Baby Love, My Baby Love

A couple of years ago, Don thought long and hard about what to get me for a Valentine's Day present. He put a lot of consideration into getting me something that I'd really like and use. He settled on a high-quality Henckels frying pan.

He's still hearing about it.

But this year, he got me something that made me start bawling right off the bat, and I'm talking tears of joy (and hormones):


He ordered personalized pacifiers for our impending tyke, three little nuggets of plastic and silicone that each have "Thud" inscribed on the front. From all of this naming business emerged Thud, courtesy of my dad, who suggested something Scandinavian, Viking-like, strong, like Thor, but with a unique twist. Thud! Perfect! So, that's what we've been calling him the last several months, though we do have the real name already picked out and buried deep in an anonymous field in far-flung Denmark.

It's terribly hard to describe, but when I saw these little things, it hit me in a funny place when I wasn't ready for it. And I've forgotten all about the frying pan.

WE! GOT! A! CAR!

It's true, what you've heard: WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR!


After a year and a half without a car, we are now the proud owners of a Peugeot Partner. She's metallic burgundy, and painfully chic. MEOW!


On Sunday we took Bella -- who has her very own compartment in the back -- to the "hund skov" (dog forest) near our town. We had the place to ourselves...



A gorgeous sunny day, but gotta take care of those muddy tootsies before getting in the new ride!

Tongue-Tied

So, I am a little embarrassed to admit that, after a year and a half in Denmark, Don and I are not fluent in Danish yet. We are, in fact, far from it. However, we are in a twice-per-week language course, taught by a woman whom we rarely understand. But, we dutifully attend our classes, nod enthusiastically and hope for the best.

This morning, on returning from walking Bella, I ran into our very sweet neighbor, who looked anxious and told me she was off to see the dentist. I told her not to worry, that it would be fine, and then, in my heartiest Danish, I wished her "God Jul!" I was so sure I said "Good luck," but instead blurted out "Merry Christmas!" Yeah. Still working on it.

And sometimes the best communications happen in my own native tongue. I had my hair cut today by Kenneth, a German guy who is wicked good at what he does. He lives in Germany but works in Denmark, because the cost of living is so low there, but the pay here is at least double, if not triple. Anyhow, ol' Kenneth worked my coiffure ferociously for a very long time, styling, styling, styling, curling and swirling as if our lives depended on it. I watched as my hair got bigger and curlier and tendril-ier by the minute; it really looked like Venus in her clamshell should be rising at any moment from the bouncy, foamy swirls. My. Hair. Was. Huge. Really gravity-defying and lovely. All I needed was a satin sash, a rhinestone tiara and some tears.

After 20 minutes of this, he was finished. I have never seen my hair like this before, and I knew my head would never look quite this spectacular again. I looked in the mirror and said, "Wow! Kenneth! This is so... TEXAS!"

You know what he did? His face lit up, he smiled wide, put his hand on his chest, bowed a little, and said, "Oh, THANK YOU!" Now that's taking pride in your work.

Huffing and Puffing

Perhaps 'tis a touch foolhardy to attend one's 20th high school reunion two months after giving birth, but, you know... It's what's INSIDE that counts, right? I'll still be radiant and aglow with all that new motherhood goodness, right? And that was high school! We're all grown up and mature now! Totally different times! Right?

While I refuse to be like the Hollywood starlets who bounce back to stick-figury in the days following birth, I am wholly in acceptance of the concept that I may need a little fitness assistance. I've come across these two gems:



I am feeling a bit partial to this one, if only because all three of these hairstyles have shown up in my personal repertoire during my formative years:

Does This Make Me Look Fat?

I have to say that these days, I am feeling a little less brick house and a whole lot more plain ol' HOUSE.


Though I am quite mighty mighty, I am just letting it all hang out.

