Ctrl lock

If you know how to use a keyboard (as you are reading this I assume you do), you might have used the "Caps Lock" function at some point and maybe even the "Num Lock" function. But I give you the previously unheard of CONTROL LOCK function.

How does it work? Hm, let's say you are writing a posting. A very long posting. A very long posting that has not been saved for a while. You are doing your final proof-reading and want to add a single letter. You click on the space in the text where you want to enter it. The whole text gets marked. A new Firefox tab is opened. You try again, the result is the same. You panic. Less than one minute later you have more than 20 new empty tabs when suddenly the page you were working in reloads and goes blank. Everything you wrote is gone - you start to sweat. You click the "back" button. A new empty tab opens. Every time you try. You start to use foul language and close down the browser, then start it again. Only to realize that anything you do opens a new, empty tab. You go through the settings, one, two, fourteen times. You make some changes. More new, empty tabs are opened. Your language gets more explicit by the minute. More changes. More tabs. Then another browser restart. Certainly Google has the answer. But whatever you type: tabs. And pop-ups. The search bar appears, then the bookmarks are suddenly shown on the left-hand side. Your entire internet logs pop up. A thought starts to form in your head. Don't you usually have to press the Control key together with another key to access these elements? You did press some letter keys, but the Control key is not pressed in. You did not press it for sure. Is there such a thing as "Ctrl Lock"? You slowly approach the Control key with your finger and press down, expecting yet another new, empty tab. Instead everything works again like before. Except for all the settings you changed of course.

Both my husband and I have what I consider to be very decent computer skills. Neither of us has ever heard of or experienced anything like this before. I have discovered a new, if completely worthless function. If I had discovered a new, yet completely worthless animal I could at least name it after me...

A Christmas story

It was the time between Christmas and New Year. The whole family was gathered in the kitchen, Pontus contently playing on the floor while my husband I stood and talked quietly, lovingly looking into each others eyes the whole time. Soft music, delighted laughter and the smell of the delicious food in the oven filled the room. Suddenly we became aware of a movement outside the house. My husband, wearing a reindeer sweater I handknitted for him, carefully approached the window and looked out. There, sitting in the snow, were two people, huddled together to protect themselves against the icy cold, but still shivering. Their big, empty eyes looked at us from faces that were clearly marked by the hunger they were suffering. One of them was so lanky it seemed that he had gone without a proper meal for a very long time. My husband looked at me and we both knew in our hearts that we had to help those poor souls. My husband opened the door. The warm shine of light from the kitchen lamp touched their faces and they turned away, almost as if they were embarassed to be seen like this. My husband walked over and gently helped them up. It was only now that we saw that they also had a baby with them, a little boy with golden curls who looked just as malnourished as his father. We quickly led them into the house and sat them down at the table. My husband took the food from the oven and served them each a generous portion. They ate hungrily and in silence, their eyes gleaming with joy over the feast. We also gave them a sweet treat, something to drink and allowed them to rest on our couch, while Pontus played with their son. The little guy carefully touched all the toys, as if he had never seen anything like this in his life. After a while our guests insisted on moving on, thanking us over and over again for our generosity and hospitality. They carefully wrapped the child in blankets and disappeared into the night as we stood there at the door, feeling that our hearts had been touched in a very special way.
The end.

(That is how the story would be told if we were living in fairytale land, but the truth was of course a little more like this: We were making dinner while Pontus was running around and screaming because he was unhappy. He had been unhappy and very vocal about it all day, so we were counting down the minutes until bedtime. My husband told Muddiz's husband on MSN that we were about to eat and he mentioned that they were hungry as well, but had not cooked anything yet. We had enough food so we asked if they wanted to come over, which they did. We had made noodle gratin with spicy sausages and right away Muddiz's husband informed us that he never eats the noodles in the top layer of the gratin, because they are hard (he is a little older than the rest of us, you know, and he was taken care of by a childminder instead of going to Kindergarten). Pontus was not happy with the food either, so he screamed instead. Everyone else enjoyed the meal, but of course the obligatory 3 noodles and 1 slice of sausage were left in the dish (Swedes NEVER take the last bit of food, don't ask me why). We rounded off the meal with some leftover Christmas cookies and proceeded into the living room, where Muddiz and her husband collapsed on the couch. My husband immediately exploited their immobility and presented his latest technical gadget, while Pontus and Milton completely tore the room apart. At one point Milton tried to climb into one of our highchairs from below (through the opening for the leg, which is TINY) and got stuck halfways. While I looked on, equally amazed and fascinated, his parents seemed somewhat indifferent, like they had seen it before and then some. Or maybe they were just captivated by my husband's demonstration, because Muddiz's husband started to talk about also needing to buy that very device. The children were screaming, my husband was selling and I just "was". After a while the Muddiz clan got up, thanked us for dinner and left. We put Pontus to bed and with that another day was over.)

