I know this is all over the ol' interwebs, but I feel downright compelled to fry up my own tasty little slice of it here on Ye Olde Blog:
It's plain marvelous.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
My Merry Mozartian Music Maker
This is Sunday morning at our house, when Daddy and Doggie are still asleep...
Thursday, September 04, 2008
How does he make it look so easy?
Because... Well... It is.
Brilliant, no matter what your political leaning is.
(I ♥ Jon Stewart!!! Glib smirks and all!!!!)
Brilliant, no matter what your political leaning is.
(I ♥ Jon Stewart!!! Glib smirks and all!!!!)
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Vi Lær Dansk!
Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, Don and I dutifully pack ourselves off to Danish class. Largely sponsored by the Danish government, these courses are available to every new immigrant to the promised land (for a small fee). You have three years to take advantage of the language classes, and after that, you're on your own. I don't know why I'm always surprised by how many newcomers actually make the conscious decision to not learn Danish, but instead choose to just hobble along with English or German (something that isn't totally far-fetched, but still).
I used to loathe these classes, and Don would have to bribe me with chocolate or beer or the promise to fold an entire mountain of clean laundry. Now, I look forward to them, mainly because I've grown fascinated with the lives of my classmates. Living in a land where you don't understand anything on TV (except for the fifty-billionth episode of "Friends") makes you look elsewhere for dramatic characters.
Simply put, our class is fabulous. These people are so interesting, and their backgrounds and personalities blow Ross, Rachel and Chandler out of the water. Two weeks ago, I scanned the class and wrote down who was in attendance that night:
2 Mexican software engineers
1 Chinese engineer
3 Brazilian engineers
1 German technical designer
1 Afghan secretary
2 Polish machinists
1 American trombone player
1 American teacher
1 Chinese student/hotel housekeeper
1 Filipina au pair
2 Ukrainian engineers
1 New Zealander university lecturer
1 German slaughterhouse inspector
1 Lithuanian student
I mean, you can't make this up, right? Our class seems to be mutating, and last night we had even more people than before. Break time is the most fascinating time to me. Some folks dash outside to suck down cigarettes (including our teacher), but those who stay in the classroom tend to be chatterboxes who love to ask about each other's deals (like me). One night I egged on the two guys from Mexico to tell us what kind of Mexican food they cooked here, and they described it in mouth-watering, almost cruel detail. (Have I mentioned before 1. how much I miss Mexican food and 2. how bland and unremarkable Danish food is?) I was practically writhing in my seat when they told about making molé from scratch with chiles and chocolate carried over here from Mexico by one of their mothers. Aye yay yay caramba. The Lithuanian student was transfixed; I'm pretty sure she'd never heard about food like this before. The Afghan secretary (who works in Germany nearby) has a terrible gorgeous shoe addiction, and the Filipina nanny thinks the Chinese engineer should marry her Danish boyfriend right away and have children and WHAT is taking them so long? Last night a newcomer, a muscled Israeli dude with a shaved head, was flirting so amorously with the shy Brazilian engineer that her cheeks were like embers. (She did not seem one bit displeased.)
What's amazing to me is that ALL of these people speak pretty dingdang perfect English. When a Danish word comes up that we can't figure out, it's always defined in English; any explanatory discussion happens in English. Just about all of them pack Danish-English dictionaries, which I suppose makes sense as I have yet to see a Danish-Tagalog version for sale. Right now, we're in module #2 of a six-module program, and an exam will greet us sometime soon, (hopefully) promoting us to module #3. I'll keep you posted on how things go...
I used to loathe these classes, and Don would have to bribe me with chocolate or beer or the promise to fold an entire mountain of clean laundry. Now, I look forward to them, mainly because I've grown fascinated with the lives of my classmates. Living in a land where you don't understand anything on TV (except for the fifty-billionth episode of "Friends") makes you look elsewhere for dramatic characters.
