Godfather IV -- the next generation What a perfect day today was. Everything came together in a perfect and beautiful way. It was a small crowd, we were only 20-some people in the church, basically just an extended version of our family. Our families and our friends Devin and Augusta, that is. Or, maybe I should say Don Devin, since he is now officially Hannes's godfather.
The ceremony was short and sweet, with the right people saying and doing the right things. Jessica said a prayer for Hannes, Jenny lit the candle and poured the water for the priest to bless and Devin held Hannes all through the ceremony in a way that can only lead into a major bonding between the two.
And I sat there, next to Jessica, holding her hand and watched all the people around us: My parents looking at me looking at them, Jessi's Dad getting it all on videotape, Jessi's Mom looking at Jessica and Hannes, Devin holding Hannes, Augusta taking photos of Devin, Joel taking photos of Jenny, Åsa reciting a beautiful poem and the priest switching from Swedish to Finnish and back.
It felt as if all the love in the world had come together to this one place, for Hannes, and for us. And everything seemed just right.
So I squeezed Jessica's hand, and took a look at Hannes. And then my Mom and Dad, and smiled. They both smiled back.
And I remembered how I once got skis for Xmas and we tried them out the same night on our backyard, and how Dad dropped me off on my first day of school and how Mom used to come home every once in a while with a bag of candy, with only that one particular sort of candy that I liked, I remembered how we would take long bike rides all around Helsinki on Sundays, how Mom called me up and told me I had got in the university I wanted, and how I ran through the glass door at Dad's work, and hundreds of other small details through the years. And I fought back the tears. The tears of gratitude.
Then I took a deep breath. It was time for my line. I answered the priest: "His name is Hannes Einari."
Trains, planes and automobiles Santa found us! I was a little nervous because you never really know when you move if Santa's going to be able to keep track of everybody. Hannes was also born so close to Xmas so it was interesting to see that his name had also made its way to Santas big book.
As you know, Hannes has been truly nice all year, so it was no coincidence that he got a huge pile of presents. I think he liked all of them since he kept of throwing up on most of the new clothes he got. I think he just wanted to try them all out and the best way to do it was to get them dirty.
Maybe next year he'll be awake when Santa comes.
It has been a pretty busy time for us, with visits here and there, meeting people and people meeting Hannes and so on. Oddly enough, I haven't got all stressed. It is weird, but I think that with Hannes, I got a huge dose of patience at once. We'll take our time to get wherever we're going. Jessica, Hannes and myself. Simple as that.
Although, I have to admit that I lost my temper when we saw our stroller come down the belt at the Arlanda airport tonight. The Finnair dimtwits had probably just thrown it in, and broken it in the process. So, we'll have to buy a new stroller tomorrow.
The Father, The Son and the Holy Spirit of Christmas
So, this is Christmas .. and what have you done? What have I done? My Christmas begins from the moment I hear John and Yoko's song for the first time. Believe it or not, I haven't heard it this year, yet. The fact that John Lennon was assasinated on my birthday has probably made me love the song even more.
So, this is Christmas. For most of the Finns, this is the time of year to go to church - if you're ever going to. But let's face it, for the most part, Christmas has become a feast. It's the time of year you eat well, take it easy and give presents to all your loved ones. But not too much, and you're definitely not supposed to get all worked up about it. That's why this commercial Christmas doesn't bother me at all. I am not worried about people forgetting Jesus. That's just the way we express our love and caring these days. And love? Isn't that what it's all about, anyway?
I like to give presents to people. I really, really do. I thinks it's a lot of fun to try to come up with presents that they like but had no idea of ever even wanting something like it. Not to say that I am all about quality. No, no, I think quantity adds quality. Which means that if I bought a deck of cards for somebody, I would wrap it into 52 separate presents. If possible, I would also make the presents look different from each other.
My Dad's the same. I think - might be just making this up now - that one year I got shoes from him. In two separate presents. (And yes, I could figure it out after I opened one of them, but it was still fun).
Being an only child, I have always got most presents in my family. And I always kinda wondered why Dad wouldn't open his presents right away but just watched me open mine. Now I know. I have a pretty damn good present for Hannes. I just wish he could already appreciate it! But oh, yeah, we'll play with Hannes's presents just the same.
Contact! A small baby, let's say somebody 25 days old, is pretty much on auto-pilot. He cries when he's hungry, by reflex, he eats, he makes a little mustard thing in the diaper when he feels like it, and the rest of the day he's asleep.
And all the while, Jessica and I keep looking at this tiny creature for every single change in the look on his face. And sure, he's got dozens of specific looks. There's the "Man, I need to take a dump" look, the "I think I'm gonna sneeze" one, there's "I need food, and I need it now" look, as well as the "Boy, this Mom person really does rule". And then there's my personal favorite: "Dad, I know you know that I know a lot more than I let on" which is a cute little croked smile and something that looks like a wink.
Anyway, since so much of his life is just reflexes, you can imagine how happy we were last night when Hannes lifted his head and turned it from side to side, depending on where his Mom and Dad were talking.
He can't hold his head up for more than a few seconds, and the turning really does exhaust him, but still..
The Frog King So, we're home again. Hannes wasn't too impressed by those aer-o-planes. He slept through the entire flight.
With no ladies to charm, he just had his complimentary snack (Swedish milk) and went back to sleep. A shame, really, especially since we got to board the plane first of all, and I kinda secretly wanted everybody to see us and look at us and admire us when the three of us walked into the tunnel that led to the plane. (OK, two of us were walking, one of us was fast asleep in a chair).
Nobody said anything about Hannes, which disturbed me at first. He was so cute on the way to Sweden, he stole the show at Jessi's mother's birthday party .. and now this? Now, nothing? Sure, the guy has a few zits on his cheek and yes, his hair is a bit greasy (but we'll wash it tomorrow, I promise) but I thought he was still adorable. If you don't trust me, ask Jessi.
Admittedly, the lady next to me, on the other side of the aisle, did take a glance at Hannes a few times, but she didn't say anything. Not even when we both smiled at her.
Must have been be a language thing. She must have been a Finn that thought that Hannes and I were Swedes.
Why else would she have told her partner in Helsinki, "Check out that little human being there", in Finnish?
And her partner replied, "Yeah, you have to be really careful here not to hit him with a jacket sleeve or something, by accident".
To which the lady said, "It's funny how people that small look like frogs".
I gave Hannes a kiss and covered his ears with my hand.
I'm the Dad Jessica's mother turns 50 today and since all her friends (and relatives) were invited, the house is filled with people. I'm talking packed. Jessica's father is sprinting back and forth the apartment, with an empty coffee pot going one way, and a full one going back. Jessica has been helping out, too, so I have taken advantage of the situation and just taken care of Hannes.
(Really just ducking work, basically, since Hannes is really a sweet and nice boy, and has been sleeping almost all the time.)
Every once in a while, I have then come out from the room Hannes and I have been hanging out in, and shown him off to people. I have carried him in my arms like the prince that he is, and told everybody how nice and sweet he is. What was really funny was that if I haven't had Hannes with me, and I've met people that I haven't ever met before, they would approach me, shake my hand and say, "and you must be the Father."
Yes, I am the Father. That's me. That little, cute boy you may have just seen here with his mother, the daughter of the person you're here celebrating? I'm his Father. I'm the Dad.
And then we just talked about what a nice and sweet boy Hannes is. 'Nuff about the Dad.
Home Swede home I was a little nervous. I know how infuriating it can be to have a crying baby behind you on a plane. All you can do is just grit your teeth and try to turn it into a smile as you peak between the seats. I have been that guy. Yesterday, I was nervous, because I was sitting behind that guy with Jessica and Hannes. And it was Hannes's first trip to Sweden, his other home country. Note: Technically, Sweden is his only home country since if he does have a citizenship (How do you know? Is the King going to send him a welcome card or something?), it's a Swedish one. I need to file a notice somewhere to get Hannes his dual citizenship.
I must have done a pretty good job at hiding my nervousness, since Hannes was calm, cool and collected for the entire trip (40 minutes). Babies pick it up better than dogs and you know how dogs can always tell when you're nervous.
Jessica's father picked us up at the airport. It was the first time he saw Hannes, and you can bet he was pretty excited. How excited? Let me just say that we spent the next 20 minutes looking for his car at the parking lot. I was carrying four bags, while Jessica and Grandpa were combing the parking lot for one green Seat.
Grandpa carried Hannes the entire time.
He wouldn't have let go but Grandma insisted. As did Aunt Jenny. And Jenny's boyfriend. And Julia, Jessi's younger sister. Jessi's brother missed his chance to hold Hannes in his arms 'cause Grandpa wanted to do it. And so it went, all last night. He's got the entire family wrapped around his (beautiful) finger .
Tall order? Hannes is now 53 cm long and he weighs 4.1 kilos. Amazing growth rate. One centimeter and 300 g per week. At this rate, Hannes will be taller than me (170cm) in about 2 and a half years. He'll be skinny, though, as he'll only weigh about 40 kilos.
