The Intrepid Sentimentalist

Happy New Year To Me

Each night, we have the same bedtime routine. Esther has a bath, we brush her teeth, she gets into bed, and I read her the same two books (I'm hoping this part of the routine will change at some point, but for now we're all about Ingrid). Then we turn off the light, and turn on the "night music", a lovely CD of lullabies. Esther excitedly asks for Blinka Blinka (Twinkle Twinkle - the song is in English but she uses the Swedish name) and "Rainboo" (Somewhere Over the Rainbow), which are the first songs on the disc.

At this point, there's some variation in the script. If she's feeling particularly tired and grumpy, she wants me to stay and lie next to her until she falls asleep. This normally takes ten to fifteen minutes. If she's in a good mood, I'm allowed to go away, and I'll sit at my computer while she lies in bed. Either way, I get to listen to her singing herself to sleep, accompanying the lullabies.

And the singing is lovely. She tends to combine songs, invent new ones, add names of favourite people or nice new words ("Tjoho! being a recent one, essentially a Swedish Yippee!, and not a word that you expect to hear sung in a dark bedroom). She will sing about favourite TV characters - "Iggle Piggle Iggle Piggle Postman Paaaaaaat!" - or just count out loud: "One two three four five six SEVEN!!!".

Today, we went to a birthday party - the third this month. She's developed a bit of a fascination with the whole birthday concept, and is most intrigued by the cake and the presents and the people who attend the parties. She will talk about them in advance, quizzing me as to exactly who will and won't be there. "And grandma?" "No." "And [grandma's dog] Gabby?" "No." "And [grandma's other dog] Cleo?" "No." Etc etc etc.

The birthday song has also become very popular. However, being that she and her friends are January babies, New Year's Day still lingers on in her mind (Not that we did anything special, other than wake up the next day and teach her to say "Happy New Year!"). So as often as not, Happy Birthday turns into a very heartfelt Happy New Year. And as I mentioned in the last post, she has also become slightly obsessed with My Bonnie Is Over the Ocean. She calls it Bring Back, and will listen to it over and over, earnestly singing along: "Bring back, bring back, bring back back back to me, to me!"

And when you combine the three, you get the title of today's post. And after a hearty dinner of lasagna and oven-roasted broccoli followed by lemon yoghurt, Esther had her bath, she had her Ingrid, and then she sang herself to sleep. Using that very phrase. Only it had been a long day, with parties and trampolines and lots of excitement, so she was very tired and needed a little company. But I can honestly say that I didn't mind. Not even a little.

 

 

New look, cold, complaints

So, on the off chance that anyone actually reads this thing, (which would be odd since I haven't told anyone I have started again and I doubt they'd keep checking back for almost three years), you may have noticed the new look. No, I don't like it either. But I was playing around with ideas and then I got tired and then I woke up with a cold and that was that for about a week or so.

But no, this won't be it - there will be more changes, better changes, other changes. Just as soon as I feel less tired, and I can breathe through my nose again, and so on and so on.

Negatives: I am so tired of this cold which keeps coming back and my nose that ever clears up. I know everyone in the world seems to have it at the moment but I am SO FED UP. I told Dave I thought I had blown out an amount of snot equivalent of my body weight in the last week alone, and he said I was being disgusting. Okay, he didn't say exactly that, and he was eating at the time, but still: where's the sympathy? Also, my cleaner has had to quit because she selfishly wants to focus on her studies, and I have to find someone else and I just cannot be bothered, but I don't want to start cleaning the house on my own again either. And I realise that I sound like an absolute spoiled and lazy cow, but hey, that's just another item to add to my list of negatives. So there.

Postitives: hmmm....I just had a bowl of garlic and chilli pasta. And there's still chocolate in the chocolate drawer. And Esther is being completely and utterly adorable lately. Even if she wants to hear My Bonnie Is over The Ocean seventy-three times a day.

Basic instinct

Esther has always been a cuddly child, to say the least. I have certainly referred to her as clingy more than once or twice. But I don't mind. I don't think independence is something that can be achieved by force, so I am more than happy for her to hang on to me as much as she needs to.

I have wondered, though, how she would react to a sibling. Not that we're planning on any family additions for a while, but I have been curious as to how she would handle it. On Sunday, I found out.

We went to see the latest addition to the extended family, Esther's brand new little cousin, Baby L. She had been intrigued by him since we first mentioned his arrival, and was quite fascinated to watch him feeding, moving his little hands, and squeaking his little baby squeaks. But then I got a chance to hold him.

Esther walked into the room, and saw me sitting on the sofa with her little cousin. She stopped in her tracks, and gave us both a stern look. "Baby L sit over there!", she demanded, pointing at the other end of the sofa. I said no, I'm holding Baby L right now. Her reaction was textbook. Her face just crumpled, her lower lip trembled, and she burst into tears, on the spot.