Simply put, our class is fabulous. These people are so interesting, and their backgrounds and personalities blow Ross, Rachel and Chandler out of the water. Two weeks ago, I scanned the class and wrote down who was in attendance that night:
2 Mexican software engineers
1 Chinese engineer
3 Brazilian engineers
1 German technical designer
1 Afghan secretary
2 Polish machinists
1 American trombone player
1 American teacher
1 Chinese student/hotel housekeeper
1 Filipina au pair
2 Ukrainian engineers
1 New Zealander university lecturer
1 German slaughterhouse inspector
1 Lithuanian student
I mean, you can't make this up, right? Our class seems to be mutating, and last night we had even more people than before. Break time is the most fascinating time to me. Some folks dash outside to suck down cigarettes (including our teacher), but those who stay in the classroom tend to be chatterboxes who love to ask about each other's deals (like me). One night I egged on the two guys from Mexico to tell us what kind of Mexican food they cooked here, and they described it in mouth-watering, almost cruel detail. (Have I mentioned before 1. how much I miss Mexican food and 2. how bland and unremarkable Danish food is?) I was practically writhing in my seat when they told about making molé from scratch with chiles and chocolate carried over here from Mexico by one of their mothers. Aye yay yay caramba. The Lithuanian student was transfixed; I'm pretty sure she'd never heard about food like this before. The Afghan secretary (who works in Germany nearby) has a terrible gorgeous shoe addiction, and the Filipina nanny thinks the Chinese engineer should marry her Danish boyfriend right away and have children and WHAT is taking them so long? Last night a newcomer, a muscled Israeli dude with a shaved head, was flirting so amorously with the shy Brazilian engineer that her cheeks were like embers. (She did not seem one bit displeased.)
What's amazing to me is that ALL of these people speak pretty dingdang perfect English. When a Danish word comes up that we can't figure out, it's always defined in English; any explanatory discussion happens in English. Just about all of them pack Danish-English dictionaries, which I suppose makes sense as I have yet to see a Danish-Tagalog version for sale. Right now, we're in module #2 of a six-module program, and an exam will greet us sometime soon, (hopefully) promoting us to module #3. I'll keep you posted on how things go...
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
In the Navy
So, this afternoon, I washed about 98,429,713 bottles. By hand. On completion of the rather gargantuan task, I stepped back, looked at my work, and said, "Well, all right!"
And then, at that moment, a marching band started playing outside of my window.
But it wasn't for me.
Looks like the Danish navy has pulled in for a little Tuesday whoop-de-woo! Welcome to town, fellas! They're playing "Rock Around the Clock" as I type this.
(Nice August afternoon we're having, huh?)
Hello! My Name Is [UNAPPROVED]!
On my to-do list for today is, "Find form to change William's name." Yes, we have to legally get his name changed, because round about four months ago when I attempted to register him at our town hall, I was told no, sorry, you cannot name him those names which you and your husband have lovingly and effortfully searched the corners of your minds and memories for because, you see, one of them -- Atticus -- simply does not exist on the approved list of Danish names as per the Order of the Ministry of Names.
In Denmark, a country that embraces rules with the same gusto that Italy defies them, choosing a first and last name for a child is a serious, multitiered affair, governed by law and subject to the approval of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs and the Ministry of Family and Consumer Affairs.
At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness.
"You shouldn't stand out from anyone else here; you shouldn't think you are better than anyone else," said Lan Tan, a 27-year-old Danish woman of Singaporean and Malaysian descent who is trying to win approval for her daughter's name, Frida Mei Tan-Farndsen. "It's very Scandinavian."
Greg Nagan, 39, and Trine Kammer, 32, thought it would be cute to name their new daughter Molli Malou. To their surprise, Malou was not a problem, but Molli with an i, which they had thought sounded Danish, had to be reviewed by the government.
The church told Kammer she needed to state in a letter the reason for choosing Molli. She did so, and said she told the clerk, "Here's your stupid letter: The reason for naming her Molli is because we like it."
"Isn't this silly?" Kammer said. "We love to make everything a rule here. They love to bureaucratize."
Ummmm... I see. What?
(And of course I immediately flashed back to Monty Python's Ministry of Funny Walks, not too far a leap.)
After doing the "ha, ha, you're joking...right?" laugh, I actually whipped out this line: "But, but -- I'm an American citizen! He's an American citizen! How... But...? It's a... But... from a very famous book! A classic! The character is... This can't... Uh?"