Funny how happy we are about Hannes being right on the "average curve", he is a perfectly average baby, and we couldn't be happier. You don't want your baby be under the curve and not really too much above it, either. Average is good, average is safe. Average is home.
I was always the second shortest guy in class. I don't know how it is at schools today but way back in the good old 1970s Finland, we were told to always form a line before going to a classroom, in order of height. Boys formed one line, girls their own. So every time we ran back to the classroom door, to form the line, I just had to make sure to stand behind Nicky. I was behind Nicky for five years, from 1974 to 1979. Always there, towering over Nicky, from about 0.5 cm higher up. We were best friends, too.
But nobody else remebers that I was the second shortest. Everybody in our calls remembers surely that Nicky was shortest and Adamsson the tallest, except that Eija was even taller, but she was in the girls' line.
Then in high school, we moved to Joensuu, and I was the shortest guy in class. Finally it was my day in the limelight. Only, we didn't have to form any lines anymore.
Anyway, for now, we're happy Hannes is on that average curve. That's healthy.
He Said, She Said Hannes keeps changing every day. He gets bigger by the minute, and he seems to have left the delvery trauma behind him, at least as far as his looks are concerned. He's beginning to look like a human being.
Which - naturally - leads to the question I hinted at in yesterday's entry: who does Hannes look like? Me .. or Jessica?
Well, this is how we have divided up Hannes's different body parts (top down):
Hair: Volume from Grandpa Eino, style, Grandpa Anders.
Eyebrows: Risto, Grandma Asta
Eyes: Risto/Eino, sometimes like Jessica
Nose: Risto, with a Jessicesque "thing" on it, between the eyes
Upperlip: Jessica
Lower lip: Being negotiated
Chin: Jessica, Grandma Yvonne, with a touch of Anders
Overall shape of face: Risto
Overall body shape: Grandpa Anders
Buttocks: Jessica
Thighs: Risto
Toes: Uncle Joakim
Fingers: Jessica
A perfect blend, in other words.
It was Hannes's birthday 16 days ago. His first, really. Mine is today. My first as a father.
From father to son My Dad's in town to see his first grandchild. Now, if you knew my father, you would probably describe him as "funny, easygoing, tough and timid." And you would be right, but you would miss the fact that he has a very warm heart. So you need to know him pretty well to be able to interpret his gestures and looks. Well, I can and I can tell that he was mighty impressed with Hannes. He's a proud grandpa, simple as that.
He is also the member of my family who has paid most attention to which one of us Hannes looks like most. He looks for all possible Pakarinen traits and begins all his sentences, "You, too, were like that when.." My father is the official President of the Risto Hall of Fame, as he has kept mementos of every single big event in my life. He has kept a lock of hair from my very young head, the first fallen tooth, my first hockey jersey, the brace I had to wear on my leg when I was 5, my Phantom suit from the graduation party, a poncho my mother made out of a blanket she had got in the maternity package, a wooden boat I made on grade 5, all my drawings through grades 1-8, an Ilves hockey support scarf he gave me when I was 9 and he went away for a week on a coach training course and every single newspaper clipping I have ever appeared on. And so much more.
It's now my turn to open the Hannes Hall of Fame. First artifact: a cast molding of Jessica's belly, circa 2002.
Happy birthday, Finland My grandfather, Hannes's great-grandfather, was born in 1914 which means that he was born in a Finland that was still a part of the Russian empire. The previous one. The one with the czar and all. Quite a different country from the Finland that Hannes was born into exactly two weeks ago.
Today, December 6, is Finland's Independence Day. It's the country's 85th birthday.
In the 1912 Olympics in Stockholm, Finland was allowed to send its own team, even though it was still a part of Russia. It was an autonomous great-duchy of the empire, so I guess that justified it. The biggest star of the Finnish team, and one of the brightest stars of the 1912 Olympics was Hannes Kolehmainen who, in Finland, is said to have run Finland onto the map. Hannes K won the gold medal in the 5000m, 10000m and crosscountry events.
Hannes Kolehmainen returned to the limelight 50 years ago when he lit the Olympic Torch at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics.
One helluva Hannes.
We live only three blocks from the Olympic Stadium. I think I'll take a little walk there tomorrow with our Hannes. It's time he gets in touch with his roots. Right?
I would love to write something every day, and I try, I really try. I mean to. Sometimes it's just too damn cozy to lie on the bed and just look at Hannes that I may forget to write. Then sometimes, there's simply too much going on, and I don't even know where to begin. But to your question .. do I ever freak out?
Yes. I freak out all the time. But I freak out in a Finnish kinda way, which is pretty stoic. Freaking out over here doesn't include running or yelling or even crying. Freaking out - with me - means a lot of sweat. You can tell I am freaking out when my light blue shirts turn navy blue.
What do I freak out about? For me, being a father for a newborn, our first, too, means dealing with my own insecurities. That's what I freak out about. I freak out, not because Hannes cries, but because I feel inadequate if I can't figure out why he's crying .. and then make him feel better. It's not the staying up at night part that troubles me at all, geez, I enjoy sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, with Hannes on my arms. I love it. What makes me sweat is that I worry about him eating/not eating, not sleeping, waking up Jessica (oh yeah, I worry about her, too), and whether or not I'm doing things right, in general.
So, basically, dear editor's wife, our life is a rollercoaster of emotions right now, ranging from the nirvana we reach when he looks soooo cute to the freakout of self-doubt.
He's always with me. I played squash with the buddy of mine on Monday, and I could feel Hannes in the air. Or maybe it was the sweating that made me think of him?
Hannes Bueller's Day Off What is it with changing diapers that seems so fascinating to everyone? Everybody I know has asked me about it: "Have you changed diapers yet?", "Ok, we'll talk later, I guess you're gonna have to go change Hannes's diapers now," "Well, it'd be nice to see ya, if you have the time with all the diaper changes and all..."
Not many people have asked me what it feels like to hold your own baby on your arms. Or, what it feels like to see Hannes just about to burst into tears (inasmuch as babies "burst into tears") and knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it, or make things better. Except wait. Nobody seems to be interested in knowing what it is like to stand by his bed and just stare at him, and gently touch his cheeks. Not sexy enough, I guess.
Here are some answers: it is an amazing feeling to hold your own baby. Now, Jessica has carried Hannes for nine months, this is my chance to establish a contact with the little guy. And I would give anything to take away the tummyache or whatever it is that makes him cry sometimes, even though we think that everything should be OK.
Changing diapers ... that I can take. If you can fold a piece of paper and stuff it in an envelope, you can change diapers to a baby.
Jessica's Mom is here for a few days and yesterday she and Jessica ventured out to the city, to do some shopping. It was good for Jessica, too, I said, to go out and see some real people and that even though our world has change forever, for the most part, Helsinki still looks the same.
At the same time, it meant that I was left alone with Hannes, for the first time. Jessica fed him before she took off, so that was one less item for me to worry about. All I needed to do, was keep him happy for about three hours. That was my task. And I took it seriously.
So, we began our "guys' afternoon" by watching a little hockey on TV. The game was obviously pretty boring, and Hannes fell asleep halfway through the second period. Not even the Zamboni could wake him up. There I was, lying on the red sofa, with "our Highness" on my stomach. In the third period, I got bored as well, and we decided to go check our email. I had got mail, Hannes not so much. I sang a few oldies for him, while he was staring at me in awe. Then we took a long walk all the way to the bedroom. And then a little shorter walk to the living room. And to complete our tour, we took a semilong walk to the kitchen. Hannes farted. I decided it was time to change him. (And no, that is not a big issue for me).
There was nothing in his diaper. I had, once again, acted too hastily and drawn my conclusions based on too little evidence. Hannes and I decided to watch some more hockey. There we sat for about 15 minutes, when I felt as if somebody was nibbling on my nipple. I was about to ask Hannes if he saw anyone in the apartment, when I realized he was the one making that sucking noise.
That must be one of life's biggest disappointments: to be hungry and realize that the person holding you is a man. Nipples - yes. Milk - no.
Fortunately, Jessica's sister, Aunt Jenny, had taught me the trick of using my pinky as a subsitute-nipple and I managed to fool Hannes. The rest of the afternoon, I sat in that red chair from Konserthuset staring at the VCR clock.
Jessica came exactly 42 minutes (many O Sole Mios) later.
I have no idea where all the songs are coming from. All I know is that I have recently, say in the last week or so, become a regular poor man's Pavarotti. Even better than that, since I am very, very versatile. I not only do opera, I also do old Finnish hits (from the 50s and 60s), I have done covers of the Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival and I hum old children's songs.
I surprised myself the other night when I burst into a whispering version of "O Sole Mio" at 4.15 am. I was even more suprised that I actually knew the text, in Finnish, halfway through the first verse. Unreal. I had no idea. The second half I just made up as I went along.
Hannes had no idea it was wrong. He liked it anyway. I think. He fell asleep.
