Velocity kid

It's the Incredible Speedy Magnus! From this:


to this:


in only four months.

Magnus now masters:

Eating a teaspoonful of porridge in the evenings. Yum!
Kicking off his socks in three seconds flat.
Lots of different noises, mmms and aaahs and gargles and squeals in an eloquent mix.
Keeping his head steady when lifted.
Laughing at his mirror self.
Laughing harder at his uncle Eiv.
Laughing even harder when someone says 'bæsj' (poo). Already?
Charming every female in any given social setting. Flight attendants are a particular favourite.
Falling asleep - but only if placed between mum and dad in their bed in the wee hours.

Yearbook 2009 II

Most likely to yank your heart out of your chest before you even know what hit you:

Magnus

who is also Most likely to become a spinning instructor, Most likely to double in size and Most likely to be kissed a million times in the coming year.

A question of Sølver

"Lin opened her eyes to a landscape of desolate winter mountains, where a pale, full moon painted the snow silver and stern peaks rose into the sky. Gwen touched her shoulder lightly, and Lin turned around. She found herself at the top of a steep hill, gazing down on a deep, shimmering valley of hillocks and forestclad slopes. A naked, frozen river ran through it like a steel ribbon, and at the end of the ribbon twinkled the lights of a town enclosed by snowladen trees on three sides and a lake of cold, blue ice on the fourth.
- Well, I do see why you call it..."

What?

I've pondered and mulled for weeks on end and not made up my mind. So I thought I'd ask you! Which of these three should be the name of the realm where Snowchild takes place: Sølveros, Sølverdal, or Sølverheim?

I suppose for those of you who don't speak Norwegian, it might be hard to choose. Sølver means silver, but with a slight twist leaning towards *of silver* or *silvery*. Sølveros means the estuary of the river Sølver, Sølverdal means Sølver Valley, while Sølverheim means Home of Silver. All three suffixes are common in place names in Norway, like Røros, Sunndal, Trondheim.

Now, there is a river and there is a valley, so they're all logical enough. But if you can, just listen for magic and music in the name (if any). Which magical realm would you like to go to?

2009 Yearbook

Most likely to pick your heart out of your pocket without you even noticing:

Gwendolen

It's been almost a year since the kittens showed up in our lives, on Christmas Eve of all nights. I wonder how Gwen is. Is she still as smart? Still as agile? Still as mischievous and charmingly crooked in the face? I thought I had other favourites among the kittens, but it turned out, when the time came to send them off to new homes, the only time I really cried afterwards was when I closed the door behind cheeky, little Gwen, knowing that I would probably never see her again.

Miss you, little rascal!

Yes, Copenhagen is right that way

Barack Obama is in town to receive his peace prize. Here he is with the Prime Minister, probably pointing towards my house. Or could it be Copenhagen?

(The image is by scanpix, and I'm hoping they won't charge me for using it.)

Magnus and I were Christmas shopping downtown yesterday, and outside Grand Hotel, we were interviewed by Italian television. They seemed very disappointed in my answers. Yes, I think he deserves the prize. No, I'm not angry that he's spending so few hours in Oslo, because I agree: he should get to Copenhagen as quickly as possible.

But if he wanted to stop by Marselis, I've got good chai tea.

Tree, cat, and disaster waiting to happen

No real tree this year, and my ornaments must spend this season snoozing in their box. But that just makes it even more fun next year, little ones, I promise. In lieu of a pretty green tree, Peter got some larch branches from the garden in Sandvika. Now let's see how long Pims is going to leave them up there. I anticipate a huge crash in the middle of the night. Only good thing is, I'll be up already anyway.

UPDATE: I was going to take a picture of the evidence next morning, but forgot. But Bambi had had her ear chewed and two of the branches were snapped. But other than that: smooth, Pims, very smooth.

Merry Christmas, Magnus Brown

Cute, no? A slightly different advent this year, with no time for gingerbread cookies and no time for a full social calendar. But it's nice nonetheless. I'm almost done with the Christmas shopping, too.

Honest scrap

Yay, I got an award from Catherine. Thanks, dear!