'Tis true. Here in the Land of Many Orderly Rules, you cannot name your kid whatever you want; it actually must be on the approved list of names. (I'm not joking, once again.) This is to prevent Danish residents from naming their child Badonkdonk or Frying Pan or Zqxrefff8dskil. (Because that would be disorderly.) I recall staring into the clerk's face very intently, waiting for her to tell me she was kidding, or at least to give me some advice or comprehension or even a tiny spoonful of solace. I must have made her the slightest bit uncomfortable as she hesitantly told me that I could, if I really wanted to, appeal my case to the Ministry of Names, explaining why we'd chosen this name and why it's actually not in the least bit ridiculous or offensive and perhaps William's wonderful middle name would be approved. In three to four months. Maybe. Good day.
This is an excerpt from an excellent article in the International Herald Tribune (http://www.iht.com/articles/2004/10/08/news/danes.php):
In Denmark, a country that embraces rules with the same gusto that Italy defies them, choosing a first and last name for a child is a serious, multitiered affair, governed by law and subject to the approval of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs and the Ministry of Family and Consumer Affairs.
At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness.
"You shouldn't stand out from anyone else here; you shouldn't think you are better than anyone else," said Lan Tan, a 27-year-old Danish woman of Singaporean and Malaysian descent who is trying to win approval for her daughter's name, Frida Mei Tan-Farndsen. "It's very Scandinavian."
Greg Nagan, 39, and Trine Kammer, 32, thought it would be cute to name their new daughter Molli Malou. To their surprise, Malou was not a problem, but Molli with an i, which they had thought sounded Danish, had to be reviewed by the government.
The church told Kammer she needed to state in a letter the reason for choosing Molli. She did so, and said she told the clerk, "Here's your stupid letter: The reason for naming her Molli is because we like it."
"Isn't this silly?" Kammer said. "We love to make everything a rule here. They love to bureaucratize."
I guess this is a great example of taking intrinsic freedoms for granted. I grew up in a pretty free (sometimes too free) country, and now I live somewhere where I can't even call my child what I feel is best without running it past some harrumphy old Ministry. On the other hand, I also live in a country where virtually no one can own or carry a gun; I really like that. Give and take, I suppose. And so I'm off to our kommune (town hall) for a form to submit to get his name changed, a new birth certificate, and then we'll apply to have his passport amended. All for a hefty fee, of course.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Back to Work
This past week, I started my new job as a part-time teacher at the school where I subbed last year. It's a very small private school where all classes are taught in English. It shouldn't be such a big deal, but 1) I have a four-month-old baby whom I have to say goodbye to most mornings of the week, and 2) I haven't had a job in TWO WHOLE YEARS, something that hasn't been the case since I was 14. Oh, if I had a buck for everytime I fantasized about not having a job over the years... Frankly, it kinda sucked. I never had the "yay! it's FRIIIIIDAAAAAY!!!!" feeling, because everyday was a Friday, every morning was Sunday morning. Nebulous. Structure is a mighty good thing to have in your life, and I've sure missed it these past two years.
But now, it's back, in force. Not only do I have to organize my own structure, but I also must push and pull 20 middle-schoolers along with me for eight hours each week, in and around the magical kingdoms of English and History. Curiously, not many 13-year-olds are naturally and intrinsically overjoyed to do so, but I'm up for the challenge. I kicked off my classes by creating a charter of sorts, asking the kids to ponder for a few minutes what traits make for an effective teacher, and what makes for an effective student. Kind of big ideas for the pre-teen set, I know, but I wanted to see where it would go. The youngest kid in the class is 8, and the oldest is 14. (Yep, it's a multi-age, multi-level classroom. You can see how my mind boggles, right?)
They took the task quite seriously. After mulling over and jotting down what they thought were the most important attributes in teachers and students in order to make for a really great classroom, this is what they came up with (click on the photo to see a larger version):
How relieved am I to have just barely made that age cut-off. WHEW!
But now, it's back, in force. Not only do I have to organize my own structure, but I also must push and pull 20 middle-schoolers along with me for eight hours each week, in and around the magical kingdoms of English and History. Curiously, not many 13-year-olds are naturally and intrinsically overjoyed to do so, but I'm up for the challenge. I kicked off my classes by creating a charter of sorts, asking the kids to ponder for a few minutes what traits make for an effective teacher, and what makes for an effective student. Kind of big ideas for the pre-teen set, I know, but I wanted to see where it would go. The youngest kid in the class is 8, and the oldest is 14. (Yep, it's a multi-age, multi-level classroom. You can see how my mind boggles, right?)