What would Caroline Ingalls do?

There it is: my approach to parenting in a nutshell (and with a question mark).

When Pontus is cranky, things aren't going well and I don't get anything done I do not check my parenting handbook. I simply close my eyes and ask myself "What would Caroline Ingalls do?". She did, after all, live out in the middle of nowhere (in a little house on the prairie you could say), raised several children, took care of the household, helped out on the field and took on extra work whenever necessary. Compared to that, how can I have trouble starting a machine of laundry and keeping my one child happy at the same time. It really puts things in perspective - you should all try it some time.
Caroline is there for you...

Restless hands

Comparing the first pregnancy and this one I seem to have a recurring problem that I like to call "restless hands syndrome". Well, it is not just my hands that are restless, but rather all of me. It is like a humming, a nervous vibration inside of me that makes it impossible to sleep. I don't know what is causing this feeling, but it really helps to actively do something when I get it, in a "If I can't fix the real problem because I can't identify it, why not use the restlessness it creates to fix something else instead" kind of way. Last night for example I took down all Christmas decorations and completely re-organized the boxes we store them in. My husband understands my problem so he doesn't say anything, but I am sure he would not have minded if Christmas hadn't been over so soon in our house.

Tonight I am keeping my hand busy by writing this posting, but what about tomorrow? I need something to do, something that I can (preferably) continue evening after evening, a simple, repetitive task that will give me peace of mind and maybe even a sense of accomplishment.
In short: I need to crochet mormorsrutor (literally translated: "Grandmother's squares")!



The mormorsrutor in this picture were made by Emma, who can crochet just about anything it seems. Think of her as the MacGyver of crochet. And then think of me as the Star Wars Kid of crochet. I have never worked with crochet in my life. I have no clue how to do it, I am not 100% certain what I need, but several internet tutorials have confidently assured me that every dimwit can learn how to crochet. Sounds like something for me!

I can make as many (or few) mormorsrutor as I want, put everything aside when I need to, and in the end I can use them to make a blanket. Or a blanket for a doll. Or a pot holder. Or a pot holder for a doll. It's all very flexible, you see. Now if I could only understand what they are doing there with the hook and the yarn...

Nathalie Choux

Pontus' room is finally coming together, the only thing that still needs to be improved are the very blank walls. After giving up on my initial plan to paint something myself (my Barbapapa looking like the severely traumatized victim of domestic violence, black eye and all) I surfed around for some nice artwork for children. Unfortunately a lot of what one comes across is so unbelieveably tacky and tasteless that it defies words. But then I found (and fell in love with) the pictures of Nathalie Choux, a French illustrator.



These are the 7 pictures I have ordered so far, but just the other day I saw 4 more that I feel I also just have to have.



I think they are so great - if Pontus ever grows tired of them I might well put them up in my room.

Merry Christmas!

And a good advice to all: don't let your mother-in-law catch you pulling a face when she unpacks fire-grilled, marinated eggplant she decided to contribute to the buffet as a surprise. Really, don't.

Corporate Santa

Muddiz got a gift basket with fine foods from her employer.
My husband got a high quality hoodie sweatshirt from his.
All I got from work was yet another incorrect lönespecification (payslip).
It seems like Corporate Santa really does check his list twice...

Recreation stress

Tomorrow Pontus will spend the day with his farmor (my husband's mother), so I can do whatever I want to. The problem is that I don't know what that would be. Usually we ship Pontus off to his grandparents when we have a lot of stuff to take care of that can be done easier and faster without him around, but tomorrow is just a normal weekday and my husband will be at work. It is too early to prepare the house for Christmas, there is no laundry that needs to be washed and with my luck it's probably "Sylvia Browne Wednesday" on "Montel" for the third time this week, completely killing any desire to watch tv before the day has even started. As far as going out is concerned I have already been downtown this week and don't enjoy crowds enough to want to go back anytime soon.
I know, it's a luxury problem. It just feels like I should really make the most of the day.