I am writing this entry with one hand since I am holding Hannes on my arms. Anyway, it seems to me that he already knows his name. However, he seems to have another interpretation of it, since instead of just being Hannes, he acts more like "Your Highness."
We carry him around, we push his nice wagon, we feed him whenever he wants to be fed, we give all our money to him and we sing songs to him so he will sleep better. We protect him, and we entertain him. His wish is our command, his command our wish.
In other words, the Little Prince has taken over. Our Hannes is Your Highness.
OK, so, here we are. Hannes and Jessica have finally come home, and we're taking our first, um, baby steps in parenthood. The human mind (or heart? or both?) is really a strangely powerful thing. What is it that made me instantly fall in love with that little creature? Why was I so devastated when he had to lie under an ultraviolet light for 14 hours (to get rid of bilirubin)? He was perfectly happy there: it was nice and warm and he got food the second he wanted it. What more could a 4-day-old guy want?
I would like to think he'd want to lie in the arms of a certain 34-year-old guy.
And when I close my eyes (or just kinda daydream with my eyes opened, as I do all the time now, since I haven't slept for days), I can see Hannes's face in front of me. And usually his look kinda matches the look I think I have on my face. Example: when I yawn, I see him yawn. When I do benchpress, I see him looking the way he does 0.05 seconds before he'll sneeze. You know, when his eyes are just one line across his face.
As you can see, we're still in that cloud number nine. And loving it.
But, really, enough about me. You guys, let me tell you, you guys!
All the comments and well-wishings on this blog have really made my heart melt. Not that it has ever been truly frozen, but it is really humbling to see people, strangers, wishing our little family so much happiness. We want to thank you all for caring enough to come back and read about our way of getting ready for parenthood.
Not to mention all the people we do know, and all the messages we have got from our friends and family. Getting a baby seems to be a thing that really, genuinely, touches people and brings out the best in them. Love.
There's just not enough love in the world. But right now, love is all we feel.
I am just so overwhelmed by everything that I can't really think of anything to write. Let me catch my breath. That photo captures a lot of the feelings I have right now.
I'm gonna get some sleep. Jessica and Hannes are coming home tomorrow morning. We get to test drive the Volvo and - more importantly - the baby seat.
Hel-lo world!! There's someone I'd like you to meet.
Hannes, meet the world. World, this is Hannes:
I have now been a father for 36 hours and 20 minutes. I am still a little confused, it hasn't really hit me that this little fella is going to be a part of my life forever. It is pretty confusing to see him make gestures (oh yes!) that previously I had only seen Jessica make. The way his lips start to quiver just before he's going to cry makes my knees weak the same way Jessica's quivering lips the second before she starts to cry do.
Oh boy! We took off on Thursday morning at six. I just got home, it's 6 a.m on Friday. In that 24-hour period I have witnessed courage, love, caring, guts, hunger, sleep deprivation and happiness. A lot of happiness.
I am proud to say that Jessica and I became parents tonight. Hannes, our son, was born on 22 November at 2.58 a.m.
I am telling you for the last time, the baby is due on November 27. Actually, it has been me who has been reminding you of the due date, but what I haven't been telling you is that lately, 90 percent of the people calling us are just checking up on us so we haven't gone and had a baby without telling them.
And I so understand it. And we do like the fact that people care. So, I promise you here, that when the time comes, you will be the first to know. Check this space for updates. It's just that .. we're pretty anxious to see the baby, too.
Get this: Only 4 percent of babies are born on the "due date." Four percent? What's that? That's nothing! That's a lousy guess at best. It's not even a guess, it's not even a ballpark figure, it's .. a ballpark parking lot figure. Let's say, for argument's sake, that human pregnancy, in theory, is 40 weeks long. And let's say, in theory, that we know approximately when the woman has been impregnated. Now, how long a period would you have to choose to be able to nail down the right date with a four percent chance? 25 days? So, what? Basically, you get the right month?
Why do they even tell you a date? We would have been just as happy with "late November." This date system just puts too much pressure on one day. And the baby. So, forget "one day ovedue" babies, there is no such thing.
Besides, Hilda's not due until next Wednesday at 3.30 p.m.
Oh baby (!), the mothership has landed! It's blue, it's got four wheels and - get a load of this! - a rain cover. It is from the main deck of USS Emmaljunga that Hilda will be giving her commands to her trusted and loyal servants, Risto and Jessica.
See, we bought her stroller today.
Or actually: Jessica's Dad was in town today and the grandfather-to-be did what he said he would, and bought his granddaughter (although he thinks it'll be a grandson) a stroller. That's what Grandfathers do. Thanks, it's so cool.
Now, all I have to do is figure out how to fold it. How hard can it be?
How can I be so clueless about the most natural thing in the world? No, I am not talking about sex (not now). I mean babies. How can I NOT know how to hold a baby? Shouldn't there be some kind of instinct that tells me that I should wipe baby's eyes with a cotton thing but not a Q-tip? How come I haven't already sprayed teflon on the left shoulder of all my shirts?
All this (and so much more) I had to learn at a training class? Maybe I could practice it at home now with, say, a bag of flour. That weighs about the same as a baby, doesn't it?
But, the good thing (I think) was the male bonding that took place in that same classroom. I could see how all the guys secretly looked at how the other guys were holding the baby dolls. And how their girlfriends showed them how to really do it.
"The baby's doing fine." Or, as she really puts it: "Babyn mår bra." That's what Maarit, the midwife who has done all the checkups at the hospital always says. For which we are grateful, naturally. Jessi had her latest (last?) checkup today, and things are proceeding as they should.
Turns out Maarit is pregnant, too. Isn't it strange that we have been going there for 6 months now, and a) it hasn't come up once and b) we haven't noticed it at all? Well, she does wear kinda big clothes, and she is a big girl, but still...
Anyway, she's been really nice to us PLUS she speaks perfect Swedish, so I know that I'm gonna miss her when we go to the post-birth checkups.
Then again, it doesn't really matter who we see there, as long as they all have the same message: "Babyn mår bra."
We live about three blocks from the hospital Hilda will be born in. Maybe four. You could run there in about two minutes if you had to. The problem is that when you would have to run there, you most likely can't, right? Simply put, if Jessica didn't have the belly, we would most definitely just walk over to the hospital, and we'd get there faster than if we'd first walk to our car, drive to the hospital and then walk from the parking lot. However, if Jessica didn't have the big belly, we wouldn't have a reason to go to the hospital.
I figure we'll take our Volvo to the hospital when the time comes.
We made a little study trip to the hospital yesterday. (We walked -- took us ten minutes). There were about eight couples and we walked around the whole maternity department, from reception to the delivery rooms. And yes, we even saw a baby on the way.
I was pleasantly surprised by the coziness of the delivery room. I am not a huge decorator myself, but even I noticed the curtains on the windows and the flowers. And the TV. And the water bed. And the shower. And the CD player. I understand that we're not going to go there to just hang around, so since it looked like any room in a home, a real home, that was good enough for me.
You know? They even had a rope hanging down from the ceiling -- in case I go ape.
Some parents seem to lose all control of other people's personal space when they become parents. You know the type, that guy who talks very openly about breast pumps and how their baby broke the world record in puking (distance). Still, I never thought I would be shopping for "nappy wrappers." Let alone discuss them with anybody.
Apparently, the new-born babies create a lot of poop. According to my sources, you need to change the diapers up to eight times. A day! Now, you can smell something here, right? Exactly. What are you going to do with the used diapers? Stuff them under the sink?
My investigations show that there are two schools when it comes to dealing with this:
1) The so called "bucket school". People with a "feet on the ground and a no-nonsense" attitude prefer the bucket. Change the diaper, throw it in the bucket (25 liters is fine) and empty bucket daily. Easy. Simple. Cost of bucket: 9 euros. Not recommended for famlies with dogs.
2) The Sangenic school. "It may come as a surprise to learn that your baby will need around 5,000 nappy changes between birth and potty training. The Nappy Wrapper from Sangenic is a unique patented disposal system for nappies. Both the lid of the tub and the film are anti-bacterial. So there's no germs, no mess and best of all, no awful smells in the house. With just a simple twist of the cassette the nappy disappears into the bin, to be wrapped, sealed and hidden away hygienically in sweet-smelling film until the bin is full," they say on the Web site. This is something for the families that are expecting their first child. People in the city. The sensitive kind. Cost: 47 euros for the standard, 70 for the Maxi. Hint: invite the grandparents over for the weekend. Have them sleep close to the bucket.
I never thought this would be on my "to-do" list. Gotta love it.
Greetings from the Zombieland! Actually, we're not really anything like the living dead, but we are pret-ty tired, us two. Jessica can't really find a good position to sleep in, or Hilda keeps her awake with her kicking. We're up to 5 pillows now, 4 for Jessica and one for me and I think I have to give up mine tonight so that we can get Jessi's legs up a little bit.
I am just tired from work and getting up early.