Yes, I Had a Case of the Lazies

The holidays will do that to you. So will pregnancy. And relentless gray skies. BUT! I'm back! Try being pregnant and far, far away and not writing on your blog for several long weeks. People PANIC. Not to worry, folks -- all is well with li'l Peanut (who is actually more melonesque these days) and myself. Pretty darned tootin' hard to believe we've hit the eight-weeks-left mark. AYE YAY YAY CARAMBA! How can this be? It's all so strange to think about, that we will have a smiling, cooing sack of love in precisely sixty-six days. Ridic! We'll see how punctual the little tyke is. As my dear father-in-law likes to say:

EARLY IS ON TIME.
ON TIME IS LATE.
LATE IS UNACCEPTABLE.

Curiously, I was absent the day we covered that lesson, so I'm still trying to learn it every single day. I sure hope Peanut gets his dad's genes in that respect.

Speaking of his dad, this guy has bought an extended pass on the Daddy Train. Dude's excited! We've been getting things ready the past couple of weeks, repurposing our laundry area into Diaper Headquarters. Shelves that once held beach towels and rags are now brimming with binkies, bottles, wipes, bleach-free diapers, burp cloths, footie pj's, and one nutty stuffed turtle that plays "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" when you yank his neck. (Thanks for everything, Barbara!)


We bought a big waterproof foam pad for the countertop where all of the, um, "procedures" will take place. As I lovingly draped it with a soft cloth, I was reminded that Don has -- proudly so -- never changed a diaper, so I started piecing together in my head a gently worded offer for a brief training session, preceded by the request that he NOT roll his eyes even once in response to my question. It was tough, but (I think) he managed to keep his eyes fairly steady, and he thanked me for my kind offer but that he was quite confident that he could figure it out just fine.

And early the next morning when I woke up, this is what I found on the changing pad:


We may just have a wee refresher anyway.

New Horizons

But today: Honey. Discuss.

Crave

I seem to have developed an irrationally strong dependence on apricot jam these days. While walking Bella each morning, it's all I think about. I caught myself looking forward to my next apricot-jam toast as I drifted off to sleep last night. Ah, pregnancy.

TAAAA DAAAAAAA!!!

We got a tree!!! Last Sunday we snagged us a car for an hour and rattled out to a little Christmas tree farm. I was quite beside myself with excitement as I have not had a tree for years and years. It seems such a married thing to do, so this season, we got it together on the yuletide shrubbery front and hacked down this baby for the bargain price of thirty dollars:



Ain't she a beaut??? Okay, a wee bit bottom-heavy, but what's not to love about a fresh-cut tree with a little junk in her trunk? We love her to bits. And to show her just how much, we put all these pretty things on her:



So the star's too big -- I'm out shopping for a better one tomorrow. I guess hanging lamps don't belong on the tops of trees anyhow, so stay tuned for a more size-appropriate star very soon.

Japan's Got Talent

In keeping with the Christmas tunes theme:



Don and I are hoping to save enough money to buy our very own broccoli flute to make these dark Danish evenings even cozier.

Ho Ho Ho!

Here's what the Christmas season sounds like at my house:

Truth in Advertising

Like many other countries, we've just had elections here in Happy Denmark ("discovered" to be the happiest nation on the planet in 2006), and it's been extremely interesting to watch the process unfold. Basically, it's not that different from the States -- posters everywhere, TV ads, banners hanging from streetlights. The only big difference -- and this may very well be that I can't understand what people are saying around me -- is that we haven't really heard people talking about it. Maybe our friends thought they'd be boring us, especially since we can't vote. Regardless, the ballots have been cast and counted, and of the seven (or is it nine?) official political parties, the incumbents, and the most conservative -- the Danish People's Party -- are back in the hizzouse. This party has two main issues: Immigration, and caring for the elderly. They've been quite successful at securing wonderful senior security (healthcare, pensions, housing), and at stirring up lots and lots of fear about immigrants taking over Denmark. Their motto is: "Vi står fast på de danske værdier," which translates to "We stand fast to those Danish values." It feels kind of icky to me to have this as one's main point of identity or communication, but so it goes.

