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.

Mollifying latte and bun

It seems I have offended my readers with too much fruit and veg. By the way, what about the pancakes? And ice cream? And cream? No, don't answer that, I quite liked being an icon of health.

For a while. Now, let me clear up this funny misunderstanding by showing you my mid-morning snack, wolfed down to avoid falling asleep again.

It worked, probably due to the sticky caramel in both latte and bun. In fact, the bun was so soft and sticky, I could curl it around my fork like spaghetti.

Hungry, dear

You all know the very hungry caterpillar, of course. I had no idea it was so realistic. Practically a biography for pregnant women. Well almost, because today, on Sunday, I was supposed to eat nothing but a green leaf and make myself a cocoon to become a beautiful butterfly.

But not pregnant-me. On Sunday, she ate through:

1 bowl of vanilla yoghurt with müsli
1 banana
1/2 crisp bread
3 1/2 breakfast pancakes with blueberries and jam
1 glass of orange juice
1 cup of tea
1 latte
1 bowl of fruit, honey and yoghurt
1/2 avocado with olive oil and vinegar
1 huge serving of salmon, potatoes, sugarsnaps, asparagus and sour cream sauce
1 pile of blueberries with ice cream
1 pile of strawberries with cream
3 large glasses of organic apple juice

The first two, I got out of bed in the middle of the night to devour. And it's only nine pm. And d'you know, there's still chocolate in the fridge.

I'm thinking the beautiful butterfly is quite a ways off.

Small treasures collected over the weekend

1. 'The Mysteries of Harris Burdick' by Chris van Allsburg. A gift from wonderful Heidi and Hildo, who are here in Norway for Kjeld's wedding on Saturday. It's quite possibly the most beautiful book I've ever seen. If you don't know it, as I didn't, it consists of 15 amazing, mysterious illustrations, which each comes with a title, and one sentence. The rest, you make up yourself.

It is, basically, a book of writing prompts, and a felt my brain jumping and seething like a tea kettle just by leafing through the large, gorgeous pages. My favourite is the same as Heidi's, and the one you see here, entitled 'The seven chairs'. The first sentence goes 'The fifth one ended up in France'.

Wait! Stop! Don't race ahead! You were telling the story, weren't you?

2. The synchronized couple. They were having a coffee with their morning newspapers at a sidewalk café. Both were cool in the Grünerløkka way, you know, young, leather jackets, scarves, flats, indie music sort of emanating from their bent necks, even if they sat there in complete silence.

While I walked by, they didn't talk, or look at each other, or even acknowledge that the other one was there in any way. But they were mirror images, moving in perfect harmony, sipping their coffee in unison, squinting at the papers just so, turning the page at exactly the same time. Like a ballet.

In front of the table, there was a tiny stroller, which I presume contained an equally tiny infant, and for all I know, he or she was also silently reading the paper and sipping coffee down there, completely in step.

3. About 20 big hugs from Balthazar, five or six love winks from Pims, some fancy kicks from Gameboy and my Pan in adequate amounts. Almost.

4. Flawless caramel cocoa from the little cocoa shop on Birkelunden. So good!

Blue in the face, fire in the forest

Last night, I dreamt I had indigo skin.

It didn't look sickly or wrong in any way, just glossy and beautiful, not unlike my stoneware teacups. I was rather disappointed, and thirsty for tea, when I woke up.

But the dream reminded me of a story I made for a live roleplaying game once, about a group of children who had just murdered their 'father' and escaped from the fog engulfed swamp islet where he kept them. Their skin was blue because of magical contamination, and they were dying.

Maybe I should try to write it sometime. But for now, it's back to the forest, where Figenschou is about to do something unspeakable.

Watch out, cat. The flames may burn you, too.