The other day Jessica got up in the middle of the night and watched movies on TCM while I slept. Damn! I was actually jealous. I wanted to watch movies in the middle of the night, too. Only, she probably would have done what I was doing instead. Anyway, our household is on slo-mo these days. We only do whatever is absolutely necessary. Slowly, but surely.
In Finland, we get 18 days of paternal leave when the baby is born. That translates into three working weeks, since we count Saturdays into the working days - even though I never work on Saturdays. Maybe I missed the memo about the Saturdays?
Anyway, three weeks is good, I guess. I have no idea if the three weeks will seem too much or too little. Will I ever wanna go back to work or will I run to the office on the 19th day after Hilda's born? Hard to say, really. Right now, I am looking forward to being at home with my little family without any "have-to's". I won't have to go to work, or to the gym. I won't have to check my e-mail, or call anyone. I can do all those things if I want to. But it's up to me. Or, well, I guess I'll check with Jessi and Hilda first.
I was going to have to give a presentation about a work thingie on the 20th. In Sweden. And quite frankly, I don't wanna. I would much rather be here for nothing than in Sweden when I should be in Helsinki. (And for the odd surfers who got to this blog by googling "how+much+does+baby+cost?": Helsinki is in Finland, not in Sweden.) I said this to my colleague at work last week, and she had taken it forward to our client who had not taken it very well. She (!) pretty much insisted on me traveling to Sweden for the presentation.
-------------------------
That's where I draw the line. But could somebody please explain to me how some corporate presentation can be considered more important than being present when my little baby is being born?
I drove up to Joensuu (map here) real quick this weekend. As always, I got some old stuff to take with me. This time it was a very 1970s leather/fur coat that my Dad used to wear when I was a kid. There are several photos of us where he's wearing that coat and I am wearing some other 70s clothes that my Mom made for me.
My Dad has tried to give it to me all through the 1980s and 90s, and each time we have laughed SO HARD at the coat. So hard. S-o hard.
Last night, it looked good to me. I'm telling ya, the coat is very hip again.
I wonder if Hilda will be wearing Jessica's red leather jacket in 2025. Or, maybe Hilda will just take my jeans jacket. And give it to her boyfriend. That punk!
Maybe in 2025 we will finally all wear those cool Star Trek suits?
We're getting real close now and as always, the closer you get to something huge, the more you start worrying that you might lose it. Baby is no different. Only, the stakes are really a lot, lot higher, of course.
Anyway, Jessica felt a little ill last night. And since the lady at the training course had said something about lying on your back that would do something to a thing and then something would happen, I got a little worried. I was sure something was up. So, I didn't sleep much last night, I was trying to feel Hilda kick. I wanted to see her "do the wave" (i.e. move so that Jessi's belly just wobbles). I was desperate for any sign of life. At the same time, I wanted to make sure that Jessica was feeling good and that she definitely would not - I repeat, not - sleep on her back. Even if I had to stick my leg under her. And my arm. Or my head. Dammit.
Oh, don't worry, all is well. Hilda's alive and kicking. Definitely.
We started our birth training today. First lesson: don't be alarmed - just take it easy - if you have to wait a little longer than expected.
You see, the trainer lady was 50 minutes late.
There were 9 couples in the cafeteria. Each couple took a table of their own and chatted quietly. In Swedish, except that one couple that spoke English. We wondered why. We bought something to eat, and returned to our table. I went into the classroom for the third time. There was still nobody in there. Now, we knew that the trainer was on her way since somebody went down to the reception and asked, so we waited. Jessi's back started hurting, so I gave her a little rub. We were ready.
We listened carefully for all the steps. And we looked for signs, any signs, of the trainer. My heartbeat started to hit three digits, so I focused on my breathing.
And then she came, out of breath and hair in a messy ball attached to her head. She looked at me right in the eye, and said: "I -am-so-sorry." My, oh My.
I think the baby clothes look really good. And I don't mean just that they look good, I mean that they look very comfy. Baby clothes are never tight, but they're not just loose in an oversized kinda way, they're more like casually loose. They look as if they were designed to be loose. Which, of course, they are.
The fabrics are most often top notch: top quality, environmentally friendly, allergy-free materials and baby bottom -friendly. Easy to put on, even if they need to be put on the baby my somebody else, and easy to take off. I, personally, like colorful clothes, too (although you wouldn't always guess it just by looking at me), so to me, baby clothes look really, really good.
Where do we change? Why can't we just keep on using the same kind of clothes as adults? Why put on a nylon shirt, a thing around your neck (even if it's silk), tight pants and a jacket that has no chance against the cold breeze from the sea. Why not simply put on nice underpants, a body, then that green jump suit with the dark blue pattern, and grab a nice bonnet on your way out?
Holy diaper change, Batman! Things are heating up.
Human mind is really weird. For 7,5 months or so, I have wandered around here, mostly with my beloved and these days very pregant girlfriend planning for our "new life" that would begin in November. On the 27th of November, to be exact. So, we - no, I - go on going to work, coming home, going to the gym, thinking about the 27th of November and how wonderful things will be after that.
Then, today, our doctor said that she thought our baby might wanna make her entrance to the world a little sooner, "a week, maybe two early," she said. That's in a few weeks. In fact, if the baby's 2 weeks early, she will be born in exactly three weeks.
I'd better start putting that IKEA drawer together. We need to pick up her first clothes. Pack the bag we wanna take with us to the hospital. Cancel all my meetings! Hold my calls! Don't nobody move!
Yeay, IKEA. It's worth the drive (although, I like to drive and I like our Volvo), it's worth the loooooohoong walk through a maze of a department store, it is worth carrying heavy, brown and flat boxes that are impossible to get a good grip on. As long as you come out the other end with the things you went to look for in the first place, and not just a bunch of cheap napkins.
We drove out there to buy a mattress, sheets, a pillow and a drawer, all for Hilda.
Only two hours later, we were back at our apartment, with a mattress, sheets, a pillow and a drawer.
When I was a kid, we used to drive up to the airport every once in a while, to see planes land and take off. Back then, you could stand right next to the glass, almost as if you were like floating over the cars that drove to the planes and back. Each car had a number, like 41, or 55, and I could never really figure out where the rest of the cars were. I mean, who would have a car called "41" if there weren't cares 1-40 as well.
I was back at the Helsinki airport today. Had a meeting in Stockholm.
Actually, it was a great day. Our meeting went well, I got my hair cut, and I met a bunch of my old colleagues and friends in the city.
What really made my day, was my travel companion, Lasse, a real Finnish Guy, if you know what I mean. He's a graphic designer, an illustrator, a teacher and a funny guy who knows a lot about magazines. So, we talked and talked and talked, mostly about magazines. We created at least three new magazine concepts, we discussed the essence of sports journalism, and he was just about to let me in on the secret of great magazine making, as we got to the sliding doors that separate the arriving passengers from the ones left behind.
"And Risto, I really think that the key to making a truly great magazine is..."
Swiiush, the doors opened, and two girls jumped up from the statue they were sitting on.
"THERE HE IS!!!!!!" they screamed and ran to hug Lasse, their Dad.
I never heard what the secret of success in my profession was. But it was OK. I saw a happy family.
I may have already told you this, but my Mom told me a story about some African tribe (which makes me a little suspicious -- why is it always an "African tribe" that does these things) that always sings a song to a newborn baby. Or writes a song, I guess, because that song will then follow the baby all through his/her life. Even when he's not a baby anymore.
They will sing that same song at every birthday party, and when the person becomes an adult ("In some African tribes, boys become men at the age of 11") but even when this person does something stupid or illegal. The people gather around the person and sing his song to remind him where he's coming from.
I kinda like the idea.
Right now it looks as if Hilda's song's gonna be my version of Proud Mary, played by me, using my own chords. Unless I can learn a fourth one in a month or so.
Checked out the latest New Yorker on the Web. Under "fiction," there is a story about a man making a film about his life. This is what his script looked like:
"My Life 1. I am born;
2. I walk;
3. I watch over cows;
4. I leave home to go to school;
5. I come back home. Everybody's happy;
6. I leave home to go to university;
7. I'm in class. I study at night;
8. I go out for a stroll. I see a pretty girl;
9. I go back home to see my parents with the pretty girl;
10. I marry the pretty girl;
11. I work;
12. I have a son;
13. I'm happy;
14. I keep bees;
15. I have a daughter;
16. I'm happy;
17. I work;
18. We are at the seaside;
19. We are happy;
20. My children kiss me;
21. I kiss them;
22. My wife kisses me;
23. I kiss her;
24. I work;
25. The End."
I really love our weekends. I really, really, really do. We do enough stuff to keep my chronic restlessness away, but not too much to get mé all worked up about something. Like today, we just took a walk downtown, had a cupa latte and a sandwich at a cafe and came home. Chatting and taking all the way. About the baby, and our lives and what we need to buy and what we can borrow and about the godmother and the godfather and so on.
Just the two of us. Far away from terrorists, bombings at malls, snipers, reckless drivers, muggers etc.