Okay, so I'm supposed to tell ten honest things about myself. Hm. I'll try to make them things not everybody knows already:

1. When energetic, I like to jump around. (It's been a while, I can tell you.)

2. It doesn't look too good, though, since I'm not particularly graceful. As a soccer player, I was best at the running part, or the anticipation of the play part, or really any part not actually involving the ball. (Oh yes, I used to play soccer. I practiced three hours every day during the last year of high school. Sigh. Hours I'm never getting back.)

4. But hey, during that time, I also made out with a world famous soccer player.

5. My two favourite kinds of movie are Christmas movies and disaster movies. Now if they could only replace the little plane in 2012 with Santa's sleigh...

6. I can't stand adrenaline kicks. They hurt.

7. I think I'm better at cooking than I actually am. I also cannot under any circumstances be kissed when I cook, brain overload!

8. I'm freakishly fond of my sister and brother. Okay, that one was not new.

9. I'm a grammar bully and privately sneer at mistakes in people's facebook status, then feel bad for being such a snob.

10. I talk to my father's photo sometimes.

Bedtime battle

Guess who prevailed this night... Okay, so Magnus isn't ready for bedtime at eight just yet, no matter what the books say. He wins. For now.

(Sorry for the blurry pic, but at that point, I actually thought it was because of my own sleep deprived eyes.)

Three months along

Magnus is good at:

1. Squealing! Loudly. Very.
2. Laughing.
3. Grabbing plushies from his chest and shoving them in his mouth.
4. Saying gooooooo.
5. Mysteriously waking up four minutes after falling asleep at night. He then proceeds to drive his parents crazy until they cave and let him come back into the living room. Resourceful.

Update: And at three months and three days, it's becoming increasingly obvious that Magnus is good at eating, too. 7.1 kilos. Wow. I'll have the underarms of Popeye pretty soon.

Sometimes it's quiet..

But not often.

Tooting Bec, I'm glad you're home!

Lin is on her way back from London. She's been doing all sorts of cool things that kiddoless people get to do, traipsing around fancy shops, eating at nice restaurants, going to concerts, holding hands with boyfriend in autumn parks, smooching in cozy hotel rooms. While I have been nursing and not getting any sleep. I will celebrate the return of the world's very best sister to Grünerløkka with the five sillyest sounding stops on the London Underground:

5. Tufnell Park
4. Waterloo
3. Totteridge
2. Goodge Street

and the winner is:

1. Tooting Bec

Which you can also use as a funny profanity if you like.

Magnus Robot Fighter

Remember how pulpy sci-fi stories sometimes end with the wail 'Nooooooo! I slept too long!'?

Magnus got this too cool little onesie from Laini and Jim long before he was born, in honour of his name. Or actually, what they hoped would be Magnus' name, since Jim loves the comic book Magnus Robot Fighter. Which is why the onesie has a robot on the chest. Which is one of the many little things that made us choose Magnus in the end.

The label says 3-6 months, and now that Magnus is 11 weeks old, I thought I'd fetch it out of the closet. And it turns out that Noooo! I waited too long! It just barely fits!

Guess I forgot that Magnus also means big. He is now 6480 grams and 64 centimeters and ready to take on every evil robot in Oslo.

Songs of autumn

I got tagged by sweet'n'cool Stian. So here are five songs shaping this autumn. (It's supposed to be seven, but since my head is only on 40 percent capacity due to almost no sleep last night, five will have to do.)

1. Yankee Bayonet, The Decemberists. Old song, of course, I have practically nothing new in my life except Magnus these days. But I adore it, and so does he. If he's wailing, I put it on and do the oh-oh part while we dance around, and it always quiets him down. Besides, I like the word Manassas.

2. Someone like you, David Wanderwelde. This is my favourite song on the mixtape Stian made of his favourite songs from last year. Everything could be for the last time, you know.

3. I sing I swim, Seabear. I don't how many times I've listened to this album, which Lin have me for my birthday. Hard to pick a favourite. There's the amazing Owl Waltz, and so many others. But this is nice. Such cozy beauty, straight from Iceland.

4. Stompin' at the Savoy, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. No autumn without my favourite cookie jazz album, Ella and Louis Again, and this is Magnus' preferred song. He likes it when I sing along with Ella's do be do-part.

