smallest (and yet most powerful) one among us. When Per Christian has a good day, then so does Mommy. There are lots of giggles and silly stories to share in the evening. Pappa comes home to a happy house and is, by extension, also happy.

The opposite curve works the same way in reverse – a grumpy baby leads to a grumpy Mommy, who feels exhausted and run down by the end of the day. I then, of course, take it all out on Per when he walks in the door. On these days, Pappa has to bear the brunt of all my own feelings of maternal inadequacy because our son is too young to shoulder such burdens.

Luckily for us all, Per errs on the less emotional end of the spectrum and realizes, quite rationally, that whatever troubles await him at home shall soon pass. Per Christian won’t always be so small and require so much work. I won’t always be home alone caring for him. We won’t always find him such a mystery to understand or feel ourselves to be so helpless – although I do expect that we’ll always feel entirely inadequate for the task.

Is it all worth it, you wonder? The simple answer is “yes,” but the more honest answer is “not always.” Here’s the thing – despite the challenges of the 20%, I really, really don’t want a time machine (most of the time). I would not give up my son for all the free time in the world (most of the time). Yes, I’m tired and yes, I do miss my former ability to impersonate a calm, rational adult. And of course I miss our carefree days alone, drinking Prosecco for breakfast on a lazy Saturday morning, as opposed to venting on my husband all my furies after a difficult day of tending to our meatloaf.

But my son is a part of me, taken directly out of my body and walking (stumbling, actually…) around in real life right before my very eyes. How miraculous is that? I can watch him and see reflections in him of both my husband and me. He is an extraordinary being; I can find no other words for it. And when I see my son in this light, I know that I love my husband and my family down to my deepest, darkest core.

So yes, children change a marriage, there’s no way around it. We lose our tempers more often and are made to bear more responsibility than we could ever previously imagine. We will never, ever again get to be selfish and think about only ourselves. Our threesome is here to stay, and all the subtleties of joining three separate people into one loving family unit have to be managed with care.

There are 20% of hard times for our unit, when my husband has to play the roll of punching bag because the real criminal agent is too young to understand Mommy’s frustrations.

But then there are 80% of really great times, when I walk in the door and see my son literally bouncing with excitement over my arrival. And then I see my husband standing right behind him, with an equally large smile on his face. We’re a family, and we’re so very blessed.

That’s just how a marriage with children works. For better or for worse.

Tending the wounded

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Since Friday evening, the Svendsen household has washed approximately 72 loads of laundry, changed approximately 189 green diapers and gone through approximately 49 pairs of clothes.

That’s right – our poor little Per Christian is waging his first serious battle against a stomach bug. And it’s horrible, just horrible.

Thankfully, his fever is back down again, he’s finally drinking a bit of flavored water and he’s starting get some hours of long, uninterrupted sleep. I’m personally going a bit stir-crazy in the house, but – as usual – am trying to suck it up for the Greater Good. (Note : This does not imply that I’m doing it quietly or without complaining to Pappa Per. Some things cannot be helped…)

I suppose we’re lucky we’ve made it this far without too many sick days beyond the usual colds and runny noses. But I’m definitely adding another bullet point to my previously-published list of You Know You’re a Mommy When…..

  • You know you’re a mommy when you calmly hold your baby as they’re vomiting all over your new blouse, and your only concern is that they know they’re loved in this moment and that you’ll do anything you can to help them get well again. Blouse be damned.

But even illness cannot stop us from photographing our handsome meatloaf:

Pappa's multi-tasking skills

TV time with Mommy and Sesame Street

Laundry load #33 and counting

Per Christian's food for the past three days

Mommy & Pappa's food for the past three days

From the archives, Part II

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Last May, I posted these fabulous photos highlighting the similarity between Pappa Per and Son Per. If you didn’t take a peek then, I suggest you do so now – they’re uncanny in their resemblance.

Truth be told, it’s always been easier to see Per Christian’s paternal gene pool than anything from myself. They’re both blond, they’re both handsome, they both have the same endearing curl of hair at the top of their forehead… At first glance, Per Christian is “papa’s gutt” through and through.

But spend enough time with the lad and you’ll start to see a bit of Mommy poke through. The kid has a fierce stubborn streak, equaled only by his equally fierce giggle fits. He’s also a creature of habit, just like Mommy…. first thing every morning after his bottle is his summary inspection of the dishwasher and the shower rack and the book case. Once everything is in (dis)order to his liking, he can then go about his day and see what else is new.