They took the task quite seriously. After mulling over and jotting down what they thought were the most important attributes in teachers and students in order to make for a really great classroom, this is what they came up with (click on the photo to see a larger version):
How relieved am I to have just barely made that age cut-off. WHEW!
Friday, August 08, 2008
Catching All Y'all Up
We've been on the road for most of the past two months -- Seattle, Honolulu, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Tucson, Portland -- and that's meant TEN flights for us and young William. I've been asked so many times, "How did he do flying?" which is usually accompanied by a somewhat nervous facial expression. Simply put, he did beautifully, far better than we'd expected. Part of the great thing about flying SAS is that when you tell them you're flying with a baby, they seat you in the bulkhead, and then two smiling flight attendants bring out a little baby bed that screws right into the wall in front of you. Voila -- fresh crib linens are whisked into place, baby toys and spare diapers are lovingly placed into your hands as your infant is fawned over by the flight crew. Pretty dang nice. And not having to hold a baby in your arms for nine hours is also a major treat. Flying to Seattle was a dream (he slept the entire trip), although our seat-mates flying back to Copenhagen were a rather jangled pair of parents and their even more jangled 9-month-old who shrieked the loudest, most eardrum-bleedingest shrieks from out of nowhere the entire journey (when not tumbling right out of the bed itself). This occurred about every 30-60 minutes, and poor little William did NOT care for it one bit, opting to demonstrate his displeasure by crying. And for any of you who have had the rare misfortune of seeing him cry, well, you know that that's some mighty sad business all right. It was definitely not the funnest time of our lives, but so it went. For nine hours...
It was such a fabulous summer all around, and now it's time to get serious and all worky again... BAH HUMBUG!
It was such a fabulous summer all around, and now it's time to get serious and all worky again... BAH HUMBUG!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Literally...
I've had a wonderfully literal summer. Not much figurative about it, just loads and loads of very tangible, real, in-your-face joy and relaxation. I've literally gained a few very real pounds (oooh...margaritas AND onion rings!), and I've ticked away innumerable hours laughing and gabbing with some of the best friends ever invented, and I really did cut off all my ratty long hair (which had somehow become a baby stabilizer... OW!). Perhaps the most literal moment of all came when I remembered (poolside in Honolulu) that we left our Danish apartment having forgotten one terribly important thing: To empty the diaper bucket. And, so it sat. Packed. Full. For seven weeks. It appeared that our Bella-sitters did not quite see fit to empty (go near?) it. Guess whose attending it fell upon returning home?
It. Was. Tremendous.
Literally.
It. Was. Tremendous.
Literally.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????
So... May. Like, LAST MAY. MAN. Like, WHAT IS UP WITH THE POKEY POSTS? Well, I'm sorry, everybody. I guess my mommy is all BUSY or something. Diapers and stuff, you know. Bottles. LOTS of bottles. And holding me, and talking to me, and smoothing my hair and nibbling my toes and purring in my ears to make me giggle and making weird cross-eyed googoo faces at me and stuff. Whatevs. She's a little nutsy about this mama business, so I guess she's not super into blogging these days. Apologies, guys, for reals. Clearly I have to do everything around here. But, here are some mad cute snaps of ME! ME! ME! to tide the frenzied masses over until she joins the living again... More soon!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Introducing...ME!!!!!
Um, hello, everyone. I'm here!
I'm still working on the open-eye thing -- takes practice -- but rest assured that I am SUPER, SUPER CUTE. I hear it ALL of the time, but it hasn't gotten totally old yet. Yeah, so, uh, I'm doing great! I'm really healthy, and other than being an oral stapler on my mommy's breasts, my hobbies are sleeping, eating, saying "nuh, nuh" and crossing my eyes. Crying is kind of a drag, but I'll do it when you-know-who is slow with the chow, know what I mean?
Speaking of the you-know-whos, they're doing great, too! Of course, I kind of tire them out, them being all old and stuff, not quite as rockin' and rollin' as me and all. Still, they are standing upright with their eyes (mostly) open, although Daddy is working some pretty funny hairstyles and Mommy hasn't worn make up in a very long time. They're not finishing many sentences these days, which is fine by me as that allows more airtime during which one can relax and enjoy my heavenly coos. (I am a beautiful singer, have I mentioned that?) Mormor ("mother's mother") just left after visiting and helping out for a couple of weeks. I sure miss her holding me and talking to me. She is a very good conversationalist, and she understands everything I tell her.