5. Grevens Vise. Now this is a little presumptious, because I wrote the lyrics and some of the music myself. (The rest came from Eiv, the star.) But it's by far the song I've sung the most these past few weeks, to try to coax my darling Magnus back to sleep at night. It's a song from my story, a coded version of the storyline, in fact. The lyrics are rather scary, but he doesn't know that. He'll grow up thinking that it's perfectly normal for a young boy to give away his heart for someone to eat, and for secret keys to be carried in his hand, and to be tied down by pale, invisible chains. So sleep tight, little one!

By the way, why am I not sleeping instead of blogging? Silly me.

Snowchild

It's been a great weekend so far: Coffee with Lin at Påfyll. I was Magnusless, and it was my first time sitting down there for months, since it's not safe to leave the stroller outside on the narrow sidewalk with the tram rumbling by. I even got to sleep in while my Pan and Magnus hung out. When I finally awoke, I snapped the photo above. The kid likes his dad, no doubt about it.

Life as the mother of an infant is much busier and more exhausting than I had imagined, but now that the first weeks of utter chaos are over, it's also really nice. I don't have a lot of time to write, because Magnus doesn't like to sleep during the day, except when we're out walking. So every day we trudge along, criss crossing Grünerløkka, staying withing a fifteen minute distance of the toasty apartment and the boppy pillow in case the food alarm goes off. The low, golden sun that lit up all of September and most of October is gone, but the birch leaves still glow yellow and the noses of the not-so-steady crowd on Olav Ryes now glow red, and the shop windows glow with twinkly lights. We follow the river, stop on the bridges to listen to the waters rushing by. And as we walk, I have time to think about my story, and there have been a snick or two.

Thank goodness none that will require extensive re-writes, but I've made some decisions regarding the Inner Realms that I'm quite pleased with. Fayre and Telthic are now twin cities in Someria, instead of independent states. The league of traditions now has three provinces, Nordia, Grymm and Legendwald, all rooted in Northern European fairy tales instead of a mish mash of traditional tales from around the world. Less clutter, more sense, clearer flavour. Oh, and the name of the realm where Snowchild takes place will be changed. I've not completely made up my mind yet, but I have an idea.

Just need to do some more walking first.

And to all a good night

H-h-h-happy

I feel like a kid with a stutter: so much I wanted to say, in so few seconds, and nothing good comes out.

I could write about my Pan's 30th birthday, which came and went in a flurry of nappies and muffins and beef. Or about my favourite season, so absolutely beautiful this year, golden and with twirling leaves falling into my hair and onto the stroller as we walk along the river. Or about my wonderful, little kid, the coolest and kindest and sweetest baby on the block. Or all of Oslo, maybe? Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's all of Oslo. Or about the song I sing him, where I wrote the lyrics and my brother some of the music, and I the rest. But now Magnus woke up, and I've run out of time.

So exhausted, but happy. B-b-bye.

No, seriously!

Magnus tells jokes now.

Who's this?!

I could have sworn this is a happy baby, who got enough sleep last night and who is cooing contentedly after a meal and a change. It can't possibly be Magnus!

Two years ago tuesday

Oh, just look at us. So clean and lean and... well rested! Happy anniversary, Pan! Next year, maybe this:

Are we there yet, Mom?

How come my belly hurts all the time? How come you're sick all the time? How come someone just crashed into our car on the street outside? How long is this going to last, with the belly aches? Are we there yet?

No, sweet boy, we're not quite there yet. Let's both just stick it out a week or so more, okay?

Little drummer boy

More boppy action. Not so late at night for you, maybe, but for people who begin their day 20 minutes past six, it's waaay past bedtime. And yet Magnus will not calm down - unless his dad holds his hands and helps him play drums with loud music blasting through the room.

It is the curse of every child that his parents expect him to live out dreams that they themselves never got to fulfill. So Magnus, I really hope that one day, you'll be the drummer in an indieband, just like your mom always wanted to be.

I'm sure he'll rebel by singing in a boy choir with his hair slicked to one side.

The view, peaceful version

Magnus on boppy, nappy in place, Balthus by feet.

Hard to wake up when you're not sleeping..

We are alive, guys, just no time to do anything but nurse and sneak little moments of sleep and food. Boy, this is hard work! But Magnus is wonderful. He'll have blue eyes, I think. Little darling.

Number five: my Pan

No explanation needed.