And now, I see another trait Per Christian has inherited from Mommy — stomach sleeping:

I missed this so badly when I was pregnant and unable to sleep sunny side down. But from the day we stopped swaddling him at three months old, Per Christian has been turning on his belly to sleep. Very rarely do I see him sleeping on his back at night – if he does, then I know he’s truly exhausted and too tired to even flip over.

I don’t know any sight as a parent that’s as touching as watching my son sleep.

So here’s one more for all the adoring grandparents in the audience:

A lesson in personal space

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Dear Son,

We understand that you enjoy being with us. We give you love and support, and we make you feel safe and secure. Plus, we’re oftentimes pretty cool people when you allow us enough sleep.

We also love to be with you. Your giggles lighten our lives and start our days with smiles.

But sometimes….. maybe, just sometimes…. you could give us a bit of space?

Pappa’s shower time in the morning just took on a whole new dimension.

Then again, scratch that. We’d have to be crazy to miss out on all this fun!

A recent conversation

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Mommy : “Good morning, Per Christian! Did you sleep well last night?”

PC : (standing in his crib and pointing to the ceiling fan) “Dubbidida dubba da da gugu ga!”

Mommy : “Oh, was it too cold in your room last night? Was the fan too cold for you?”

PC : (now pointing to the door) “Dubbidida dubba da da gugu ga!”

Mommy : “Oh, you want to say good morning to Pappa? Let’s go visit Pappa while he gets dressed for work.”

Pappa : (speaking in Norwegian) “God morgen, lille gutt! Har du sovet godt?”

PC : (this time pointing at Pappa’s shirt button) “Dubbidida dubba da da gugu ga!”

Pappa : “Oh, you want to help Pappa get dressed for work? Such a sweet boy, thank you for helping Pappa with his buttons!” (Pappa passes PC back to Mommy so he can re-button his shirt.)

Mommy : “Per Christian, can you say bye bye to Pappa before he leaves for work?”

PC : (waving his hand at his own face) “Ba byyyyyyyye… ba byyyyyyye….”

Mommy and Pappa melt.

Such a good start to the day.

Avoiding grandma’s stare…

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Since I first moved abroad in 1998, I have sometimes unwillingly taken a bit of time in between check-in’s with my family. However, if too much time has passed, I always receive a not-so-subtle message from my mother, requesting that I drop her a line ASAP that (1) I’m still alive, and (2) all my appendages are still intact enough to compose a brief letter home.

I’m expecting any day now to receive a similar message from my mother regarding photos of her grandson. It’ll read something along the lines of:

“It’s been too long, Marguerite, where are you hiding my adorable grandson?
Love, Mom.”

In order to preempt such a message, I hereby present the following recent photos to you all. There aren’t many, but they should reassure parents and grandparents everywhere that items both (1) and (2) above are indeed accurate.

And for those of you expecting some witty remarks more substantial than just photos, my apologies. I’ve been in a bit of a downward-facing funk lately and can’t seem to find the gumption to get anything down on paper. But the winds of change shift on a daily basis here at Casa Svendsen, so hopefully something will push through in the nearest future and get me back on track.

Until then….

The Steps of Loma Dos

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A few months ago, I briefly posted on the good and not-so-good parts of our temporary housing situation in Gran Canaria. We still have two months to decide if we’ll keep this house in Arguineguin or move elsewhere, but I think we’re feeling pretty settled where we are. And now that our shipment from Norway has arrived, I think the chances of us actually wanting to move again are fading with each box that’s opened and unpacked.

But there is one thing about our neighborhood with which I will never, ever make peace:

Welcome to The Steps of Loma Dos.

Our neighborhood is literally named “Two Hills,” which means that the town centre is downhill no matter which way you go. We’re at the top of the hill, the town is below us. The only way to get there is to conquer The Steps.

I’m sure that any normal (i.e. “non-mother”) reader in the audience is thinking “big deal.” But to those of us that know better, you know exactly where I’m going with this…

Steps + baby + baby carriage = Deciding to stay home

Maybe I was spoiled in Oslo, but steps were rarely an issue there. If there were steps, there was also a ramp. Easy-peasy. The only time I regularly confronted a difficult set of steps was getting on and off the city trams. But even then, there was usually a polite, kind-hearted fellow passenger offering to help with the stroller. (A side-note to the punk-ass teenage boys in Grunnerlokka who failed to assist me even when asked… Shame on you! Your mother would be so embarrassed if she knew…)

But not so in our little Loma Dos. No matter where you’re located in the neighborhood, you’ve got stairs separating you from your freshly-brewed cortado in town. So Per Christian and I bump up and down the stairs on a nearly-daily basis. And with our little 10-month meatloaf packing on the kilos, it gives Mommy quite a workout.