So, yeah -- to sum up, I'm shockingly adorable, uniquely talented, super fit, intellectually earnest AND I can kick and punch the air like nobody's business. Stay tuned for more info about me, and please forgive Mommy for not posting for so long. Gotta keep her running, you know.
Love,
William Atticus Kaser Immel
born April 16, 2008
I'm still working on the open-eye thing -- takes practice -- but rest assured that I am SUPER, SUPER CUTE. I hear it ALL of the time, but it hasn't gotten totally old yet. Yeah, so, uh, I'm doing great! I'm really healthy, and other than being an oral stapler on my mommy's breasts, my hobbies are sleeping, eating, saying "nuh, nuh" and crossing my eyes. Crying is kind of a drag, but I'll do it when you-know-who is slow with the chow, know what I mean?
Speaking of the you-know-whos, they're doing great, too! Of course, I kind of tire them out, them being all old and stuff, not quite as rockin' and rollin' as me and all. Still, they are standing upright with their eyes (mostly) open, although Daddy is working some pretty funny hairstyles and Mommy hasn't worn make up in a very long time. They're not finishing many sentences these days, which is fine by me as that allows more airtime during which one can relax and enjoy my heavenly coos. (I am a beautiful singer, have I mentioned that?) Mormor ("mother's mother") just left after visiting and helping out for a couple of weeks. I sure miss her holding me and talking to me. She is a very good conversationalist, and she understands everything I tell her.
So, yeah -- to sum up, I'm shockingly adorable, uniquely talented, super fit, intellectually earnest AND I can kick and punch the air like nobody's business. Stay tuned for more info about me, and please forgive Mommy for not posting for so long. Gotta keep her running, you know.
Love,
William Atticus Kaser Immel
born April 16, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Eviction Notice
So.
Tomorrow, I'm going to meet my son. I haven't worked out yet what I'm going to say, but I plan to sing him "Happy Birthday" at some point. Feels appropriate, although I doubt I'll have a cupcake on me. (But I might.)
April 14th marks sixteen days of ghastly tardiness, something I hope my father-in-law will forgive someday. The kid's a pokey puppy, what can I say? I'm taking this as an indicator that my uterus is a uniquely comfortable and aesthetically pleasing place. Too bad he's getting the big eviction notice in the morning. I am, of course, beyond nervous, but after hauling around this 40-pound feedbag (yes, I said it, Shannon) for months, it's time to get the party started.
We had a bunch of tests done last Friday, where they confirmed that he's a big boy -- almost ten blessed pounds. Eesh. Starting with an ultrasound given by a technician who could easily have second career as Reba McEntire's stand-in (EXACT TWIN, I'm telling you), we wrapped things up after a meeting with an obstetrician who not just looked like, but WAS Howard Stern. Like, down to the hair and glasses and Adam's apple. (He's a German doctor who practiced for years in Italy but now works in Denmark and is practicing his French for his Mediterranean vacation next week, speaking to us in rusty English. I'm pretty sure he was an obstetrician; he kept pointing to the most gigantic poster illustrating the birth canal when searching for just the right English word.)
It's standard practice in Denmark to induce after being two weeks overdue, so we're back for the big blast-off in the morning. Let's just hope we won't be too affected by the midwife/healthcare worker strike that's set to start Wednesday across Denmark. (No, I'm not joking.)
Saturday, April 05, 2008
NO BAYBAY YET
Although I hear that things get a lot noisier, smellier and tireder once Junior arrives, I'm still extremely impatient right now. He's technically not overdue, as due dates are just an estimate, but at one week past when were told that he'd be here, well... I'm learning patience. By the minute. I want to meet him so badly, to see him look at us for the first time and blink at the bright lights in confusion. Of course, having pizza, chips and apple juice delivered to him in his own room all of the time probably makes it pretty hard to leave. He'll be here soon, Don keeps telling me. "Enjoy this time (where you can't touch your feet or walk normally or sleep through the night or stand up without grunting) now!" So I'm trying to do that, to relish the quiet and the calm...
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Leave
All this waiting business has made me downright feisty, and when I feel feisty, I can get political. Let's do a little comparison, shall we?
