My husband is English and I’m Swedish. I guess that makes our six months old daughter Swenglish. So far she is doing a great job being in between. We have weekly fights if she is more of a viking or a crazy Manchester United hooligan.
A few weeks ago my husband started taking Swedish lessons to be able to understand what me and our daughter are and will secretly be talking about. He has obviously already showed off in class that he knows important phrases like “mamma är din bästa kompis” (mum is your best friend) and “pappa är bajs” (dad is poo). Things that his incredibly talented wife thought him and made him believe it meant something else. I’m sure they were very impressed in class.
The other day he had a meeting at work with a Swedish supplier. My husband who is obviously proud of his new learning wanted to show off with shaking the suppliers hand and asking her “vad heter du?” (What’s your name?). He took her hand and his memory failed him slightly and he said “Hej, jag älskar dig” which means “Hi, I love you!”
The supplier was obviously flattered considering my husband is a handsome guy but she laughed and asked him if he was really sure about that considering it was the first time they’ve met.
Well, people that speaks more than one language knows how hard it is. I’ve done quiet some interesting mistakes like ordering a naked steak in France, asking for a blow job in Lebanon and asked my Arabic boss in Doha if he wanted to eat a road sweeper.
When going to a place that is called “Butterfly garden” normally you would be prepared that there will be…that is right, butterflies! We went on a little adventure yesterday to something I thought I would enjoy with my daughter and some friends but it turned out I couldn’t stop waving my hands around. Fuckin’ hell, they were everywhere. In my face, on my back, on my head, was that one flying up under my skirt? Aaah… And at the same time I tried my best not to leave the place being a butterfly killer.
We got used to them after a while but we did leave some casualties behind. We didn’t mean to but being a baby and grabbing things, you might just get hold of a pair of wings and ooooops, we are so sorry mister butterfly. We accidentally shortened your three days long life to one.
Today’s casual outfit: Butterfly and suspicious baby
After a few months of giving birth I thought I needed to do something about the fact that my body contained of zero percent muscles and 100 % coffee and a whole lot of cookies. I went to a personal trainer that specialized in post pregnancies and yummy mama bodies. She started measuring my thighs and abs and she also checked my belly. After the examination she informed me that she had good and bad news. Bad news: there was no difference in my muscles when they were relaxed versus flexed. Good news: there is a huge gap in my belly muscles, also known as diastatis recti. She looked at me and smile. That means that you at least have core muscles! Ok, awesome, I thought to myself. I really have no muscles and the ones I got have a huge gap in the middle. Oh, the joy of being a woman!
I trained with her for about five times before she went on vacation. She took a short break of 2,5 month and I haven’t seen her for just as long. I promised to keep on going to the gym while she was away. That was a lie. Well, I did buy a gym card. Easiest money that gym ever made. They have seen me twice in four months.
She is back next week and in a weak moment I signed up for an eight week program. This means training three times a week for eight, freaking weeks. I will hate myself so much for this. But after 24 sessions I will be doing push ups like a rock star, all of them. Perhaps also the 26 pairs of tiny trousers that I have in my closet will fit.
Until then, where are the chocolate chip cookies i bought yesterday. There is no way I ate all 18.
I totally ate all 18.
I guess we are a family that have problems with distinguishing the main differences between pets and babies. As I previously wrote this week we mixed up their vaccination cards. I think that might have been the start to the identity crise of our baby who is now eating like the dog.
So we went to the doctor for my little daughters vaccination. My husband packed the bag, the child and half the house as one does when taking a small child out of the home. She always hated going in the car. Why does everyone’s children seem to fall asleep in the car except for mine? I keep saying to myself its because she is the cutest one in the whole world. Like all parents think. Specially during poop explosions or 4 am wake ups.
When we arrived to the clinic I took the vaccination book and headed over to the reception desk to sign us in. I opened the book to discover that she was already vaccinated. To my surprise she received shots against rabies, kennel cough and some other strange worms. And she also has a chip in her ear with the number 6341. How convenient if she runs away.
Ok, wrong book but he got the vaccination part correct. Fur child or non-fur child is a thin line.
If you are one of the lucky ones that either have a baby or owns a rooster, you are blessed with the 5 am wake up calls. I remember the days when I used the snooze button. Actually, no I dont. Today the weather was cool enough for a morning stroll. I packed up baby and dog and went for a walk in flipflops and my pajamas. There are so many nationalities in my neighborhood. One mans pajama, another ones outfit of the day.
I read somewhere that in China people go out in their pajamas to show it off. The motto is if you are rich enough to own a pajamas you better show it off. This was something of a problem during the Olympics in Beijing 2008 where the committee urged the Chinese people to stop running around in their sleeping outfits as it made the nation look slightly…sleepy(?)