Jessica asked me last night if I think that "we're never gonna just see a movie at midnight and just hang out." I said I think we will, although we never have. But I think we'll keep on having these unwinding weekends.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night. Now, if you knew me really well, or, if you had even seen me early in the morning once, you would know that I am not the happiest of the little campers at 7 a.m. Even less at 2 a.m.
So, if you really knew me (or had seen me early in the morning even once), you would think that I hated to leave the hockey game I was playing, and that it would bother me for the rest of the week to not know whether I would have scored on that breakaway I was on when I woke up. Right? And you would be right. Usually.
Now, last night just happened to be the first one that I woke up next to a baby bed. I woke up, I saw the bed and I stumbled into the bathroom, like I always do. Only, this time, I had a goofy smile on. A happy, goofy smile.
There are two stories going around and I don't know which one to believe. I know which one I would want to believe.
See, people with children always tell us what it will be like when Hilda is born. According to some, the first months "are simply unbelievable and unforgettable and just a lot of fun. All the baby does is eat and sleep." Then, some other people remember the first months as the toughest in their lives because "you're just tired all.. the .. time. You're on no-sleep for at least six months. At least. No sleep. Ya hear? No sleep."
And strangely enough, the line between these two schools goes pretty much between men and women.
Most of the women we have talked to have a romantic image of the first months. A guy friend of mine said that "for the man, it would be best if children were born at the age of two when they can communicate and they're not as dependant on their mother." None of the women I have talked to liked the idea of giving birth to a 2-year-old.
I am not worried about being deprived of my sleep. I have been doing freelance work at nights for ten years so I am already always tired. I take my sleep where I get it. Once I fell asleep at the clocksmith's while he was changing the battery to my watch.
Poor Jessi. She'll have a baby that'll wake her up on the one side of the bed, and on the other side a sleepyhead-for-a-man that she will just have to wake up.
I really don't wanna enhance any old stereotypes or anything, but seriously, when I told my friends that we would be having a baby, they all asked me what kind of car we would buy. "Ya gotta have a bigger car," they said, "there is no way you can get a baby carriage into that."
They would all say that, and they all would launch looks at our cute little Renault Clio, knowingly.
And every time, I would reply: "Well, we'll see, we don't really use the car that much, and besides, Clio is a lot bigger than it looks. Really, if you just take the seats down, or one of them so that Jessica can sit there, there's plenty of room back there. Besides, we really don't drive that much."
When I was 13 years old, maybe 14, I spent a month in Oxford, England, on a language course. I stayed with an Oxfordian family, went to school during day and lived British the rest of the time. That was my first real encounter with international people. Like Italians. And a girl from Tampere.
When I got home from England, with 5 pence in my pocket (due to a grave miscalculation of travel budget vis-á-vis the cost of purchasing an entire series of Peanuts books) and a brand new "I'm with stupid" T-shirt on, my father broke the news to me. My grandmother, his mother, had passed away during my trip. My mom and dad just didn't want to ruin my vacation by telling me such tragic news from the home front.
A few years later, I spent a summer in Harbor Beach, Michigan(that link just proves it: everybody is on the Web!) at the Schwartzes, as a summer exchange student. (Great concept, especially since there's not much studying going on in the summer). Had a great time as I rode my summer-brother's BMX bike to the Harbor Beach downtown every day, to, uh, see people. I wasn't always that lucky.
When I got home, with one penny in my pocket (due to a crazy shopping spree in the last days of my trip, when I finally found a real mall at a real American city), a brand new Michigan State baseball jacket on and listening to the Van Halen 5150 album, my father broke the news to me. A classmate of mine, our neighbour, had died in a freak accident at his summer job.
I was convinced that every time I got out of Finland, somebody I know would die.
I remember coming home from Ottawa (with no cash, but no matter, at this stage, I had got a credit card), my first trip on the job at the Canadian Embassy, and being so happy to see all my relatives and friends in good shape. The curse had been broken.
The reason I started to think about this now is that Jessica's grandmother, and Hilda's great-grandma (and she will be exactly that; great!) had a stroke today. No, no, she's fine now. Everything's all right, but I felt the same sensation of being helplessly in the wrong place at the wrong time and knowing that there is nothing I can do from here (or anywhere else), but feeling that I want to do everything.
8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go.
Come on, everybody!
8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go...
Can't hear you!
8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go. 8 weeks to go.
Eight weeks, or 56 days. For another 56 days Jessica and I will wake up in our bed to the sound of Radio Nova's annoyingly-not-funny morning snow. We can take a shower together. For 56 days, we'll eat toast and read our newspapers together, and then make those interesting remarks about the news. For another 56 days, Jessica will go to bed early and read, while I will be up late and surf the Net.
On the 57th day, we become Us.
And Radio Nova will have to give way to Hilda's show.
It seems a little strange to be sitting in meetings where people book seminars and conferences and meetings for December. Case in point: the company I work for moved to new offices recently and now we're going to have a housewarming party for our clients. 12 December. And I forward this information to my teamsters but won't even write it up in my own Palm Pilot. For two reasons:
1) I'll be on my parental leave, changing diapers.
2) If I want to go to the party, I will be reminded of it.
Anyway, my point - not a good one, but a point in any case - is that I haven't planned anything after November 27. I just realized this today: My Palm Pilot is simply green from that date on. No meetings, no "write a memo" to-do's, nothing. It feels good.
I've still got it. Jessica fell asleep on the sofa, so I carried her to the bedroom. OK, it wasn't like picking up a newspaper or carrying a pillow, but I could still carry her, no problem. I can't pick her up without waking her up, so there's no real reason for me to carry her besides showing myself that I can still do it.
Mission accomplished.
I like it. I like the idea of me carrying Jessica and Hilda in their sleep. That I have the power to move them without them knowing, that I may guard them, that I can watch over them and make sure they feel good. Without them knowing that I do it.
Aunt Jenny is here! Jessica's older sister, that is. She is also Hilda's godmother-to-be (as soon as the baby's born and we can find a church that will have us -- The Church of the Internet, maybe?) and world's-greatest-aunt-in-waiting.
She's sitting on our red sofa in the living room, together with Jessica, admiring all the baby clothes we have bought. The clothes are in a big pile between the Sisters and Jessica pulls up one garment for Jenny to see and touch and feel and pretend there is a baby ín it.
I sit in the kitchen and listen to the Sisters chat, talk, interact, swap stories, swap words even. One Sister finishes the sentence for the other and I can hear Jessica laugh every now and then. I am pretty sure Jessica will pull up her T-shirt, any second now, so that Jenny can see and touch her belly as well. After all, Jenny is 3 months from graduating from the med school.
"Open up, Hilda, so that Auntie Jenny can see your throat".
Now, if the church won't have her as a godmother, the church is just dumb and wrong. We'll have her.
Jessica had read somewhere about a study that had been done at the Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm, Sweden. According to that study, the only thing that had some correlation between the sex of the baby and the mother was ... not the shape of the belly (and we have already seen our share of bellyfeelers), not how a ring hovers over the belly (like I read in some book when I was a kid) and not the frequency of the baby's kicking (naturally, girls can and do kick a lot as well).
Accordng to the study, the only thing that seemed to predict the sex was morning sickness. The women who got bad cases of nausea in the mornings, were more likely to have a girl and the ones that felt OK, seemed to have more boys than "normally."
And since Jessica has been in great shape all along, we have to pull out the list of boys' names. This is what it looks like right now (in no particular order):
Emil
Hannes
Oliver
Risto Jr (not!)
Lukas
I need to think about this a bit more. And I need to pay attention to how Jessica feels tomorrow morning.
I wonder what it would take for a Finnish man to give his seat to Jessica on a bus or a tram. OK, yes, I have only been on a tram with Jessica a couple of times, but I have never see anybody say, "Why don't you sit here, miss, being pregant and all." Then again, this is Finland and public transportation is not the time or the place to start interacting with other people.
And it makes me just a little bit sad.
Then again, how could that man on the tram know that I woke up to the sound of Jessica talking in her sleep, half crying, in the middle of a terrible nightmare that involved a newborn baby, blood, poking fingers through a belly and just panic. Well, I know that and I want the world to cut Jessica some slack.
So if you see a pregnant woman somewhere today, why don't you just open the door for her, or make sure the bus waits for her.
Jessica's mom used to say, "Isn't it a good day to be called Jessica today?" whenever little Jessica was a little cranky. Well, today is definitely not a good day to be called Jessica.
1) It's cold outside.
2) Because it's fall. And you can feel it.
3) All the pervos have found the same swimming pool that Jessica goes to.
4) Bad hair day.
5) Belly just too damn big.
6) Risto not listening to her.
7) Just writing stupid blog.
What a perfect Saturday. Got up at 10, had breakfast, read the paper, watched a movie and then took a nice walk into downtown Helsinki. Through the Töölö park, past Finlandia Hall and to the flea market at the VR magazines. Check out some crazy Russian things, not buy anything and continue the walk past Kiasma and to Sokos. Do some shopping, shop for ... baby clothes.
