Category Archives: Parenting

The end is near

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Gentlemen, beware. This post involves talk of The Boobs. You have been warned.

I always planned to breastfeed Per Christian until he was nine months old. This may sound like an arbitrary number, but it was based upon the fact that we’ll be traveling to the US for the holidays this year and I wanted to easily feed him on the plane. I don’t know all the nutritional facts about breastfeeding for nine months, but I do know what it’s like to have a fussy baby on a long-haul flight. I wanted to avoid that as much as possible.

But the fact is – I just don’t have it. For whatever reason, my supply is about done. I’ve exhausted myself with pumping sessions to try and keep it up, but I’m about to forfeit the game. My mind is going numb with the rhythmic whirring sound of the electric pump; my wrists are developing carpel tunnel from the manual version. And it’s almost embarrassing to admit how skilled I’ve become at one-handed Tetris on the iPhone. I have always despised pumping with a heated passion, it’s like being at the dairy farm and having your worth measured by how many ounces you produce each day.

I have no idea how other mothers manage. Is it all worth it, I wonder? (FYI – I know I’m not the only one out there with such fierce pumping-fueled hatred. See here, here and here for more of the same.)

I’ve somehow managed to compare the end of breastfeeding in my head to those protesters’ signs outside the Capitol building. They all predict doomsday around the corner and your inevitable persecution for being such an unworthy sloth.

Save yourself!
The End is near!
Have you prayed lately?

I know this pressure and sense of judgement is only in my head. I know breastfeeding for six months is a great accomplishment. I know my son is well-fed and happy (his heavily-dimpled arms and legs are proof of that). But still I can’t help feeling a little nostalgic already. This stage of Per Christian’s baby-hood is coming to a close and it went by so quickly. Did I appreciate it enough while it was here? Should I have spent a little less time complaining and more time enjoying the moment?

It’s sad to know that our days are numbered and we’ll never get these moments back. On the other hand, I’m so, so thrilled to be moving off the dairy farm and getting rid of that evil pump. Far thee well, you squeezer of flesh and crusher of nipples! 

Monkey see, monkey do

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Per Christian is getting to that stage of baby-hood where he’s starting to interact a bit more and play with his parents. Which is good, because mommy is home with him all day and needs a playmate.

I mean, really, who wouldn’t want to play with this little monkey?

In typical monkey fashion, he’s also starting to imitate what he sees and hears around him. This is really helpful when we’re trying to teach him a new skill like opening his mouth for food (insert mental image of mommy with her mouth wide open, hovering over the high chair with a spoon full of applesauce…) and also when we’re trying to distract him from some of his least favorite activities (i.e. anything that involves shirts over the head or arms going into sleeve holes).

His favorite sounds seem to be either screeching at the top of his lungs (see above reference about least favorite activities) or else smacking his lips together and clicking his tongue. The latter has had me thinking lately – where did he pick that up? Is he saying he’s hungry and wants more food? Or is he trying to imitate some of the buzzing sounds we make with our lips and hasn’t quite gotten the technique down yet?

But then I had a great “A-HA!” moment this morning when I was fulfilling his daily quota of 4,762 kisses. At one point, he looked me right in the eyes and smacked his lips together. Hey! Could this be the early signs of mimicking our kisses?! Could full-fledged baby slobbers be right around the corner?

Oh, I hope so, because mommy is home with him all day and needs herself some kisses!

(PS – if you’re a child development expert or otherwise experienced parent and  laughing at my naivety, please go away. Ignorance really is bliss in this case.)

An open letter to all the daddies in the world

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Dear Pappa(s),

We know you’re doing the best you can. We know you’re just as dazed and confused as we are. But you’re so much better at hiding it. Your calm, rational ways fall under the shadow of our Mamma Bear personas and tend to get lost in the shuffle.

So please forgive us when we lose our tempers after you don’t have an immediate solution to X (insert given infant ailment here – sleeping, teething, eating, etc etc etc….). It´s not that we necessarily expect you to have the answers, it´s just that we´re so exhausted at not having them ourselves. Our poor darlings are crying and “oh my god please just make it stop, it´s making my heart bleed and my boobs leak…..“!