(General Disclaimer: I know, I know -- it's totally unfair to compare the U.S. and Denmark in many ways. The current U.S. population is just over 300 million, while Denmark clocks in at five and a half million. Still.)
One thing that continues to blow my mind on a second-to-second basis is how these two countries address parental leave. Of course it all comes down to money, but there just has to be more to it than that. There has to be. Our friends here ask us about the American practices all of the time, and I'm starting to think it's because they just can't believe it, so they keep asking, even though they can repeat what we're going to say along with us. From what I've researched, here is what each nation offers:
U.S.A.
Parental leave, while mandated (kind of) by the government, is administered by one's employer. Mothers are legally entitled to 6 weeks of paid leave at the birth (or adoption) of a child, and she is legally entitled to 6 more weeks of unpaid leave after the initial 6 weeks, should she choose it. If she opts to take more leave at this point, her employer is legally allowed to terminate her and open up the position for interviews. Fathers are legally entitled to no parental leave, although employers encourage fathers to save up and use vacation leave for such an event. Some employers opt to allow for some paternity leave, e.g. the day the child is born, or perhaps the first week. (This is elective, and fairly uncommon.)
Denmark
Parental leave is mandated by the government, and is broken down like this:
Maternity leave......90 days
Paternity leave.......10 days
Parental leave......160 days (to be divided by the parents as they see fit)
TOTAL.................260 days
(Incidentally, these are WORK DAYS, so not counting weekends, this cracks up to be a full year.) (And they are WITH pay.) Also, employers are not allowed to count already allotted vacation time and holidays as part of this leave time; in other words, it's completely separate from the good stuff.
As of April 1st, 2008, the Danish government is changing the paternity leave allotment from two weeks to six weeks. (Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up and find out that you'll also get a brand new car and a 20,000 kroner gift card to Ikea. And that is starting to be a not totally ridiculous idea.)
Isn't this a freaking trip?
At the moment, I'm too tired to start swimming in the ocean of "why is this so?" I'm off to take a nap, but will dream of the possibilities. And that Ikea gift card.
(Oh, yeah: And Don is reminding me that I'm supposed to tell you that I have to keep my legs tightly crossed until April 1st at 12:01am. SIGH. The things I do for this guy...)
(General Disclaimer: I know, I know -- it's totally unfair to compare the U.S. and Denmark in many ways. The current U.S. population is just over 300 million, while Denmark clocks in at five and a half million. Still.)
One thing that continues to blow my mind on a second-to-second basis is how these two countries address parental leave. Of course it all comes down to money, but there just has to be more to it than that. There has to be. Our friends here ask us about the American practices all of the time, and I'm starting to think it's because they just can't believe it, so they keep asking, even though they can repeat what we're going to say along with us. From what I've researched, here is what each nation offers:
U.S.A.
Parental leave, while mandated (kind of) by the government, is administered by one's employer. Mothers are legally entitled to 6 weeks of paid leave at the birth (or adoption) of a child, and she is legally entitled to 6 more weeks of unpaid leave after the initial 6 weeks, should she choose it. If she opts to take more leave at this point, her employer is legally allowed to terminate her and open up the position for interviews. Fathers are legally entitled to no parental leave, although employers encourage fathers to save up and use vacation leave for such an event. Some employers opt to allow for some paternity leave, e.g. the day the child is born, or perhaps the first week. (This is elective, and fairly uncommon.)
Denmark
Parental leave is mandated by the government, and is broken down like this:
Maternity leave......90 days
Paternity leave.......10 days
Parental leave......160 days (to be divided by the parents as they see fit)
TOTAL.................260 days
(Incidentally, these are WORK DAYS, so not counting weekends, this cracks up to be a full year.) (And they are WITH pay.) Also, employers are not allowed to count already allotted vacation time and holidays as part of this leave time; in other words, it's completely separate from the good stuff.
As of April 1st, 2008, the Danish government is changing the paternity leave allotment from two weeks to six weeks. (Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up and find out that you'll also get a brand new car and a 20,000 kroner gift card to Ikea. And that is starting to be a not totally ridiculous idea.)
Isn't this a freaking trip?
At the moment, I'm too tired to start swimming in the ocean of "why is this so?" I'm off to take a nap, but will dream of the possibilities. And that Ikea gift card.