I was surprised by the strength of her reaction. In a way, I had both under- and overestimated her. I thought she'd be too young to feel properly threatened by another baby, and that she'd probably only care if he was in the way when she wanted access. I somewhat foolishly believed that actual jealousy was a more mature response, something you felt once you were old enough to realise that things could potentially be taken away from you. On the other hand, I thought she'd be mature enough to understand that Baby L was somebody else's baby, and not a threat to her in any way. I know, I am completely contradicting myself, but there you go.

In the end, her daddy managed to distract her and stop her tears, and I was able to hold on to Baby L for a while. But she kept glancing over, and she clearly wasn't impressed by what she saw.

I know things would be very different if it actually was our baby. We'd have had time to prepare her, and she would probably get used to the idea fairly quickly. But for now, I'm quite relieved I'm not due in a week or two. (Or within nine months, should this post give you any wrong ideas.)

En, two, tre, four

I enjoyed my years at university. I had the chance to lose myself in what now seem like fairly random and frivolous pursuits, and spent endless hours looking at the changes of season in Tess of the d'Urbervilles, question marks in gender-targeted magazine adverts, and the use of sea fowl in poems by Elizabeth Bishop. Like I said, frivolous.

But then, I did something sensible. I decided to spend my final year working on a thesis that might actually prove to be helpful to me in the future. Don't ask me where this spark of good sense came from, in the midst of sea fowl and poetry, but there it was. I threw myself head first into the subject, and produced a thesis with a title that you may need to read once or twice: "Attempting to Raise Bilingual Children: An Overview of the Problems Faced by Elitist Bilinguals Using the One Parent One Language Method."

While this may not be enormously useful to everyone, I knew that there was every chance it would be helpful to me. At this point, Dave and I had been a couple for, let's see, six years, and I had pretty  much resigned myself to a future with him. Okay, I looked forward to a life of love, laughter and roses with him. Oh, okay, I thought he was quite entertaining and nice to have around, and also suspected that we might make rather cute babies together. 

It turned out I was right.

I also knew, without a doubt, that I would want to speak Swedish to my children. It's my language - it's deep inside my heart. It was the only choice I could make for a number of different reasons, both practical and emotional. Dave, on the other hand, would definitely speak English. It's his language, and we live in England, so it made perfect sense.

So we were both determined to raise Esther bilingually, right from the beginning. I was very prepared - some might say over-informed - and knew exactly what to expect. For that, I am grateful.

When speaking Swedish to my daughter while everyone around me was speaking English made me feel self-conscious, or even rude, I knew that it was normal. I persevered.

When well-meaning relatives expressed concern, suggesting that we were sentencing her to a lifetime of confusion, I shrugged it off. I knew that their worries were common, but unfounded.

Ironically, my first serious wobble came a few months ago when Esther's Swedish really took off. She started using four and five-word sentences, and I was suddenly able to have proper conversations with her. While I was delighted to hear her express her thoughts and feelings, it also made me sad - because Dave was unable to take part in our talks. Esther's English was still at a much more basic level, and her vocabulary was too limited for any kind of conversation.To my surprise, that hurt me. A lot.

For the first time, I found myself thinking Am I doing the right thing? Are we splitting our family in two? But still, we carried on. We made sure Dave spent more time talking to her, and he started focusing on improving her vocabulary. I also relaxed my only-Swedish-songs-at-home rule and started playing some English nursery rhymes on the CD while I was cooking.

It worked. Last week, during Esther's birthday party, I watched her sitting at the table, chatting away to her grandma and auntie. "Grandma eat bread!", she ordered. "Grandma sit here! Grandma eat cake! Eat more cake!" Then she turned around, looked at me, smiled and asked to "Dricka mjölk nu, mamma!" (drink milk now, mamma!") I gave her a glass, and she turned back and carried on speaking English.

It was a proud moment, watching my little bilingual daughter in action. I know there'll be other struggles ahead. But for now, two languages in one family is working incredibly well. And while Bishop and Hardy are nothing but hazy memories now, my thesis lives on in a very tangible way. Sometimes being sensible really pays off.

Minute manipulator

For someone so young, Esther seems remarkably adept at the art of manipulation. Actually, that's not quite the word I'm looking for, but I'm not sure how else to describe it. What she does is a little more basic, but it involves trying to direct someone's attention in a direction other than herself, so that she can continue pursuing whatever is currently on her mind. Is there a word for that? I have cold and am unable to think clearly.

I remember the first occasion clearly. She had just picked up one of the rabbits, and I had rescued it and explained that she must not pick Daffy up, because she might hurt her. She had considered my words, and returned to feeding them carrots instead. I returned to the stove, preparing our dinner. Ten seconds later, I turned around and saw her, hands already reaching around the rabbit's chest. She glanced up, and her eyes met mine. Without skipping a beat, she smiled, slid her hand up to Daffy's back and stroked her gently. Then she pointed at the stove, and made an innocent suggestion: "Mamma, make dinner."

Now it seems to happen most days. Today, I was kindly reminded to drink my tea so that Esther could wreak havoc on my laptop. Yesterday, she thought I might want to read my book rather than wrestle the mouse out of her little hand and regain control of my PC. And when my mother discovered that someone had been shredding the glittery ornaments on the Christmas tree and asked Esther if it might have been her, my daughter responded by putting an arm around her grandmother's neck, smiling, looking into her eyes and saying "Momi, go back to the kitchen."