We don´t say it often enough, but we do appreciate you being here. We really don´t know what we´d do if you weren’t here. Because you´re still the guy who helped make this family and who helps keep it together. You´re the guy who makes mommy coffee and sandwiches before you leave for work. You´re the guy who races home every day to try and make the evening bath and bottle. You´re the guy who fills our wine glasses after the babies are asleep. And you´re the guy who quietly steps in and provides relief when mommy needs it most.

But, you know, if you could have a few more of the answers, that would be good too.

Thanks for stickin´ around, pappa(s).

Three generations of Svendsen pappas that have managed to stick around :

Going native

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As any Peace Corps volunteer will tell you, there´s a fine line between successfully blending in with the natives and losing your entire sense of self.  We used to have an understanding among my fellow volunteers that you´ve been in Russia too long (i.e. “gone native”) when you regularly carry rolls of toilet paper in your purse and never leave home without a plastic bag “just in case the market has anything today….”

(On a totally unrelated side-note, I had a friend who swore she would stay a third year in the outer banks of nowhere if her local market started supplying Diet Coke. Sure enough, we enjoyed a lovely third year together after that.)

I´m now well on my way towards going native among the mommy crowd. With that in mind, I give you my own list of “You Know You´re a Mommy When…..” Mommies of the world – feel free to write in your own suggestions in the comments box below.

You know you´re a mommy when….

  • … the first thing you do every morning is feel your boobs to make sure they´re full.
  • … you can´t wait until baby´s bedtime but then miss the little chap two hours later.
  • … you have a smug, superior look on your face whenever you pass a pregnant woman (you think you have it bad now little lady, but just you wait….).
  • … you are adept at living life one-handed.
  • … you refer to your husband as “pappa” and yourself as “mommy”.
  • … your day consists of either preparing food, feeding food or cleaning said food out of a diaper.
  • … you actually look forward to the aforementioned diaper because it means little junior´s tummy is working properly.
  • … you (happily) check out the baby clothes department before your own.
  • … you can sing lullabies in multiple languages (including baby-speak).
  • … your selection of cafes/restaurants/shopping centers/etc. revolves around their level of stroller-friendliness.
  • … you have a sliding scale for how much spit-up you can have on your clothes and still go out in public without changing.
  • … you invent all kinds of sounds you never knew you could make in an effort to solicit one precious baby smile.
  • … you finally get along with your own mother.
  • … you have brochures of traveling circuses hidden around the house, just in case.
Mmmmm….. baby kisses…… 

The season of skoposer

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The Summer of Infant Travel is complete and autumn has arrived in Oslo. I know this because (1) it’s raining and (2) the skoposer have appeared. “Skoposer” (literally, “shoe bags”) are blue plastic shoe covers that are placed inside the doorway of nearly every building you enter in Norway. They look like this:


(Note that not all places have such fancy application devices for your skoposer. Usually it’s just a basketful of blue bags that you apply manually…)

Everywhere you go – coffee shops, office buildings, even the gym – you’re expected to stop and slip the skoposer over your shoes before trailing your wet, slimy mess into the corridors. This is important because (1) it’s raining and (2) Norwegians don’t care.

Seriously – Norwegians are fearless about the weather. Rain or shine, they’re outside. There’s a famous saying in Norway that everyone learns as soon as they step off the plane: “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.” I’ve been hearing this for nearly three years, but I’m still the stupid American wearing ballet flats in the rain when everyone else is in ponchos and wellie boots.

A case in point this rainy Monday morning. The Svendsen family awoke to a smiling, happy baby at 8am (yeah! more about that next time….) and promptly dashed through our usual morning rituals before baby swimming class. Per and I were the chumps who drove three minutes to the pool and then spent 10 minutes looking for parking rather than schlepping through the rainstorm. Trust me, we were the minority. Within minutes, the entire entrance hall was filled with families in all assortment of rain gear. Parents covered in plastic ponchos wearing plastic boots and maneuvering plastic-wrapped baby strollers. No matter what the weather, those babies were going to swimming class gosh darn it.

And of course, right inside the entrance — the large basket of blue skoposer. My first of the season. It brought back memories of my last skoposer experience five months ago when I had to struggle over my enormous baby bump and reach my feet. Now I’ve joined the legions of mommies pushing their plastic bubbles around Oslo. (And yes – I’m finally on the hunt for a good pair of wellies to fit inside my skoposer. In case you have any suggestions….)