(Oh, yeah: And Don is reminding me that I'm supposed to tell you that I have to keep my legs tightly crossed until April 1st at 12:01am. SIGH. The things I do for this guy...)
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Whack-a-Baby-Tootsie
One of my new evening activities that I've come to relish is sitting quietly on the sofa and waiting for Thud's foot to surface somewhere within my abdomen. It's usually on my right side, but these little pokers of his pop up anywhere. (Lately they've been exploring my rib cage. Like, inside of it.) I push down on the foot and -- BLOOP -- it's gone. And then, about five seconds later, it reappears somewhere else, like on my lower left side or right in the middle of my tummy. It's very quiet and lovely and has a wonderfully peaceful quality to it, and it also feels a little like tai chi whack-a-mole (my favorite arcade game for eons). Poke. Press. Submerge. Poke. Press. Submerge. I could do this for hours, I tell you...
Monday, March 24, 2008
MOOOOONNNSTERRRRRRR TRUUUUUCKSSSS!!!!!!!
Yep, we got 'em here, too! This deep-rooted attraction to big mechanical things that go vroom-vrooom and bang-smash knows no international borders. Don had told me a monster truck show was coming to town, but I didn't quite believe him. I mean...??? So, on Saturday, when I heard the revving motors and squealing tires in the morning (apparently rehearsing for the big show in the afternoon), I wanted to see for myself, so we walked Bella over to the "stadion," a big field that hosts things like the circus, rock concerts, summer festivals and, yes, MONNNNNNSTERRRR TRUUUCKSSSSSS!!!!!
It was VERY cold that day, and yet a good hundred twenty Danes crammed into some pretty small bleachers to watch the chainsaws zip up and down the circuit (which was about a hundred yards long), trucks AND motorcycles. There was mariachi music (DUH) blaring over the loudspeakers, a wicked throwback to my days in Nogales...
The security fella was none too happy about my picture-taking, and I think I was about to get the bum rush after another few seconds had I not scooted my large self away from the ticket booth right then and there. A hugely pregnant woman toddling around with her camera at the entrance to a monster truck show is immediate concern for a security breach, I've come to observe. Don did experience some initial worry that there might be some false advertising going on, as he could not immediately locate Freak Out or Iron Horse (note the poster in front), but was much assuaged to eventually spot both hulking vehicles, probably hidden away for the grand finale. I wish I could have really gotten in there to take some pictures of the audience, as they were the most sober and non-yeehaw lot I've ever seen. I wanted to lead them in a rousing chorus of "WOO HOOS!!!" and "HELL YEAHS!!" this town had ever seen, but it was not to be.
And now the show has pulled out of town until next spring, just in time for Thud's first birthday. Rev on, Iron Horse. Freak on, Freak Out. O, but we hardly knew ye.
It was VERY cold that day, and yet a good hundred twenty Danes crammed into some pretty small bleachers to watch the chainsaws zip up and down the circuit (which was about a hundred yards long), trucks AND motorcycles. There was mariachi music (DUH) blaring over the loudspeakers, a wicked throwback to my days in Nogales...
The security fella was none too happy about my picture-taking, and I think I was about to get the bum rush after another few seconds had I not scooted my large self away from the ticket booth right then and there. A hugely pregnant woman toddling around with her camera at the entrance to a monster truck show is immediate concern for a security breach, I've come to observe. Don did experience some initial worry that there might be some false advertising going on, as he could not immediately locate Freak Out or Iron Horse (note the poster in front), but was much assuaged to eventually spot both hulking vehicles, probably hidden away for the grand finale. I wish I could have really gotten in there to take some pictures of the audience, as they were the most sober and non-yeehaw lot I've ever seen. I wanted to lead them in a rousing chorus of "WOO HOOS!!!" and "HELL YEAHS!!" this town had ever seen, but it was not to be.
And now the show has pulled out of town until next spring, just in time for Thud's first birthday. Rev on, Iron Horse. Freak on, Freak Out. O, but we hardly knew ye.
HAPPY EASTER!!!
Though the Easter Bunny did not bring us a baby in our basket, everything is still just duckie around here...