Here’s the thing I don’t quite understand… I get passed on the stairs on a regular basis by Norwegians who don’t stop to help. I’ve never been passed by a Spanish person, male or female, without them stopping for assistance. I just don’t get it – the same fellow countrymen and women who always help a stroller-wielding Mommy at home somehow come here and develop social amnesia. It’s as if they forget all sense of being decent, respectable Norwegians as soon as they take off their shirts and stroll topless in the streets.

Shame on you! Your children and grandchildren would be so embarrassed if they knew… Come on peoples, put your clothes back on and help a Mommy in need every once in a while!

Geesh.

However, seeing as how the rest of Europe is covered in a blanket of cold snow, I suppose I shouldn’t complain too loudly. After all, once we’re actually down the steps, the view is pretty fantastic…

Casa Svendsen a la Loma Dos is quickly getting booked up for the spring and summer season! So make your reservations early – special discounts apply for polite, stroller-assisting folk.

Two weeks in a nutshell

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It’s been a busy few weeks for the Svendsen household, traveling to London and back, and then (finally!) receiving our furniture shipment from Norway. I find it incredibly ironic that all our cold weather winter gear arrived right after we made our trip to freezing London, but as my five-year-old niece likes to say, “c’est la vie….” (PS – don’t feel too bad if your own five-year-old doesn’t know French yet. We clearly have genius genes in our family.)

Amid all this chaos, our own little meatloaf has decided that pulling up on all types of furniture is a fun thing to try. Per Christian is moving so quickly now, I’ve had to switch my camera to the “Sport” setting to even try and catch him in action. He’s also had his first two days at his new barnehagen, with a few tears shed by us both. I finally decided on a small, local Spanish baby centre right across the street from us, and it seems like a good fit for the entire family.

And if that’s not enough already, he’s also starting to wave and babble something shockingly familiar to “bye-bye.” I’m now trying to convince him that – yes, he can say bye-bye to everyone he sees on the street and to anyone in his life, except for Mommy. Because Mommy will always be there. He will have no need for any other woman in his life, because Mommy will always be there. No bye-bye’s for Mommy, forever and ever and ever…

He seems a bit hesitant to absorb this critical information, but I think we’re making progress.

And now, a few recent photos for all the doting aunts, uncles, grandparents and farmor‘s in the audience:

Boys and their balls

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Remember that episode of Sex and City when Charlotte was dating someone with a pair of “low-hangers”? Carrie was rebounding from Mr. Big with the Hot Yankee, but all they could talk about was Charlotte’s boyfriends’ balls… Because he kept playing with them all the time.

Well ladies, I’m here to tell you that this boyish fascination with balls begins early. We first noticed a bit of grabbing from our little one when he was about six months old in the bathtub. It was more funny than worrisome, and it’s my secret belief that Pappa Svendsen was actually proud and encouraging of his son’s new discovery.

But it’s getting out of control. Bath-time, diaper-time, you name it… our son is enraptured. Changing a dirty diaper has just become exponentially more challenging — as soon as the pants come off, his little fingers magnetically gravitate down there and begin fussing about.

Have you ever tried to keep a little boy from playing with his balls long enough to scrape a layer of smelly dirt off his bottom?! I swear, I must have missed some fine print in the baby contract somewhere because I did NOT sign up for this.

There must be something to balls in general though, but this ball-grabbing fascination isn’t confined to his anatomy. He seems to be learning to enjoy his miniature football as well (that’s soccer to my fellow Americans). It’s my not-so-secret belief that Pappa Svendsen is proud and encouraging of this new discovery as well:

At this point, he prefers to chase his football around the terrace and then sit by it, waiting for someone to kick it again. Kind of like the Chesapeake Bay Retriever we had when I was little – except not, because then I would be comparing my son to a dog.

And if you’ve managed to read down this far without turning off your computer in disgusted embarrassment, here is your reward:

What a face!!!

I just hope a bunch of spoiled thirty-something women aren’t sitting around wondering about my son’s ball-playing habits someday…