If there actually is such a thing as recreation stress, I have it. Help.

P.S.: No, I do not want to come and take care of your offspring instead. I am just desperate, not insane.

Depressive episode

I never had that conversation with my boss last week.

I had spent the whole week preparing and going over exactly what I was going to say in my head again and again and again, but then he was just too busy. Or didn't care. Maybe it wasn't about actually having that conversation at all, but just about scaring me and making me feel ill (which he succeeded with). I had a lousy, miserable week. It didn't help much that my union assured me that my boss' demeanour was, at best, dubious and unprofessional and that I didn't need to worry about his threats. Neither did it help that I got support from the colleagues I talked to. (I even received an email from one colleague who said that she also felt that the attitude towards her had changed after she had her baby. She referred to it as "becoming unpopular".)

So, with the union and my colleagues behind me I went to work and waited. And waited. And waited. When it got late in the afternoon and nothing had happened I started to relize that there might not be a meeting. The last half hour was probably the longest of my life. As soon as I could leave, I did. I heard my boss walking down the hallway behind me as I left, but I remembered something I learned from watching one too many prison shows: never look back!

He had his chances. I sat at my desk all day, he could have called or come over and told me to wait. He even could have shouted after me there in the hallway. I really did not feel it was my job to remind him and/or turn up voluntarily in order to ensure that he would not need to go home in the evening without having humiliated me (again).

Getting out of there and knowing that I wouldn't be back for several weeks was as great a feeling as you'd imagine. But when I got home and had the time to sit down, it really hit me. All of the stress of the last weeks, both physically and psychologically, just came crashing down on me. I only wanted to lie in bed, pull the blanket over my head and and cry until someone else had fixed my life. I did not want to be asked anything, I did not want to hear anything, I just wanted things to be over and taken care of, one way or the other.

Things are a little better by now, but I already dread the day I have to return to work. Every time I think about going back I get overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness, panic and nausea. If the reality of it should come anywhere close to my worst fears, I will go home and call in sick. Because that is what I feel.

Dotless

You might have noticed that the blog is looking surprisingly plain these days. The simple (and absolutely truthful) explanation is that the pink dots demanded more money and when I refused to pay they got up and left. The grey dots followed them as a sign of support (somewhat misguided, if you ask me). Well, I won't be blackmailed. And how smart was it to give up a secure, undemanding job right in the middle of a global crisis? Where else do you think you will find work that only requires you to pop up for two or three people every other week? There's plenty of dots out there that would LOVE to take your places. They are queuing outside as I'm speaking. Ha ha, in your tiny little faces!

(Having made my point: I am between servers, but there will be dots again soon.)

Work nightmare

My part-time return to work has been nothing short of a disaster and today it reached a new low. My boss called me into his office to discuss my work hours from February on and as I was already there he let me know that 2 people had complained about me being rude to them. He now wanted me to think about this for a week and then, at another meeting, present to him and our administrative supervisor in which way I intended to change my behaviour and how I would achieve that change. He really felt that this was important and if it "couldn't be solved to his liking" he would need to involve the union, the employer's association and a bunch of other people and then things would get really unpleasant. When I asked why the people I offended did not talk to me first (or why he did not suggest that) I was told that they were (probably) afraid of me.

I was stunned. Honestly stunned. I have no clue what he is talking about. He also would not give me any further info, not who I had insulted or in which way I had insulted them. I mean, you'd think that if they go to the boss with their complaint it must have been something serious, right? Shouldn't I remember that? I don't understand anything. I work 2 days a week and have so much to do that I more often than not do not even manage to eat lunch, leave alone take the time to talk to a lot of people. How did I supposedly manage to offend not only one, but two people to a degree that they would complain about me? I don't know what to say. Not now and probably also not next week. What am I supposed to apologize for? Which behaviour am I supposed to change? If you understand it, please explain, because I just don't.