And so it went when I saw this ad in the paper a couple of weeks ago:



I tried to do a straight dictionary translation, but it didn't make much sense, so I asked my friend, Rebekka, what it meant. (I didn't, however, tell her from whence it came.) She wrote back: "It means that if you don't like the rules, values and traditions in a given country, you are free to move. Where have you read it?" When I told her, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, yes. Now that makes sense." I also asked my friend, Jorunn, who gave a much stronger and more colorful translation, and she, too, was not surprised one bit to hear the context.

We've actually saved this ad, because Don and I can't really believe that Denmark, with an international reputation of being so open-minded, fair and caring of its people, is being led by a party that states very clearly and directly its disdain for those who might be culturally, religiously and ethnically different. "If you don't like it, get out. VOTE FOR US! YAY!" Of course, I'm quite sensitive to this whole immigration quagmire myself, considering my own long tangles with the system, but I'm still trying to get my head around this topic. Far be it from me to say this just doesn't exist in the States, because, boy howdy, DOES IT, but it's completely couched and implicit and not at all stated outright; imagine the repercussions of an American political candidate saying something like this to the press, let alone paying for it to be printed in huge block letters. I'm still trying to figure out which way is less worse...

Choppers

I've just had my very first Danish dental appointment, and I can fervently say that I now know I can get through labor and delivery. No problem. Okay, it had been (eesh) a year and a half since my last slash-n-score appointment, so there was probably quite a nice few pounds to dig out from under my gums, but MAN -- there has GOT to be raw electricity in that there probe. OUCHY!!! Me no likey one bit. It's a miracle I still have some semblance of a gumline left.

But, she is a very nice lady indeed. I gave her some old (18 months) x-rays from my last dentist, knowing she'd probably just toss them and order up a new set on the spot. "Oh, no. In Denmark, we take new x-rays about every four to five years," which freaked me out because at first I though she said FORTY-FIVE years. Still. Four to five years? Ain't that a kinda long time? She went on to say that in Denmark, "we treat the problem itself, so no unnecessary surgeries and procedures." Um, you mean, like all that silly preventative stuff? "Yes. I think American dentistry is very focused on preventative. Here, we fix the problem." And that was that. I'm going to floss everyday now, no matter what. I may just leave the floss in there permanently, just to make sure. I guess I can't complain, as I've lived through a Polish dental filling that involved no anesthetic or pain killer stronger than deep tearful breaths.

On a related note, I just read on the ol' interweb today that a new American indie movie called "Teeth" is set to be released very soon. Ready for the plot? A teenage girl is raped, upon which she comes to discover that a full set of teeth has grown in her vagina. I am not making this up. I don't know if madcap mayhem ensues, but I'm pretty sure revenge comes into the picture, probably over and over and over again in full close-up. Unfortunately, I'm very certain this will not make it to my town, but I'm going to keep checking the moviehouse posters anyway.

Julehygge

It's that time again -- JULE!!!! All of the Christmas lights are up in town, and there is a little evergreen tree on every single street corner. Also, the 50-foot Christmas tree in the town square is all decked out with lights and stuff. Pretty!!

As a child, my Christmases were about Santa, toys, tinsel and long wish lists. Not so much on the real "reason for the season," as my brother likes to say. Anyhoodle, now I'm learning all about Advent. Although very few Danes attend church, everyone seems to belong to one, and you even have to list your "kirke" on government forms. My friend, Annette, made this spectacular Advent wreath for us, using roses from her actual garden. (In December!) She and her husband, Tony, and their sweet, sweet sweetie pie son, David (a week shy of 3), joined us for dinner recently, and I probably should have been a little more red-faced about the candle thing. Apparently, you're not supposed to light them all at once -- just one every Sunday during the Advent season. Okie doke! I got it now.



Next week we're going to Jorunn and Jeppe's for some "Julehygge," which at first listen sounds like "Ylllhhgga," or "YOO-luh-hoo-gah." It means, literally, "Christmas coziness." We'll drink glog and bake cookies and make ornamenty things and be all cozy-cozy and stuff. Nice, huh? Beats fighting over the last rolls of cellophane at the West Seattle Dollar Store anyday.