Number four: birthday

Okay, so it wasn't the ideal birthday, since my Pan came home in the middle of it with a horrible throat infection that had us scared he wouldn't be able to be there if Ville decided to join the party.

But it was still my birthday, and I got pretty presents delivered by pretty siblings wearing pink dresses or cats, and I had marzipan gateau and red currants with custard, and I was able to use my belly as a personalized tea table.

Four days on: still no Ville, Pan's throat infection on the defense, and me still impersonating Jabba the Hut. Ho ho ho, Chewbacca.

And by the way, my sister had a crush on not Luke Skywalker, nor Han Solo, but Chewbacca when she was little. Because he resembled a teddy bear. I just thought you should know.

Number three: Pancakes!

As Line has blogged earlier, there's a new place on Olav Rye's that we like very much. Food story is a café/eco food store combo, with nice interior, good service, great food, and these: The most heavenly pancakes with maple syrup, streaky bacon, and Norwegian blueberries.

The first time I had them, I was almost insulted by how much better than my own pancakes they were.

But, you know, I got over it.

Number two: August darkness

Sometime during May, all darkness bleeds out of the night sky in Norway and settles quietly in the trees and boughs and bushes. But come Mid-August, it drifts upwards into the air again, making room for deeper sleep, stars and candles, and kinder lighting for the fresh students stealing kisses on the street outside.

I love it. I love August.

Number one: A star

I've decided to make a list of wonderful things that are good to keep in mind while waiting:

First out:

Here's my brother, coolest uncle-to-be in the universe, playing on the second biggest stage at Øyafestivalen. I'm very proud. A little bummed that I couldn't be there, of course, but very, very proud. He plays the base in The Little Hands of Asphalt, and the guitar in Monzano, who are on tonight (smaller stage this time, but still pretty neat).


See, Ville? Your uncle's a star. Your aunt Line, too, for taking photos.

Flight/luck/love

Welcome to the world, most excellent Professor! I hope you grow wings like your mother, that you have lots of luck and love and magic, and that cats greet you on the street like a long lost friend.

Ville is right behind you, he says, so don't start any cool games without him.

Now wait a minute, miss

I was going to call this post 'Done'.

I was thinking of all the preparations that we've gone through.

Buying the baby things: done. Washing the baby clothes: done. Painting and cleaning and moving into the the baby room: done.

Making the little bed, complete with leafy canopy hovering above: done.

I've baked banana muffins and stashed them in the freezer. I've packed my hospital bag. I've finished all the official paper work. I've even voted, just in case things get too crazy for me to get over to the voting booths come September.

See? Done.

Except for one teeny, tiny, little thing, tucked into a folder on my computer. I had so hoped it would be done by now, but it isn't. My story.

Dang. I knew I had forgotten something.

And what a horrible place to stop: full chaos on all frontiers, death and loss and destruction all around.

But I will finish it sometime in the year to come, I promise, I promise, I promise.

Meanwhile: Okay, boy. It's safe to come out now, I think.

Balthasar and me IV

(Hot day. Balthasar on pouffe in living room, Pims in basket by the door, and me at the computer)

Balthasar: Hey, Tonelady. You smell great!
Me: What? Uh, thank you...
Balthasar: Yeah, the bigger you get and the hotter it gets outside, the better you smell, especially your feet.
Me: Ha. Great. Very funny.
Balthasar: (chagrined) I was being serious. Besides, I didn't get any candy today.
Me: Oh, yes you did, just an hour ago. I may be pregnant, but I'm not totally lost.
Balthasar: But you're so strict! The downstairs neighbour gives his cats as many pieces of candy as they want, you know. Every day.
Me: The downstairs neighbour doesn't have cats, little one.
Balthasar: Yes, he does, lots of kittens like me that like to play. He takes in all cats that come in from the street, too. Especially brave ones that fall out of the sky.
Me: Uhm. If you say so.
Balthasar: Yeah.

(The sound of typing fills the room. Balthasar stretches, while Pims cocks an eye in her basket)

Balthasar: Hey Tonelady?
Me: Mhm?
Balthasar: What does flea-ridden mean?
Me: (not looking up from screen) Hm. That's when someone has lots of fleas in their fur, little things that bite and itch. It's not something you want to be.
Balthasar: But what does usurper mean?
Me: (surprised) Usurper?! Let's see... I think it's someone who has stolen the throne from the rightful ruler, like a king, or a queen.
Balthasar: Then what's a flea-ridden usurper?
Me: (finally looking up) Wait a minute. Where are you getting these words from, little one?
Balthasar: (flattening ears) Nowhere.