Over time I have heard the most from my boss:

- that as a mother I am no longer a "real", "full" employee (because as a mother you work less hours and have to stay home with the kids when they are sick)
- that from an employer's point of view the 2 days a week I work at the moment are nothing
- that I ruin the working atmosphere for the whole department by being negative (he told me everyone suffered because of my bad attitude but it turns out that "everyone" had not noticed anything like that and didn't agree)
- that he did not want to use my pregnancy hormones as an excuse for my behaviour anymore (I am just as clueless about that comment).

And now this.

I think he is working really hard to get rid of me. Maybe that is what he really wants to hear from me next Wednesday. There is just so many good reasons not to want me around anymore: I am one of the top earners among the assistants, because I have been there longer than most of them. I am not interesting to him as an employee anymore (THAT I understood clearly!). I cause extra work by (shamelessly!) demanding a correct calculation of my vacation days and pay and turning to the union for help if necessary. Why put up with that when you can get someone fresh and young without "obligations" (= children) for less? He himself does not need to train those people, so what does he care?

Maybe you think I am delusional. Or senile. Or unfriendly so often that I don't even realize it anymore. But I am not. I talked to some people and the reaction was disbelief. Some also made a dismissing hand motion or said right out that it was very well possible that there hadn't actually been a complaint or at least no direct complaints about me the way he claimed. That's how much people like and trust him.

I don't know what the truth is. What I can say is that I honestly don't know what I did and to whom. Don't I have a right to know that if they make such accusations?

I have seen how it went for others who had children while being employed by my company and I don't want that for myself. I so deeply regret ever having returned to work. In the last 3 months I have apparently turned from an efficient model employee into an abusive, offensive monster that is out to crush everyone's soul. All that while doing 3 days worth of work in 2 days at the same time.

I take solace in the fact that for each person he says complained about me I can easily find 3 people that will gladly confirm that I am a friendly, fun and helpful colleague. But that's not really what this is about anyway. He does not care.
Well, I will take the time I have until the next meeting to think about if I really should return to work before "Player 2" is born. I honestly just want to stay home and enjoy my time with Pontus (which I should have done from the beginning) and later with the two of them. And MUCH later, when "Player 2" is old enough to go to Kindergarten, I can look for a new job to return to.

But why does it have to be like that?

Player 2

Yesterday we had an ultrasound to thoroughly check "Player 2" (yes, we are computer nerds). Just like Pontus this is a very active baby, constantly spinning, kicking and waving. That did not make it easy to examine "Player 2" - and downright impossible to find out whether we're expecting a boy or a girl. We'll just have to stick with calling the baby "Player 2" for the moment. Everything looks fine though and that's all that really matters, isn't it?



The estimated date of birth has been moved forward to May 4th, 2009, which means I am now in week 19 and almost halfway through the pregnancy. Everything seems to go a lot faster this time than it did with Pontus...

Passion for paint

Last weekend we FINALLY finished the work on Pontus' room that has been a total ruin for as long as we (and he) have lived here. Well, when we moved in it was actually a decent looking room with shabby wallpaper. In a first eager and motivated effort we tore down the wallpaper (more or less), just to never continue. Especially after Pontus' birth the work came to a complete stop.

For several months our son has been sleeping in a room that makes Saddam's bunker look like a 5-star hotel and now that he is getting older we were afraid he would notice and felt ashamed. Ashamed enough to finally get on with it.

New wallpaper and a fabulous paint job later Pontus now has a room that he can show off to his little friends. Okay, so there are no toys or decorations or even a lamp (unless you are one of those people who call a single lonely lightbulb dangling from the ceiling a "lamp"), but hey, you can't have everything at once. We're getting there. Slowly. He won't have to wait for another year though, I promise.

Usually our home improvement projects follow a strict pattern: I find something I don't like, I communicate how I want things to be, I nag until the work gets done and then I critically evaluate the result, while my husband does all the actual work. But this time I actually did some of the work myself. Real hands-on manual labour - I helped paint the room. And it turns out that I have a secret fetish for painting walls (like Muddiz has a secret fetish for tucking Björn Gustafsson in at night)! It is so calming, so "wax on, wax off" (no, this is not the paint fumes talking). Evenly covering a surface with a layer of paint requires Ordnung and accuracy and attention to detail - in short: me. I have found my true DIY calling!