Today’s photo album has snippets from Per Christian’s recent baby swimming classes. His reactions to the water have varied from sheer joy to absolute misery, all captured for me to proudly share during my CNN interview after my son upsets Michael Phelps’ world records. This will of course happen.

Enjoy, and stay dry!

The traveling circus

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I have a sneaking suspicion that anyone who read my previous posts and then sees this title will assume that Per Christian no longer resides with us. Have no fear, dear readers, all members are well and accounted for in the Svendsen household. I promise you that nobody has been sold to the circus quite yet. Instead, the Svendsen family as a whole has become our own kind of traveling entourage across Europe this summer.

We’ve had our ups and downs traveling with a four month old. (What?!?! four months already?!?! how is that even possible….) We’ve been able to spend time with dear friends in Sweden and Greece, and also with our family in the southern part of Norway. We introduced my parents to their perfect grandson (their words, not mine…) and the remarkable life we have here. We’ve spent days on warm sandy beaches, sampled food that still makes me drool and even got to sail a bit around our favorite coastline.

But it’s taken some adapting to manage all this with our small meatloaf in tow. Per Christian is growing by the hour and is gradually changing from a tiny organism into an actual miniature human. But man, this boy has got STUFF. I mean — a LOT of STUFF. Per and I shared one suitcase between us – the other three suitcases were filled with blankets, snuggles, toys, stollers, clothes and other assorted baby paraphernalia. We’ve become those annoying people in the airport check-in line that take 10 minutes to get everything tagged, sorted and loaded. We’re now the cause of frustrating sighs of annoyance from every airport commuter – I know that sigh well, I used it myself in my not-so-distant past. (We’re also the people that have the adorable baby in pajamas hanging like a monkey in his Baby Bjorn carrier. Don’t pretend you don’t smile at the image.)

I sense that we’re only a few years away from imitating Chevy Chase in his Vacation movies, squeezing a resistant family and all their luggage into an old station wagon for a “Classic Family Road Trip,” which inevitably results in eating dog-pee sandwiches and getting trapped in the traffic circle next to Big Ben. And when we finally arrive somewhere, we really do resemble a traveling circus as we pitch our tents and stake out our territory. It doesn’t matter if we’re gone for two days or ten, there’s a certain base level of infant needs that must be met and that requires copious amounts of sh*t to be carted about. My mother warned us that Per would be adding “butler” to his job description after the baby arrived. Yep, mom got it right yet again….. 

But we’re learning a bit more with each trip, and we’re looking forward to one or two more adventures before Per’s paternity leave expires and we return to Real Life next month. In the meantime, here are some photos from the Svendsen Family Circus thus far. (There should be more photos, but Per Christian discovered the pleasures of nudity this summer and those photos are being reserved for his Oxford entrance essays….)

Trips to the beach require a bit more luggage these days…..:

…. but it’s all worth it in the end:

Best memories of the summer – Per Christian’s first dip in the water!

35 years apart but an uncanny resemblance to each other:

Back in Oslo, auntie Lari and Per Christian reunite:

Gran and Grandad came to Norway to meet their fifth grandchild:

And Gran was a real sucker at enforcing nap time:

Four generations of Svendsen men around the table:

They came, they saw it and they fell in love with Norway:

Just photos

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No philosophical ramblings, complaints or dark & twisty stories this time…. just pure cuteness on a plate for all of Per Christian’s adoring fans!

This past week was spent at Eline’s family cabin on the Swedish coast, followed by a few days with friends in Stockholm. Per and I learned a lot about traveling with our miniature family member, which should come in handy next week….. Greece, here we come!

The dark side of the moon

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I had the “dark-and-twistys” this week. The term is pulled from old-school Grey’s Anatomy episodes, before Meredith Grey became bright-and-shiny Meredith around season six. Before season six and her post-it marriage to McDreamy, Meredith and Christina would often visit the Dark Place for a few days, and they always understood exactly what that meant.

Meredith: “Are you in the Dark Place?”
Christina: “Yeah.”
Meredith: “OK.” (exhibits understanding face and walks away….)

There is a special wing of the Dark Place specially reserved for new mothers. For mothers who have children that cry, who can’t be soothed, who don’t have the answers, who have husbands away on business, and who want to throw in the towel and download adoption papers.

