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.