Friday, March 21, 2008
Pretty Nails
We are, as I like to say, locked and loaded. The countdown-o-meter shows EIGHT! MORE! DAYS!, but I'll believe it when I see it. I keep warning The Kid that he should really be packing his bags because eviction is no walk in the park for anybody, and to not get too terribly cozy in there. He kicks, and I presume it's a foot, and not a fervently raised middle finger.
In an effort to keep myself off of the pregnancy troll side of things, I've been planning for days now to paint my toenails a festive shade of "Hot Stuff!" or "Berry Gorgeous!" or "Indian Sunrise" or some such nail lacquer poetic nonsense. I say "planning" because, folks, this act takes preparation. I had to actually think my way through it for a bit. What would my positioning be? On the floor? Foot on the ottoman? Coffee table? Two chairs? How would I file these nasty buggers first? (The clipping had taken place last week. With long-handled tree trimmers. There were sparks and perhaps a bit of lingering smoke.) The coordination was endless, but today, Good Friday, seemed as good a day as any.
Filing was a little rough; I noticed an uptick in my breath, but the job was humanly doable. (And without an electric sander, thank you.) I chose a nice generic shade of red, shaking the bottle for a few minutes as I pondered my next step. For those of the female (or pedicure-positive) persuasion, you know the size of the brushes which reside in these bottles. I believe they qualify as officially "teensy." As I measured up what appeared to be a toothpick with some eyelashes stuck to the end, I knew my goal was lofty, but I dug in. Big toes are the easiest, the most approachable target on the whole row. Bullseye! Twisted so as my belly contorted to the left, I made a shaky series of scarlett stripes, holding my breath as I finished my first toe. Hooray! The successive toenails proved far more elusive, each one getting smaller that the one before. I changed positions often, grunting every other toe or so, until I hit on the fantastic idea that I should just do my best to paint AROUND the whole nail, then fill in the middle. This method, while wasteful (using 2-3 times more polish than the nail actually requires), exceeded all of my prior attempts to paint the whole nail within the edges, knowing I could go back later and sponge up the excess. It truly felt like I was dunking a string mop into a bucket of red paint and dabbing the drippy thing relatively close to the intended location. Still, it worked. They are now exactly as I imagine Mrs. Bozo the Clown's feet look -- cheery AND cherry.
I am pregnant woman. Hear me paint my toenails.
(Sorry no photo -- they are still rather Hobbitish all around...)
In an effort to keep myself off of the pregnancy troll side of things, I've been planning for days now to paint my toenails a festive shade of "Hot Stuff!" or "Berry Gorgeous!" or "Indian Sunrise" or some such nail lacquer poetic nonsense. I say "planning" because, folks, this act takes preparation. I had to actually think my way through it for a bit. What would my positioning be? On the floor? Foot on the ottoman? Coffee table? Two chairs? How would I file these nasty buggers first? (The clipping had taken place last week. With long-handled tree trimmers. There were sparks and perhaps a bit of lingering smoke.) The coordination was endless, but today, Good Friday, seemed as good a day as any.
Filing was a little rough; I noticed an uptick in my breath, but the job was humanly doable. (And without an electric sander, thank you.) I chose a nice generic shade of red, shaking the bottle for a few minutes as I pondered my next step. For those of the female (or pedicure-positive) persuasion, you know the size of the brushes which reside in these bottles. I believe they qualify as officially "teensy." As I measured up what appeared to be a toothpick with some eyelashes stuck to the end, I knew my goal was lofty, but I dug in. Big toes are the easiest, the most approachable target on the whole row. Bullseye! Twisted so as my belly contorted to the left, I made a shaky series of scarlett stripes, holding my breath as I finished my first toe. Hooray! The successive toenails proved far more elusive, each one getting smaller that the one before. I changed positions often, grunting every other toe or so, until I hit on the fantastic idea that I should just do my best to paint AROUND the whole nail, then fill in the middle. This method, while wasteful (using 2-3 times more polish than the nail actually requires), exceeded all of my prior attempts to paint the whole nail within the edges, knowing I could go back later and sponge up the excess. It truly felt like I was dunking a string mop into a bucket of red paint and dabbing the drippy thing relatively close to the intended location. Still, it worked. They are now exactly as I imagine Mrs. Bozo the Clown's feet look -- cheery AND cherry.
I am pregnant woman. Hear me paint my toenails.
(Sorry no photo -- they are still rather Hobbitish all around...)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