That was me this week while Per was gone for two days. Two days – that’s all it took for me to descend from relative normality to the dark-and-twistys. For whatever reason, Per Christian decided to take this opportunity to cry, scream and refuse all previously-standard forms of comfort. He screamed for his pacifier and then spit it out, he hated his walks in the stroller but wasn’t happy inside, he was hot, he was cold, he wanted to be held but wanted to be put down, he was overtired but wouldn’t sleep…

After 24 hours of this, the kid nearly got left in the park with a “Will Work for Food” sign on his stroller.

These are the days when I miss my former life. I know mothers are supposed to be all exuberant over their adorable miracles in a sleep-deprived-martyrish kind of way, but honestly I really do miss my old self.

There – I said it. I may be the only one to voice it out loud, but I bet you’re all nodding your heads and thinking, “yep, me too….”

I see Per leaving for work every day and wish it were me. I hear parties on the street at 3am and wish I were there. I see fabulous clothes in the stores and get frustrated that nothing fits my new body. This little “miracle” has taken everything away – my body, my work, my sanity, my life. And yes, sometimes from the depths of the Dark Place I wish I could take it all back, rewind the tape and not be a Mother anymore.

Everyone tells you that it will pass, but that’s equally frustrating to hear. It somehow invalidates what I’m feeling at that moment. Like the feelings don’t matter because they won’t stick around anyway. I know people are trying to be helpful, but really a knowing nod and understanding face would suit me much better.

Other people offer to help. That also doesn’t work because it just makes me more frustrated that this formerly strong, confident, self-assured version of myself can’t hack it. And I’m reminded that this little six kilo meatloaf has managed to shred every bit of self-confidence I spent 35 years building.

Damn.

I won’t subscribe to the cliché and say that it’s all worth it when he smiles, because that’s not always the case. You can keep your smile, thank you very much. I’d rather have a martini. But the truth is, the dark-and-twistys really do pass. You have good days and bad days. That’s the theme of this entire blog – some days are shitty diaper days, other days are bubbly champagne days.

Today was a great day, maybe one of the best on record. It’s as if Per Christian knew that he nearly got sold to the traveling circus and was trying to convince me not to go through with the paperwork. It doesn’t mean that everything is perfect and I don’t still miss my former life. But it does mean that I can wake up, take a deep breath and try again.

I promise we’ll return to our regular programming on the next post with more mouth-watering baby photos that will make your uterus scream. (sorry gents….)

A week of firsts

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I did something today for the first time…. I took a shower while Per Christian napped. To those non-baby-fearing people in the audience, this probably sounds like a no-brainer. Child sleeps = mommy showers. Duh.

But to those of us who know first-hand about life with a two-month-old, you’ll understand why I consider it to be an accomplishment. It means that Per Christian has enough of a routine established that I can assume he’ll sleep long enough to for me to bathe in peace. (Notice use of the word “routine” rather than “schedule” – saying the latter in Norway is like swearing in Babyland’s sacred church…)

Per Christian is a cat-napper, sleeping in short 30-40 minute intervals throughout the day. I’ve heard that some babies sleep for hours at a time – whoever has a child like that, I hate you. Until now, I haven’t been able to really predict whether his nap would be a real immersion or just a dip in the slumber pool. So in order to still maintain a socially acceptable level of hygiene, I’ve always brought him into the bathroom with me in his little activity chair. Between the peaceful sounds of running water and the hair dryer, this was usually the result:

But today he went down for his morning nap and I took a chance by bringing the baby monitor into the bathroom and holding my breath. The running commentary in my head went something like this….

“OK, he’s still asleep, I can use conditioner… he’s still asleep, I can use soap rather than just rinsing…. he’s still asleep, I can use this exfoliation bar thing-y I have here…. holy moley, he’s still asleep! I’m going to actually shave my legs gosh darn it!”

So yes, the morning went well.

Also in the Week-of-Firsts is Per Christian’s first time rolling over! (I understand this event is probably more interesting to you readers than my showering routine, but I’m the author and I’m in charge and slightly selfish so I led with myself this time…) We’d been enjoying a spot of tummy time in the middle of the kitchen on Gran’s quilt, when all of a sudden he just pushed off his hands and flipped over! The poor chap didn’t really know what happened, and the shocked look on his face upon finding himself head’s up made me think of the “Dead Ants” game we used to play on my high school track team.

I did actually catch his flip on video, but I don’t have the functionality to post it here. Sorry about that, but here are some other good catches from the week to enjoy instead.