The only sad note here is that as Danes decorate their trees THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS (HELLO, SLEEPYHEADS!), we can't get a tree until about a week before Christmas. Still, I hear there are some renegade black-market outfits who start things early out the backs of their vans down by the river, so I'm keeping my eyes peeled.

Workaday World

For the past few weeks, I've been subbing a bit at a wonderful little school here in town, and it's been completely fascinating and a hilarious experience so far. My background is working mainly with older kids (ages 14-18), but sometimes I'm with the wee ones (ages 5-9), which is a mindblower in itself. It's been a long time for me since tears and boogers were a normal part of interpersonal communication.

Today, I came in for an hour and a half to help with a bon voyage party for one of the older students who was moving away. No sad faces, just some goodbye cards scribbled on graph paper. Someone had blown up about 40 balloons, which were bopped around like beach balls until someone got the brilliant idea to start stomping on them. Then, a tray of hotdogs appeared out of nowhere, followed by egg rolls, and so the group of nine students (ages 13-16) sat around and shoved hotdogs into their mouths and played Green Day on a laptop computer. That was when they started begging to go home.

"Home?? I thought you guys were having FUN!!"

"We are! But we're BORED!!!"

It was about an hour from the end of the school day, so we cut a deal: They could go outside, but not home. Fair enough. The gal who was leaving tried to get Capture the Flag going, but no takers, so I suggested Red Rover, Red Rover, which they'd never heard of. It was like I'd given each kid a loaded rocket launcher. They. Went. NUTS. I guess when you're 14, RR, RR can be just about the most exciting thing ever, because you must 1) run, 2) scream, 3) be mildy violent and 4) grudgingly hold hands with all of your mad crushes (that you outwardly hate). YAY! Win-win!

For one of their classes, they have been working on research projects. The boys have read a portion of "The Godfather" and are researching the mafia, while the girls have been reading a book called "Supermodels." Yes. It's an in-depth look into the lives of today's supermodels, one of whom they will select and individually research in earnest. I can't tear myself away from this slim volume; I'm completely captivated. Here are a few choice verbatim excerpts:

CINDY CRAWFORD
Famous for: A smart model
Cindy was a smart student. After high school, she went to college in Chicago. She got 100% on one test there.

CLAUDIA SCHIFFER
Famous for: A great smile
Claudia was with David Copperfield, but they separated after six years. Now, she is going to marry Tim Jeffries. He was with Elle Macpherson before Claudia!

LINDA EVANGELISTA
Famous for: Short hair
Linda married a modeling agent when she was young. He was an older man. They separated after six years.

KATE MOSS
Famous for: Very thin
Kate Moss wasn't always happy. When she left the hospital, she found a new BMW at her house. It was from her old boyfriend, Johnny Depp. She went out for a drive. When she was out, a fire started in her apartment.

You see why I'm transfixed?

OH, HE'S HERE!! HE'S HEEEEERE!!!!

Little Jack Alexander made it into the world on Monday, saying HOWDY to everyone with a big sneeze!




Congratulations to you both, Deanna and Alex! He's just beautiful and we just can't wait to meet him!

Thanksgiving, Herring Style!

No. Not really. But, we did stage a traditional American Thanksgiving last night for some dear Danish friends. And it did damn well near kill me. We had to push it back a week due to a variety of scheduling issues, including special-ordering a turkey from Slaughter Frank's, the butcher. No Butterballs or Jennie O's hanging about our grocery stores, unfortunately.

Despite some rather overcooked veggie side dishes, all was simply super duper. Our menu consisted of roasted turkey, stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, Brussel sprouts with bacon and shallots, fresh cranberry sauce, freshly baked bread, pecan pie and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Sadly, I found that I simply no longer possess the same abdominal vacancy volume that I used to, and so I spent a good hour staring glumly at my half-eaten plate of delicious food (which I paid for that night with the most spectacular heartburn fireworks). To cheer myself up, I had pie.







