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.