Deep discussions with Pappa in the AM:

How did my little boy get so big already?!?!

My friend Goril says that Per Christian looks “very healthy,” which based upon this photo means he looks like a miniature Winston Churchill:

A spot of red hair, perhaps?

Chillin’ yet again with Auntie Larissa and Nina-to-be:

Wishing you all a great week ahead!

Lakenskrekk

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Sleep is the Holy Grail of parenthood – highly treasured and yet exceptionally elusive. I’ve heard it exists, but I’m not sure I believe it or know how to find it. I’m speaking specifically about Per Christian’s sleep, not my own (although the two are irrevocably linked). According to the books I have around the house (books that I read and Per ignores…), now that Per Christian has surpassed the 5 kg mark on the scale, he’s theoretically able to sleep through the night.

Able, but not entirely interested.

Like any good Svendsen worthy of his name, this kid hates to miss a party. At two months old, we’re just now starting to establish some kind of a routine and approximate bed time hour. But it’s a bit of a hit-or-miss equation. If we have guests over, then we might as well set up a tent in the middle of the action because there’s no way Per Christian is going to bed. It reminds of me of when I was running track in college and would fall asleep exhausted but fully dressed in the middle of a gathering in my dorm room – I might have been unconscious but at least I was there.

Here are a few examples of how precious Per Christian is when he DOES sleep:

Here are a few examples of how non-precious he is when he DOESN’T sleep:

(Okay, that photo on the far right is actually the famous child crying statue in Oslo’s  Frogner Park, but I think they had Per Christian in mind when it was made.)

I’ve recently learned this fabulous Norwegian word, “lakenskrekk.” Literally, it means “fear of the sheets.” I keep thinking about this word now that we’re experimenting with different methods to encourage longer, deeper hours of infant sleep. Over the past two months, we’ve come up with a few tricks of the trade to conquer our son’s fear of the sheets. None of them work perfectly at all times, but we keep them in our back pockets and pull them out in quick succession on an as-needed basis:

1. Swaddling – this is the King of sleep aids. I didn’t even know what it was until I read it on some parenting forum, but it’s now a well-established routine in our house. At first, our hearts broke at the sight of our poor, defenseless son struggling against being wrapped like a tight burrito. But the alternative is Per Christian punching himself in the face all night with arms he can’t yet control. We chose the lesser of two evils and quickly became converts. By the way – Per is a much better swaddler than I am (which apparently means that he’ll be the bad cop in the parenthood trap and I’ll be the more accommodating one who can’t deny our son a thing and is therefore loved more. Works for me.)

2. White noise – I have two White Noise apps on my iPhone that are supposed to mimic the soothing sounds of being inside the womb and lull my son to sleep. What a load of BS. What Per Christian really loves in reality is when we place our mouth up against his ear and heave loud, breathy “sssssshhhhhh” sounds into his skull until he passes out. He also routinely sleeps in his activity chair in the bathroom while I’m drying my hair in the mornings. So much for the sweet sounds of dolphins and beach waves…

3. The Stroller – My son will be the one in 30 years’ time with an ad on a dating website that says he enjoys long walks though town while lying flat on his back and being serenaded by the sounds of urban life and bumpy sidewalks. Now what’s the possibility that any lovely lady will ever fulfill that desire of his? Seriously though, Per Christian loves our daily constitutionals and I’ve learned to stretch them out as long as possible because he’ll definitely sleep the entire time. He gets a long nap and mommy gets back into her pre-pregnancy jeans. Score!

4. The Smokk – It has a million names around the world, from a pacifier in the US to a “dummy” in the UK. Highly controversial with lots of heated theories about whether or not it’s good for the child or will get them addicted to crack when they get older. Bottom line for us though is that Per Christian seems calmed by it and spits it out when he doesn’t need it anymore. That’s good enough for me.

This coming week, I’ll meet my “barselgruppe” of other new mothers in my neighborhood for the first time. I’m sure they’ll all tell me how they got their perfect children to sleep through the night by the time they were 3 weeks old and now they’re working on potty-training them before they can walk. At least that’s what I’d expect from an uber-competitive mommy’s group in the US. Kidding aside, I’m really hoping they’ll reassure me that we’re doing just fine and are right on track and – my goodness – are those pre-pregnancy jeans you’re wearing?!?!

Score.