John and Jeppe were in charge of wine, so they chose something extra special, to remind Don and me of home:



Oooh, it was SO good. Neither Rebekka or Jorunn had made their chosen dishes before -- roast turkey, and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie -- but they turned out really, truly fabulous. I don't think Danes are all that accustomed to this concept of stuffing yourself beyond what you can comfortably hold in your belly, but these guys absolutely got into the spirit. Jeppe and Don had a silent, knowing competition of repeated helpings, while John announced that he thought he was probably going to be on the toilet for four days.

Jeppe, baby Victor and Jorunn:



Rebekka and John (our lovely hosts):



Don and me (completely exhausted):



It was SO much fun, and SO incredibly delicious! And I'm never doing it again. (Although I was asked if we could make this a monthly, if not a weekly thing.)

Understanding Is Good

Late this afternoon, I went to our friendly little pharmacy (or "apotek") to pick up a few items. Pharmacies in Denmark, incidentally, are kind of like all-purpose well-being stores, and you can get a lot of handy doodads there besides just prescriptions. They're quite official, however, a real take-a-number-please operation. Anyway, I had a couple of questions about some stuff I was buying, and I did it ALL in Danish!!!! No "I don't speak Danish well. Do you speak English?" for me! I got through my whole transaction without a word of English, and it felt amazing.

"Hello. I have these."
"Yes. Do you have the prescription?"
"Yes. It is here."
"One moment."
...
(Little stock-ticker loop running underneath my thoughts the whole time: pleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplex)
"Okay, here you go. Do you want the big one or the small one?"
"Hmmm. That is the small one?"
"Yes."
"I will have it. And I am pregnant. This is okay for me?"
"Yes, it is good."
"Great. Thank you."
"158 kroner, please."
"This is my money."
"Okay. And here is your change."
"Thank you. Bye bye!"
"Bye!"

I felt like a freaking Rhodes scholar. I think I was actually smiling. While I am a tiny bit perplexed that there was NO applause when I walked out the door, it didn't matter. I did it! I did it! I did it!

And He Shall Be Known As Thud

Baby-naming is a frightfully loaded minefield, I am quickly discovering. EVERYONE has an opinion:

"Don't name him THAT! It sounds WEIRD!"
"He's going to get beaten up on the playground. You do know kids will tease him?"
"Ugh. I dated a very freaky guy in college named that. DO NOT NAME HIM THAT."
"Are you intentionally trying to keep him a virgin until he's 50?"
"Don't you want him to have friends?"
"I like ____. How about that?"

Or, my personal favorite (hi Krista):

(straight face, no expression) "Huh."

If you haven't guessed by now, it's a boy! We do have a pretty good frontrunner that hits a lot of bases which are important to us, but we're keeping our cards close to our chest, SO DON'T ASK. It will probably change a few thousand times over the next 18 weeks (I KNOW!!!! EIGHTEEN WEEKS!!! WHAT AM I DOING TYPING A SILLY BLOG!!!!), but we like it for now.

However, my dad has come up with an excellent stand-in moniker. Searching for something kind of Nordic/Scandinavian, strong, short, easy to spell without any crazy characters, he put forth: Thud. You know, like Thor, but with a bit of zing to it, a bit more oomph. Don likes it because, as he says, this was the precise sound his jaw made hitting the floor on seeing that pregnancy test for the first time. (Although for some reason he has lately taken to addressing him as Nancy. Huh.)

Would You Just LOOK at What My Baby Done Did?!?!?!!

After four action-packed months of marriage, I assumed I knew everything there was possible to know about my husband. Wrong. I have recently discovered (as did he) that he is a WICKED PECAN PIE MAKER.



We're going to put on a Thanksgiving feast for our friends next week, delayed due to schedules and life in general. Don got a bee in his bonnet that he wanted to make a pecan pie for our Thanksgiving, and so he did a trial run first. There is no such thing as corn syrup here, so he had to make do with something called "mørk sirop" (dark syrup), which turned out to be browned cane syrup. Anyhow, the pie was smashing, and I think we both learned a very valuable lesson about leaving me at home alone with a cut pie. Nut by nut, it shrank down to nothing, until:



Yes, I have a problem. BUT, there are nuts in there, and nuts are natural, and the crust had some whole-wheat flour, which, um, contains fiber, so...