Norway, please

Today was an Alexander* day.

It began with rushing about to get to Elliot's Heath Station appointment, which led to a crabbiness with Husband. The house was a giant "just-got-home-sort-of-from vacation" mess and I couldn't find what I needed.

Then it started raining.

All in all a bad way to start out a day.

Once Elliot and I left the house, it got incrementally worse:

A car darted out at a roundabout when it wasn't the driver's turn, narrowly missing us.

A group of people crowded the sidewalk in front of a bus stop (there was no bus there) and the vast majority, who were non-Norwegians, parted ways. Two teenagers, facing a bit away, stood their ground and there was no way for me to pass.

There was no way they didn't see the rest of the people move, yet they didn't.

I said "Unnskyld" ("excuse me") several times, each time with a bit more volumne. Then loudly cleared my throat. Finally, I reached way over and poked one in the shoulder and said, in English, "Excuse me!" Both of them gave me a rotten looks and laconically ambled out of my way.

Then, six men, all ranging from about mid-20's to mid-40's, all seemingly healthy, pulled together and fit, went past me as I was struggling to get Elliot's stroller through the swinging door and up the five stairs into the elevator lobby.

Not one held the door and not one offered to give me a hand to lift the stroller up the stairs. These were not the neighborhood crackheads or even unkempt. These were businessmen who should have better manners.

But that's the problem, I'm not sure they did.

As I've written before, I have been warned that I am too polite.

I say "please" and "thank you" on a regular basis. I open door for people and have been known to offer assistance to women and their strollers. And a few weeks ago, I let two people cut in line at the grocery. Each had one item and I had fifty.

These are not commendable acts. They are just the right things to do.

Or so I have been raised.

Also this is not a trait unique to the Southern US where I grew up. I lived in New York City for almost a decade. It happens there, too.

And, while I am not terribly well-traveled, I have been a few places and have noticed these stranger-to-stranger kindnesses all over, even in France. Even when they knew I was an American in France.

Here not so much.

This is not to say that there are no kindnesses.

There are and there are many.

Just in recent history, Elliot's pediatrician kept the office open after hours to see us when I called and said I was worried about his cough. Colleagues of Husband's have made an effort to befriend me and make me feel welcome and acclimated. A fellow customer at Ultra about my age, bagged my groceries so I could pick up a howling Elliot and pay the cashier.

And, just a few days ago when Elliot decided to be rambunctious on the plane home from Alicante, a group of Norwegian grandmotherly sorts talked to himand the oldest one of them all, who had a smiling face akin to a dried up apple, made him laugh until he lost his mind.

But on the streets, no one will hold a door. And at the airline gate, the crowd of ticketed passengers will press to get to the front. And be warned, you should watch the hell out in the IKEA corridors.

Most of the time, I just accept it as a cultural difference and go along my merry(ish) way.

But today, on a grey yuck day, it just made everything worse.

After Elliot's visits with the nurse and the doctor, which was fun and hilarious, I was still feeling out of sorts (and it was only 10am).

Back in the waiting room, I was getting Elliot back into his warm clothes and was standing next to another mother, a Norwegian woman about my age, who was unbundling her young daughter. We started chatting a bit and it turned out that her baby was one day older and that we lived in the same neighborhood. She asked how I was doing and if I was a member of a baby group. And I had just enough time to say "yes" before she and her baby were called to their appointment. They headed off in the direction of the nurses room, but turned around long enough to say "Ha Det Bra," which is a salutation which means, "Have it Good."

And it made me cry.

*The star of "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." Fantastic classic children's book. No joke. If you don't know it, read it. If you do know it, read it again. His day wasn't so bad and neither was mine, really, in the big scheme of things, relatively speaking and all of that...but also, that doesn't make it good.

In the Meantime

HKS: Why You Should Go to Spain*

We got back late Saturday afternoon...and while we sort through photos and swim through the mounds of laundry, please enjoy the latest installment of "Husband Knows Stuff..."

More to come...

*You're welcome, Spain Tourism Board (or Turismo de España, if you are so inclined...)

Buckshot Traveling

Tomorrow we're leaving for the Spanish sunshine and what could possibly be our last European vacation.

While our trip this summer was great fun and so good to see so many of our friends and family, it wasn't calm and it wasn't so relaxing. We criss-crossed the country thinking about maybe coming home and what and where that even means. And between luggage, time zones and sweet baby Elliot, it was a journey. A great journey, but a journey nonetheless.

So when we got back, as we all got sick, we decided that some quiet time in the sunshine would cure it all. And for the first time we're going to leave laptops at home to completely tune out.

The coming months are going to be big ones full of major decisions and this could be the last family vacation for a while.*

So, as we do, on any vacation that requires calm and not much at all**, we employ The Buckshot*** Method of Travel.

First we set out the constants, the factors that will not change. And for this trip they were:

1) A certain budget

2) Sunshine and warmth

3) Within a six-hour window of travel, which is about as long as we want to travel with a six-month old.