Yup. Baby clothes. Oh baby, here we go.
Got some nice shirts (not sure if they're called shirts) and pants (that look like shorts).
Frankly, I think the baby clothes look pret-ty comfortable. Especially the ones for the newborns. You know, (European) sizes 62 and under. That must refer to people under 62 cm. Yes, the little overalls and suits look very nice and I wouldn't mind having one for those winter nights when we just hang around the house, watch old episodes of Seinfeld or Columbo on tape and eat loads of popcorn.
Now, you may say that once the baby's born those nights will be just a memory, but I beg to differ. If I grew up with Thunderbirds and episodes of Columbo, so will Hilda.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
How could I forget to tell you!? I almost held Hilda in my arms yesterday.
After we had listened to her heartbeat and measured Jessica's belly (how bizarre but I guess it's quite normal in that business), our nurse asked me if I wanted to feel the baby's head as well.
"Sure." (Yeah, I am going to press my girlfriend's belly so hard that I can feel my baby's soft head inside).
"Come here, put your hands here," she said.
And I did. And I pressed Jessi's belly. And I felt something. A harder spot.
"Mhm," I said.
"That's her head," the nurse said. "And here's her back and here are her feet."
Jessica and I looked at each other and laughed. Jessica pointed to a spot on her upper stomach and we said together. "Then this is really her butt like we thought."
Here yesterday, gone today. Or, something like that. Jessica's doing a little better. It's perfectly natural for the hips to start hurting when you're 7 months pregnant, the nurse said this morning. In fact, she didn't say "7 months pregnant", because the real pros only refer to the pregnancy in weeks, but I thought I'd save you from that.
We are best buddies with the nurse. Maarit is her name. We're best buddies, although we've only met her, like, 6 times. How could we not be close to somebody who keeps telling us what a perfect little baby we're going to have, and how perfectly Jessica is pregnant. I mean, if that ain't what friends are for, who needs friends? So, by definition, she is our friend. ;)
Maarit is the perfect midwife. She's nice, supportive, calm, professional, she speaks Swedish and she even looks the part. I can see her holding a baby by his foot and slapping him on the back. And then a second later putting the baby gently on his mother's breast. And then getting ready for the next one, making sure his parents will feel that their baby is the most important baby in the world. Like it is.
It came yesterday. Not with a bang, more like the way the sunlight finds its way into the bedroom on a Sunday morning. You know it's there, and there's nothing you can do about it. And, yes, it is a reminder of something that is good. But still.
The pain. It's here. Not enough to make Jessica scream, but enough to make her feel bad enough to make me feel worried and protective.
Why does it have to hurt to have a baby? Since it is the most natural thing in the world, why couldn't Mom Nat make it a little easier and -- less painful. And now I ain't even talking about the pain you get with teenagers...
Two months to go. If I could, and if it didn't hurt the baby, I would just rip that belly off of Jessi and give her some space. Space to sleep on her stomach, to sleep on her back. Space from all the people looking, all the people talking, space from all the people touching her stomach. So that she could run. Jump. Wear her favorite jeans.
Did I tell you that Devin's wife, Augusta, is going to become a doula? A support person for a pregnant woman, that is. Somebody who will be there for you when you're giving birth.
She had her first delivery on the day we arrived in Boston. And she was exhausted for about two days. Just drained. Just so you know why I won't be writing this blog in December. ;)
I read somewhere that giving birth is like running a marathon -- and that you should train for one. Maybe I could ride my bike next to Jessica, when she jogs.
I wonder if Hilda has jetlag now... I seem to suffer from one. Judging by these random thoughts.
The point of this blog was originally to find a good name for our baby. And we still throw some new names out in the arena, although - let's face it - we're 99.5 percent set on Hilda. Unless he's a boy.
And since today is Sep 11, I thought we could consider yet another Finnish girl's name. The name means something that all of us here on planet Earth want, but actually very few of us have.
Portland, Maine is a cool mid-sized city. (And by "mid-sized", I mean a mid-sized Finnish city...). It looks like English cities, only in a better shape.
And a lot hotter.
I am sweating my head off here. There are drops of sweat on Devin's Powerbook as I wrote this. vfgbhn Well, not anymore.
Anyway, since Devin and Augusta don't have air conditioning here, there was only one thing left for us to do: shopping. All the stores have air conditioning, so that's where we were:
Hilda got a shirt.
Her first little toy.
Jessica got shorts and new sweat pants.
And a couple of books.
Risto got new running shoes.
And pants.
We're now a couple of hundred bucks cooler. Literally.
Although, I know I'll be sweating when opening the Visa bill.
We missed our connecting flight in Frankfurt. So, Germany became the first country Hilda has visited... if staying at an airport hotel for 11 hours can be considered as "visiting" a country.
But boy, you should have seen us running through the Frankfurt airport. (A technical problem delayed our plane so we had, like, 20 minutes to make our connection). We pushed ground staff, we hopped around businessmen, over tables and chairs, and up some stairs. (sorry about that, Hilda).
And once at the gate:
"From Helsinki to Boston?" she said
"Yes!!" we yelled.
"I'm sorry, you missed your flight"
"What the fuck, why couldn't somebody fucking tell us before our fucking plane landed?" Risto said, politely.
"I'm sorry, didn't they tell you?"
Jessi collapsed at a nearby chair. Risto was a walking fountain of sweat. In Frankfurt.
Hilda's about to take off on her first-ever overseas trip. (Since she will have dual citizenship, it will technically also be her first trip abroad as our July trip to Sweden was a trip from one home country to another for her. Technically). Naturally, Jessica's going with her. Me, too.
We're off to Boston. We've never been there so it's all exciting. Like, we all hope that they won't show Moulin Rouge on the plane (seen it!). We have packed our game of Yatzy, a deck of cards, lots of books and magazines, MD player, frozen water and Jessica's looking forward to the meals. She actually likes plane food. Yes, I did spell that right. P-l-a-n-e food.
Now, if you think the airplane seats are a little uncomfortable and that there is no leg room, imagine what it's like with two people sharing a seat. Even if one of them hasn't been born yet. I almost feel bad for not having a huge belly myself.
Sometimes I think that I think too much. Obviously, then, I have to stop thinking immediately to put a stop to the vicious circle. Heh. What I mean is that whenever I have dwelled on something long enough, I run out of patience and just do something. The good thing is that I hardly ever regret the decisions I make. It's more important for me to make a decision than to make the right decision.
Jessica, on the other hand, loves lists. She makes grocery lists, to-do lists, to-not-do lists, risto-to-do lists etc. We have all our video tapes numbered and listed. She arranged our books in an alphabetical order the other week.
And I love it. I love having order. I just can't bring myself to ever creating it.
Which brings us to the slight problem we have had with choosing the last name. How could we ever make that decision by using some rational arguments? What could possibly be such an argument that would make one name better than the other?
Jessica came up with a system:
If it's a boy, he'll get last name z, and a girl will get last name y. Fine. But which way? Boy gets Dad's last name and girl Mom's? Or the other way around?
I can already hear a list of the pros and cons being drafted in the living room.
I love my birth date almost as much as my name. What I mean is that as often as I see "risto" inside other words or cheer for all Ristos in all sporting events, I see my birth date all over the place.
I was born on December 8 which means that whenever I wake up at 08:12 in the morning, I feel like it's going to be a great day. I see cars with ***-812 license plates everywhere. 8+12=20 so 20 has also become something of a lucky number.
Jean Sibelius was born on December 08. Gotta love his music. Jim Morrison was born on December 8. "I'm the lizard king, I can do anything." John Lennon was murdered on December 08. Imagine that.
Hilda was originally due November 30, which is my father's birthday. December 06 is Finland's independence day.
It's Tuesday night. I drove all night to be here tonight. I am finally going to see my baby. I wonder if she's as excited to see me as I am to see her. I wonder what she'll look like. I have pictured her face in front of me every day for the past week.
The first thing I will do when I see her, is just to hold her, and keep her close to me, protecting her from the rest of the world. For that moment, there will be no one else in the world. I will look in her big eyes and look for that beautiful sunflower in them.
I wonder if she'll be hungry. Maybe she's tired. Maybe she just wants to sleep. And I will take her home and give her food and put her to bed. And then I will lie there on the bed beside her, and watch her sleep. I will listen to her breathing, in and out, in and out.
It's Tuesday night. Jessica's coming home tonight.
I guess I should think about what I would want our baby to call me, too. Would I want to be a "father" (isä), "Dad" (isi), "Daddy" (iskä) or simply a Swedish "pappa". Then again, it's not like I get to choose it. It's Jessica and Hilda that just decide it, I guess. And since Jessica speaks Swedish, she'll probably use "pappa" in sentences like, "If Dad thinks it's OK, then you may do it" and "I don't know, ask your father." That would mean that in about 4 months, I will become Pappa.
I actually remember when I switched from calling my father "Daddy" to calling him "Dad." He chose the time and place.