Hmmm. I am simultaneously impressed and horrified. I also can't help but think that there's something inherently female about this behaviour, but since I don't have any sons I can't be sure. So far, though, it's mainly quite funny.

Two sides

Esther recently turned two. When she was a tiny, snuffling, helpless little newborn, I would look in horror  at two-year-olds. They were monstrous. Huge, noisy, messy, uncontrollable, and really quite unlovable, as far as I could see. I remember pressing my lips against her downy little head and shedding a few silent tears at the thought of my precious baby turning into something so big and unappealing. Luckily,that day was so far away that I really didn't have to worry too much about it.

Well, now that day is here. Although my daughter will always be my baby, I can no longer get away with referring to her as one. She's been a toddler for a long time already, and really, she's turning into a little girl.

Suddenly, I find myself being the mother of a comparatively huge, reasonably noisy and fairly messy child. A child with long legs, sharp elbows, and an endlessly inquisitive mind. A child who will shout MAMMA READ MORE READ MORE READ MORE if her father is rude enough to interrupt with a question while I'm reading the pling-pling book to her for the umpteenth time. A child who will pour a glass of orange juice over the kitchen floor, jump in the resulting puddle, and then run away giggling when admonished. Certainly, a child I would have dismissed as a monster a mere two years ago.

And still, I love her so much my heart could burst.

Because this monstrous child of mine will also smile at me during dinner, put her foot in my lap, and sweetly demand "mamma stroke foot". She will feed me grapes from her bowl, so eager to share her favourite fruit with me that she forgets to eat them herself. She will arrange a pile of cushions in front of the sofa, climb up and count to three, and leap off with all the joy and exuberance that any skydiver could possibly muster.

What I didn't know - couldn't know - was that it just gets better. She gets lovelier, funnier, more and more wonderful. I know that now.

But that doesn't stop me from grabbing her as she runs past, pulling her close, kissing her head, breathing in her scent, and thinking Please don't grow up. Please stay with me always. And I still shed silent tears, here and there.

So I don't know if I've learned very much, during these past two years. The only thing I'm really certain of is that being here to watch her grow up makes me the luckiest person in the world.

Blog, resurrected

So, it's been a while. As you may have gathered, if you are even faintly interested, things have changed around here. For the better, I hasten to add. Yes, for the better, but that doesn't mean that all the changes necessarily were the kind that I would recommend to all and sundry.

In the past, I had time to think about food. Read about food. PLAN food, in more detail and on a different level than the current how-many-times-have-we-had-pasta-this-week-only-two-thank-god-let's-make-it-three-level.

My husband and I even - and this makes me laugh this little despairing laugh that you don't want to hear - had time to TAKE PICTURES OF FOOD before we ate it. I'm sorry, but that just strikes me as so many kinds of ridiculous now.

In my current life, cooking is a very different affair indeed. First, there is the planning. You may be familiar with the old Yiddish proverb Man makes plans, and God laughs. I don't know about men, and I'm not convinced about God either, but toddlers? They laugh at your plans. A lot. Only sometimes the laughing is more of a piercing shriek while they hang on to your leg with all the might they can muster. This means that you can plan to cook whatever fancy concoction you like, but when your child is tired and cranky and won't settle for anything less than your undivided attention, RIGHT NOW, you want to make sure you cook something that is about as demanding as a hamster at noon.  So although I never favoured particularly complicated dishes to begin with, I can promise you that I am so far away from haute cuisine now that I probably shouldn't even mention the term. It's definitely more of a basse cuisine. Or perhaps even cuisine souterraine, although I think that might be a bit harsh.

Don't get me wrong, I do still cook, it's just that there are certain constraints now. Time is one, and toddler palatability is another. We've been blessed with a daughter who has a very healthy appetite and is happy to try most of the things I put before her, but we still eat more pasta and minced/ground beef dishes than I would otherwise choose to.

And mealtimes, well - they often involve getting the food on the plates as quickly as possible to silence the shrieking, and then quickly shovelling in my own food while providing my daughter with assistance/supervision/encouragement, hoping that I'll be able to finish my meal before she declares that she's done and/or needs the toilet, NOW. 

If that sounds horrific, it's not. We always wanted to have our meals together, as a family, and in general it is a delightful and fun time of the day. It's just a lot more hectic than it used to be, and there is rarely anything that I would want to photograph. Well, not on the plates, anyway.

So although I'd love to return to food blogging, I don't think it's a very realistic dream at the moment. But then it occurred to me that I could still do the blogging part, minus the food. Maybe there'll be an occasional food post - I certainly hope so. Maybe I'll return to my quest for interesting or nostalgic recipes at some point. But in the meantime, I'll just write about anything that pops into my head when I sit down at the end of a Very Long Day (they're all long, trust me).  If you want to read it, fine. If you don't, I'll still be here, not writing about food. For now.