(Pims sleeps very soundly in her basket. I stare at her.)

Me: Right, Balthasar, under no circumstances are you to jump off the veranda, okay? The downstairs neighbour does not have cats, he does not take in cats that fall out of the sky, and he does not have any candy. Pims is just joking, and you shouldn't take her seriously. Isn't that so, Pims?
Balthasar: But...
Me: No buts. No jumping, no candy. And no listening to your mother!
Balthasar: (disappointed) Okay, then.

(Pims gets up and leaves the room, tail swishing.)

Raspberry comfort and a death row darling

Two weeks till due date today, and the bed just isn't comfortable anymore. Much better to savour some quiet early morning moments, just me, a bowl of cereal with fresh raspberries and milk, and The Owl Waltz on the stereo.

I've actually been writing a little this past week, no new stuff, just tucking in threads and getting rid of tails where they are not wanted. I must say I am encouraged by most of it, quite a few of the chapters are not bad at all. But then there is Trasher, Søplehue, who once more enters the stage as a big questionmark. I don't know what he's up to, or if he should even be there at all. But so many of the story threads are tied to him that removing him would be like ripping out the center piece of a quilt. I wonder.

Well, it's not a job for now, anyway. Maybe a future editor will help me see the light. But for now, the story can rest comfortably, all tucked and tied, until Ville lets me at it again.

Just like uncle Eiv

There are signs that Ville will have a thing or two in common with his marvellous uncle Eiv.

This morning, we had to get an extra ultrasound because Ville had refused to turn upside down for the longest time. And if breech is still in the cards after week 36, apparently you need to measure everything to see if normal birth is still possible. Yesterday, I went to see the doctor, and he agreed with what a midwife friend and I both suspected: head up, snug as a bug.

My Pan and I spent the rest of the day reading up on breech and on alternatives. I won't say we were worried sick, but you know. Whole new ball game.

Late last night, I took a bath to relax. After a while, Pan came in and said 'Huh. The bump has shifted. And the spot for the sharp poke, too.' And sure enough, by the time we showed up at the hospital, Ville lay with his head down, innocently, as if he'd been that way for ages and didn't know what the fuss was all about. Why bother going early when there's plenty of time? He had it all under control.

Just like uncle Eiv.

Ville and me

No writing going on at the moment, just careful maintenance of the production facilities, lazy lattes and lots of sleep.

Rainy day wishes

I wish I lived in this lovely, blue house, halfway up the Dragon Hill, with fragrant pink roses hugging my curved doorsteps, a little garden nestled in the back, and a horseshoe over my door for luck.

I wish I had finished Snowchild by now. Only six more weeks till Ville gets here, if he's of the punctual type (so very unlike his mother, then), and the end is on the horizon, but far away, like a mirage. It's been too hot to work these last two weeks. 32 degrees and sweltering. But the summer rain finally arrived yesterday, silvery green, smelling of grass and forgotten asphalt dust, with a slight chill to make all breathing easier. Maybe I'll find you now, little child, if I search among the thunderclaps and shards and feathers.

I wish I could visit my grandmother's farm, where the alpineberries are reddening on the mountain slopes and the Summerchild is singing with snowmelt now. I wish I could see my grandmother, too, who is 98 and just waiting.

But thankfully, there are other wishes, too: the caramel latte that I'm getting later, a morning of uninterrupted writing, just a little more energy than yesterday, sweet, forceful babykicks to let me know that a cup of sugary tea was just the ticket, the cats drowsing contentedly to the sound of my typing, and my Pan sleeping quietly in the next room. And rain, more rain.

See, the trick is knowing what to wish for.

All curled up

Meet Mum's cat.

Puskas was found on the day before Christmas one year. It was freezing cold, with frost crunching up the yellow grass and lining dry, old leaves, and my Pan was taking a walk in the garden. Right by the upside-down rowboat, he was attacked by a squirming mass of black fur.

