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.