Sometimes he would drive me to school, something I always thought was really cool. Cars and driving have always been a big thing in our family. So, naturally, being driven to school had to rank pretty high up on my list of "cool things to do in life" when I was 10.
One time, as I was about run off and just yelled, "bye now, Daddy", he stopped me and said: "Risto, I think you're a big boy now, so maybe you shouldn't call me Daddy (isi) anymore. Just say Dad (isä)."
"Sure thing, Dad."
It just hit me big time today. In a few months, I will be a pappa.
Somebody wrote about his first memory in his blog, and got me thinking. His first memory was a dream, mine is ...
... dunno.
When I start thinking about it, and really try to remember the first thing I remember, I get a lot of flashbacks from our first aparment in downtown Helsinki. I remember the milk bar across the street where we used to go for ice cream, the one with the shiny bowls. I remember my little rocking chair that served as a cash register, a staircase to an airplane (at a time when they still drove the car next to the plane) or the Thunderbirds' rocket. I also remember my little plastic Donald Duck and my little, red stool.
The milk bar is long gone, and where I once ate vanilla ice cream (3 scoops if my Mom and Dad let me), now people gor for a quick bite of Chinese food. But the Donald Duck, the rocking chair and the little stool, they're still with me. I have them here.
My Dad's in town. He's here to see the annual Finland vs. Sweden track and field event. And to fix a few things that need to be fixed around the apartment but I just don't know how to fix. So, he takes care of the plumbing and the car, and I show him where to find information about used cars on the Internet. Win-win.
Only, we (Jessica and I) win more, because it is we that are checking out the used cars.
With Hilda on her way, we figured that we need a bigger car. Something roomy yet compact, compact but safe, safe but fast, fast but economic, economic and cheap, cheap but it would still have to look good. And that's where my Dad comes into he picture. We need him to find us the deal.
I don't think I've ever actually bought a car without at least consulting him. He came to Stockholm to help us find a deal when we bought our current little vehicle. He just gets so excited about it, I think it's the Art of Dealmaking that he really enjoys and sees as a game, which I think is a little tiresome play that I just have to be a part of.
Anyway, if Dad had had it his way, we would have driven off in a metallic purple Mercedes A 170 diesel. He had it all figured out.
If only I had stayed in the bathroom just 5 more minutes.
I saw the light today. I came up with the what-I-thought-was the perfect name. Valo. Valo is Finnish for "light". As in, "speed of light" and "not dark", not "Cola light" as diet Coke is called over here.
"Valo," I said to myself, "what a great name." "He," I continued to myself (and Valo would be a boy's name), "could be the light of our lives, bring light to other people's darkness and with any luck, he'd be bright as well."
I said it to myself, because Jessica's in Stockholm. She's there on a job assignment meeting a client and her colleagues. It's great that she can do this: live in Finland but work for the Swedish company she worked for before. She gets to meet her family and friends and hang out with her sister for real, not just for a few moments with me hanging around.
But I miss her already. All those things I thought I would do when she's in Stockholm - watching videos late at night, surf all night, eat pizza and burgers, have 2 beers in the middle of the day - just don't really do it for me anymore. I want my baby back. I want both my babies back.
So I sent an SMS to her suggesting Valo. She replied, "sounds like milk". And a smiley.
See, in Finland, a baby gets automatically Finnish citizenship if the Mother is a Finnish citizen or if the Father is a Finnish citizen and is married to the Mother. In the Finnish Lutheran Church, a baby can be baptized if one of the parents is a member of the Church. However, if the one parent happens to be the Father, then he needs to prove that he is the Father and it still takes both parents' approval. Dumb.
Learning a new language is exciting, isn't it? Just seems to me that it doesn't matter how good you get at speaking any foreign language, it will just never be your mother tongue. Yes, I know, you can learn it very well, so that you sound like a native and you can write books in your new language.
But it won't be your native language.
My Swedish is pretty good these days. I can read the newspapers, watch TV without subtitles, go to a party and strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, and on a good day, I can even make one of those language puns I so love - in Swedish.
Sometimes, though, my Swedish completely fails me. I can say something and not have the feel for it. I think I do, but I don't.
Case in point:
Jessica and I were talking about the last name again last night. How will we ever be able to make a decision? Then we thought that maybe we were too locked on "Hilda" and that maybe if we tried some other names, we'd know which last name would fit those best.
Hasse. (Never).
Oliver. (Maybe.)
Emil. (If only it didn't top all the Top 20 lists)
Gunvald.(Anybody know the Beck movies?)
Saara. (Show-off name with two a's, Jessi said. Like spelling it with a z.)
Börje, Bosse, Birgit (Next!)
And we went on and on, and on, and on... until I - in this feelgood mode - yelled yet another good "Swedish" name.
Tabbe.
There was a complete silence for about 0.07 seconds that seemed like 30 seconds. And then we both (luckily I also realized what I had said) burst out laughing.
I can guarantee you that our baby will not be called Tabbe.
It ain't easy being a foreigner in your own country. That's pretty much what I have become after my four-year detour in Stockholm, Sweden. At my previous job, I was the designated Finn, the person that was dragged into meetings with other Finns.
"Hi, here's Risto," my boss would say.
[pause]
"Say something in Finnish."
"Moi, moi, tervetuloa". (Hi, welcome).
I would spend the rest of the meeting eating buns and drinking coffee.
Back in Finland, I have become the designated Swede.
And I just found out that we won't get the baby package that Finland thinks it's so famous for, because Jessica is a Swede, and is employed by a Swedish company. Apparently, the package is a "maternal" package, and a father, how ever Finnish, can't have it. Naturally, we could buy the package, but ... what's the point? We can buy things we like instead. I need to e-mail somebody about it. ;)
I can only hope that Hilda will be better at picking and choosing the best of both countries.
What is it with a pregnant woman's belly that makes everybody want to touch it? It's not that I am jealous of Jessi, or her belly, I just find it very strange that even almost-complete-strangers want to stroke her belly. Some people have even pressed their ear to the belly. Hoping to hear ... what? Any sound, I guess.
I asked a friend of mine about this on Saturday at a party, and he just declared that a pregnant woman's belly is public property, because "she is carrying one of us." A fellow human? A fellow Finn? A jolly good fellow?
Yes, granted, Jessica is a holder of a miracle now. I guess what I am just saying is that maybe that miracle (and her holder) should be approached with a little respect.
Or maybe I am saying that I am a little jealous.
Anyway, whoever does listen to the sounds may be pleasantly surprised. "Vilda Hilda" (wild Hilda in Swedish, as we call her now) is definitely kicking it.
Helsinki is hot. I mean, for some weird reason, we've got tropical climate here these days. Not that I am complaining, we get plenty of freezing cold and darkness as well. It's not always fun to be all sweaty, (I have a friend who had a friend called "Sweaty". What a nickname! "Let's all hang out at Sweaty's place!").
However, Jessica's having problems sleeping. It's just too warm to be pregant, simple as that.
I have never had any problems sleeping on trains, or cars or buses. I don't need a lot of space, I don't need a pillow and it doesn't even have to be dark. I wonder if it's something I have learned by sleeping in a temporary bed, made of two chairs, when i was a kid, or if it is just a great talent I have. Anyway, I am grateful for it. Saves me a lot of trouble and agony.
My parents had a little Morris Mini when I was a, like, 3 or something and I always slept on the backseat when we travelled somewhere. I don't remember the Mini, but I still have a soft spot for those small cars. I think they're cool. So, Morris is on the list.
It finally happened yesterday. Jessica went to the library and borrowed "Den stora svenska namnsboken", i.e. the great Swedish book of names. I thought we were all set on Hilda but I guess her mother's prediction of a boy (she could see it by the shape of Jessica's belly) made her hesitate a bit. I think so because all the names she read out loud were for boys.
And trust me, there are some weird names even on the top 2500 most usual names list.
Just think how much we read into our names. Our entire modern culture, that's how much. Or, could you imagine calling your baby Adolf Judas?
Adolf is a fine name, nothing wrong with it, right? Except that, well, we all pretty much know of only one Adolf, thank you very much. And Judas. Come on, there is nothing wrong with Judas. Or .. is there?
Jessica's parents were in town this weekend. And boy, did we walk! I bet we walked 20 miles in 2 days, just because we moved here in May and this was their first visit to Helsinki.
They're really excited about the baby, so we couldn't not touch the name topic. Heh, it's pretty interesting how everybody likes her own name. Or, is naming our baby after her grandmom/dad considered the highest form of respect? I guess it is. I guess I would be flattered if somebody named his baby after me. However, I don't feel any connection with my colleague's little boy, just because he happens to be a fellow Risto. (Maybe, if I had met him once... ;)
But I do think it's pretty cool that Finland has had a president called Risto. So I seem to pick and choose when I feel connected and proud and when not.
About three years ago, when I had just started to show up at the Arhammars' place in Sollentuna, Sweden, Jessica's little sister once asked me who the King of Finland was. And I told her that it was me. Jessica then started to explain to her sister that there is no king in Finland, that Finland is a republic and that means that there is an elected president instead.