It quickly dissolved into four tiny kittens, only a few weeks old, who decided to crawl up his legs and into his arms instead. Someone had left them there in the cold, to be discovered or to die, and thanks to my hero, it was the former.

Puskas was one of these little kittens. Pan and his sister named him Curly, because he could curl up his little tail complelety, like a piglet. But then he moved in with my parents, and got the name Puskas instead, for his excellent football skills. He's not so helpless anymore, and he certainly isn't tiny. But he can still curl up his tail like a corkscrew.

We'll be right back...

...after a short pregnancy. Here with Uncle Steel for scale.

Boy, that thing is getting heavy to lug around. And so are all those extra pounds that attacked me when I wasn't looking. Really, it's all I can do to keep writing these days (Hurry! Must hurry!), and the blog just has to come in second.

Meanwhile, why don't you look at the pretty cats? Here's a photo of Mirja, the littlest, prettiest kitten who is growing up to be the prettiest, prettiest cat. Thanks to Ida, her new maid.



Here's Pims, who is just about ready to hurl herself off the balcony with jealousy. Pesky, pesky, nasty Balthus who hogs all the attention!


And here's the culprit himself, who knows exactly where to be when the Tonelady is lazing in bed, too tired to get up.

Zap! Giraffe!

Most days I take a break (ideally from writing, these days quite often from being tired and sleepy) to have a huge caramel latte at my favourite coffe shop. There are only four windows seats, but I usually manage to hog one of them, and then I just sit there, sipping my latte and watching people rush by.

Thorvald Meyers gate is the busyest street on Grünerløkka, and there is never a shortage of entertainment. The pavement is really narrow, and people have to scramble and dance to get past Påfyll's narrow outdoor bench with strollers and shopping bags and rock and roll egos. The shouting lady often stalks by, and the pink man, and dogs of all sizes and breeds. There's just so much to watch, and so much life.

But every three minutes, the tram rumbles by, filled with tired people on their way to or from work. Their drab, impassive faces are frozen and serious, like family portraits from the early 20th century. No one speaks, no one moves, they're just dragged off to whatever thing it is they really don't want to do: work, pick up groceries, make dinner.

I often wish I could cheer them up, even if only for a few moments. And so I dreamt up the giraffe zapper, a most powerful device, which I would wield from my window seat.

It would be a remote control with lots and lots of buttons, each one with the power to cause a particular effect inside the tram. One might fill it with disco balls and 70's music and give everyone huge big fros and sequined lapels. One might cram a thousand balloons in the isle and between all the seats along with carnival music. One might cause it to silently snow bright pink cherryblossom petals, like in a springtime snow globe. And one would fill the tram with giraffes, bending over to fit underneath the ceiling, blowing hot, leafy giraffe breath into everybody's hair.

The magic would last for as long as I could see the tram, a short few seconds, then revert back to normal. And everyone aboard would laugh or shout and start talking to the person next to them, and probably keep smiling all the way to work or through dinner and call all their friends and say 'You won't believe what happened to me today!'

Yes, that would be nice. If only I were a mad, genious scientist. Anyone?

Balthasar and me III

Me. Hi, little one!
Balthasar: Hi.
Me: There's a good lad.
Balthasar: I don't feel so good.
Me: I know, honey.
Balthasar: Is it because they snipped my balls off?
Me: No. Not anymore.
Balthasar: Is it because of the funny medicine you give me in the morning?
Me: No, that's a painkiller, it makes you feel better.
Balthasar: Then what's wrong with me?
Me: You skinned a toymouse...
Balthasar: Yes. It deserved it.
Me: ...and then ate the fur.
Balthasar: Yes.
Me. All of it.
Balthasar: It tasted nice.
Me: And now it's stuck in your tummy.
Balthasar: Oh.
Me: Yeah. So that's why I have to feed you medical kerosene, okay? To unstick the fur and make it come out.
Balthasar: Oh.
Me: Yeah. Sorry.
Balthasar: I don't like medical kerosene.
Me: I don't blame you, dear. But just think about the cool stuff you can do when this is over: Run around, eat food, play with my necklace, and with the little grey tennis ball, and...
Balthasar: Skin toymice?
Me: Uh, not so much anymore, no.
Balthasar (mumbling): They deserve it, though.
Me: They sure do.