I kept on insisting that I was the King of Finland. And I claimed that title because Finland is a republic, I explained to Julia, Jessi's sister. Since there was no other King, why not me? I said. She agreed.
And then we started thinking what I would be called. Obviously Risto I wasn't royal enough. Although, I'd rather be Risto THE FIRST than Karl X. (Or, would that be Charles X, or Carlos X?) And now Julia, if you read this: I do think that Risto I is a great name for the king of Finland. Much better that a lot of the names on this list of the names of Swedish kings and queens. It's just that since most kings are called Carl, we think it's a royal name. But Knut? Oh, please.
Stenkil Pakarinen? Before you laugh, remember: a king was called Stenkil.
Somebody asked me why I only seem to write about names for a girl. It's just that I am so convinced that we're gonna have a baby birl. I know it.
I have known it for years, actually.
See, when I was a teenager, one of my friends taught me this trick. When you grab your chin using your index finger and thumb, and squeeze -- if the part of your chin between your fingers "splits" into two parts so that it looks like a baby's bottom, or, uh, oh, you know, then your firstborn will be a girl.
I wonder if her name was Monica or Monika. She was apparently my best friend when I was three years old. But when you're three, it doesn't really matter what your friend's like, as long as she's just there.
Me and Monica were friends. I have no recollection of her whatsoever. Nothing. I don't remember the color of her hair, or her eyes, I can't remember if she was older than me or bigger than me or even what we played. Whenever I think about her, I think about the wooden swing on my Grandma's yard. Just because I think there is a photo where we - Monica and I - sit under the swing or something.
This girl, this person, is a complete stranger to me. And yet, every time I hear the name Monica, I think of her. I am reminded of the fact that I had a friend called Monica when I was a kid.
I guess it's just because I haven't ever known anybody else called Monica. Anyway, it's a beautiful name. Let's put it on the list.
I am a hockey player. I guess I should really just say that I am an ex-hockey player but see, I haven't really ever quit. I just didn't find a team three years ago.
Anyway, when I was 23, I was still a fairly active player (not something my coaches would agree with, maybe) and a huge fan of the game. And that summer I got my dream job at Tackla Canada, a Canadian subsidiary of a Finnish hockey gear manufacturer. I did some odd jobs at the company for three months and then flew to Vancouver to meet a Canadian friend of mine.
I was also on a mission from Tackla: In my bag, I carried three (3) T-shirts, to be delivered to the Vancouver Canucks' trainers at the training camp.
Took the ferry to Vancouver Island to the camp site and somehow got to the rink. And into the dressing rooms. I found the trainer, (let's call him Dave, I have forgot his name, but Dave is a great name for a trainer) and explained that I had some T-shirts to deliver.
"Heyyyyyyy, great, great! Awesome. Nice shirts! What was your name again, buddy?"
"Risto." (Buddy, did he call me his buddy?)
"Hey, Risto, where ya from?"
"Finland." (Silence).
"Finland? Wanna meet a fellow countryman?" Dave said, turned around and yelled, "Jeeeeeeeerrkkkyyyyyyyyy, there's a Finn here to see ya!"
Bai Ruishu. That would be my Chinese name, according to this site. Bai is the last name, and the first name has two elements: Rui for "sharp" and shu for "center". That's just because I chose "mind and intelligence" as the characteristics I wanted my name to reflect.
With "wealth and fortune", my name became Bei Ruishi.
Had I wanted to sound like somebody with "beauty and appearance", you could just call me Bei Rongshuang.
The "strong and powerful" Chinese me would be called Bi Rongshi.
And then I had to try the generator with "Hilda", "Pakarinen" (I know we haven't really decided on the last name, either, so I took a chance) and with the same date of birth as mine (since it is possible that she'll be born on my birthday). And I tried "wealth and fortune", first.
Maybe she would give her old Dad some of that wealth as well.
Bai Hongli.
Sounds too weird.
"Mind and intelligence": Bei Hanli.
"Strong and powerful": Bi Hengli
Let's try "beauty and appearance" since she will - without a doubt - be the most beautiful girl in the world.
Jessica and I paid a visit to the hospital this morning. It was time for Jessica's biweekly checkup and I was there as an accidental tourist. Well, of course not, I was there as a caring father-to-be, learning things and being supportive. The nurse measured Jessi's belly (and now, if you have gone through this process, you can scroll down a few paragraphs, hopefully it'll get more interesting there), checked her blood pressure and told her to eat more iron.
Meanwhile, I sat there next to my girl, playing around with a wooden jigsaw puzzle and occasionally touching Jessica's arm to show her that I was still there.
And then it was time to see how "Hilda" was doing. I didn't wanna be appear too excited (Why not? And how could I be too excited, I now ask myself) so I remained seated by the nurse's desk, trying to read her little notes upside down. The jigsaw puzzle didn't interest me anymore.
(And now all you mothers and fathers, it would be a good time to start reading again).
And then I hear it. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. It was like a clock on speed, or the sound your hand makes when you tap your fingers against your desk when you're nervous. It could have been a hockey crowd clapping their hands in unison. But it wasn't.
It was the sound of our baby's heart beating.
I jumped up from my chair and saw Jessica lying on a bed, smiling.
And I decided that today I wouldn't even try to come up with a name for our baby. It doesn't matter what we eventually call her, it really doesn't. She'll be our baby.
Have you ever seen the James Lipton -hosted TV show in which he interviews famous actors and actresses at Actors Studio? If yes, you know that he always ends the sessions with a set of questions he "stole" from Bernard Pivot. The first question is,"what is your favorite word?"
I have been thinking about it a lot, now with this quest for the perfect name.
What I don't understand is why the actresses always seem to think so long. I mean, surely they were expecting the question and .. don't we all have a favorite word? I know I do.
I think it sounds great, I love saying it, the hard "t" in the beginning, the "ch" in the end makes it fun to say. Plus, it brings back nice memories and warm images.
Too bad it only works in English. The Finnish pronounciation "tow-kh" kinda butchers it, doesn't it?
When I was born, my parents decided to call me Kalle. Kalle is like Charles, or Charlie, in Finnish. (In Finland, little Kalle is the equivalent of the little Johnny of the jokes).
So, they told everybody that they had got a baby boy and that his name was Kalle. My godmother, my aunt, went out and bought a little present to her little nephew, as is customary in Finland. She bought a little spoon, and had "Kalle" engraved in it.
Well, you already know that things took another turn along the way, as my father decided that Risto would be a more fitting name for me. And to make sure it was not the most common name in Finland, he checked the Helsinki phone book and found zero Risto Pakarinens. That settled it, Risto it was. (Not that I am the only Risto Pakarinen in Finland...)
My other name is Kalevi which is obviously another form of Kalle. I just hope they changed that, too, and didn't even think of calling me Kalle Kalevi...
Anyway, what's pretty strange is that even though 34617 people have been called Kalle since 1899 and only 30259 Risto, between 1960 and 1979 - when I was born - Risto beat Kalle 6696 to 3613. (And there was also one woman among those Ristos!). This year, Kalles lead by 159 to 24.
I still have the spoon. The height and weight were correct.
One of my favorite TV shows is Columbo. You know, the one-eyed and absentminded policeman, played by Peter Falk. And he always seems to forget to ask that last question, so he turns around at the door, with his hand on his temple (and a cigar in his hands) and says, "excuse me ma'am, but ..." and then some obscurely detailed question about something that seems trivial to the viewer.
There are two things about Columbo that many fans know but hardly ever think about: 1) he always talks about his wife, but you never see her. And 2) nobody knows Columbo's first name. Now, ask anybody who's not a hardcore fan, and he'll say Frank. But it's not.
Nobody knows Columbo's first name. He's just Columbo.
We spent a few days at my Dad's place in Joensuu and went through a pretty impressive pile of old photos and artifacts from my life. This man has secretly kept little mementos all through the years, ranging from a poncho my Mom made for me (out of an old blanket she got in the baby package all mothers gets from the government) to the Phantom suit I wore on my final year of high school.
Uh, like, not all the time, only during that one special last day of school. It's a long story, so just trust me when I say it is a tradition in Finland. And the Phantom is just such a huge thing in both my and Jessica's families.
The Phantom - for those who won't know - is a story about a "half-drowned sailor, flung ashore on the terrible, blood-drenched Bengalla coast after pirates burned his ship and slaughtered his mates. The gentle Bandar pygmies nursed him back to fitness and became his everlasting friends -- as the castaway faced his destiny, donned costume and mask and was reborn as the first of the Phantoms.
"I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice!" he cried as he formally took "The Oath of the Skull" by firelight. "And my sons and their sons shall follow me!"
Only the Bandar and a handful of other secret souls know that all are not one and the same."
And, more importantly for me and for this blog, all the Phantoms have had the same name: Kit Walker. That would be a great name for our baby: we both love the Phantom, he surely stands for honesty and justice and all the good things in life and it's easy to pronounce in all languages. Kit's on the list.