4) A direct flight

5) The one-week window Husband has between projects

6) Nothing nearby that we would feel guilty for not going to see.

7) Good food.

So with a few internet searches and a map of Europe, we came up with a flight to the Alicante airport in Spain, which is on the southeastern coast of the country.

Then we did another few searches and came up with a villa in Moraira, Spain, which is a little town about 82km up the highway. Apparently, it is a small fishing village that is not even listed in the Fodor's Spain guide.

We looked at the photographs of the villa and sent an email. We settled on a price with the owner and wired the money to an account in England. And just yesterday the keys came in the mail.****

It's near the beach, a tapas bar and has its own pool.

Best of all, September is the off-season so it's cheap cheap cheap.

We're going to go to the grocery store and sleep late and take Elliot to the beach.

And when he's had enough, we're going to go home and sit by the pool while he naps inside. In the evenings we may go to dinner a few times, but that's pretty much it.*****

Until the past few days, I hadn't done much research on it at all, because really, who cares?

I'll be hanging with my two best people close to good Spanish food and the ocean.

But, while the little man was napping this morning, I started looking at some traveler's notes online...apparently the Costa Blanca (the area of Spain where we are headed) is about a 50/50 split of Spanish and British expats.

And most of the beaches are topless, often populated by portly British grandmother types.

I love it.

Seriously, if this is true, I think it sounds even more awesome. I love grandmothers.****** Grandmotherly types love babies, so they will be friendly Elliot. And the more portly they are, the less portly I will seem.

Perfect.

_____________________________

*And really, this is our first family vacation of just the three of us--Unless of course you count the places we went before he was an actual person...

**The Buckshot Method got us to Jade Mountain for our honeymoon, Nice for Christmas and Portugal for last summer's holiday. It works. Trust.

***For those not familiar with Southern Culture, meaning the Southern Culture of the United States, hunting is big. And, buckshot is a type of ammunition. When you shoot buckshot, it sprays out and unless you're very unlucky, you'll probably hit something. The Buckshot Method, as I call it, works for lots of things, but you have to be enthusiastic. That helps.

****Yeah, I thought it was a little risky, too, but I did an internet search on the owner and he seemed normal. Plus, he apparently lodged a complaint with his township in England about unpicked-up dog poo on his street. So by logic, if he's particular about his street, he's probably particular about the house. I'm sure it will be fine.

*****We may also play lots of Scrabble. I am also hoping to read a book.

******Well, most of them.

Swabbing Our Brains

Last week, on yet another visit to the doctor's office to check on the state of Elliot, we both took a test for the swine flu. We were both handed masks...

(Elliot's didn't fit. Also, face masks are hot. Not "hot" as in "looks great," clearly, but "hot" as in 9000 degrees and sweaty. Dang it.)

And put into a little room, sequestered from the rest of the patients.

(Look closely at the left end of the table. There are two glasses that look like party glasses...Maybe too celebrate if it's all okay?)

Then our dear doctor, who we love, came in and put instruments like this into each of our noses. And swabbed our brains.

(These are really bottle cleaners, but I promise they are pretty close to what did swab our brains.)

The tests came back and we're both fine, but Elliot is still not 100%, but he's getting better.

Mornings

From the beginning, Husband and I have had very different schedules.

Much like our personalities, his is much more regimented and mine is much more loosey-goosey.

When we first met, I was a journalist.

I spent half my time as a part-time reporter at a newspaper and the other half as a freelance reporter, which means that at any time I could be scooting off, then would go underground until the deadline was met. Then on to the next assignment or maybe a few days at the dog park training Lillie.* Or even an entire day at the movie theater watching three in a row.**

In any case, every week was different, but unless there was no way around it, I did my best to make sure I never had to be anywhere, dressed and ready before about 10am.

I am not a morning person.

Husband worked for a big company doing big company things on normal big company hours.

But there were several constants. Whenever we could, we'd always meet up in the evenings and every morning, unless I had been working overnight*** I'd pack breakfast for Husband.****

While the fanciness of it all has varied from time to time, it is always the same. Always a food. Always a little pack of vitamins and always a cartoon, not one that found somewhere, but a cartoon, starring us that I draw.*****

In the beginning these breakfasts were a little bit elaborate. I packed protein shakes in special plastic cooled mugs with straws so it wouldn't spill, with egg and cheese sandwiches and little cartons of orange juice. Then over the past year or so, it has settled into a menu: a toasted PB&J, a container of orange juice, a napkin and a cartoon.

But over the past few months, it's been sporadic at best. Occasionally when Elliot has had a late night, I sleep through it all. When I have been awake there have been times that I have sleptwalked to the coffee and that was the best I could do. And, worst of all, there has been more than one occasion when I have opened the bread and it's been moldy. Not a little bit moldy, but enough that I should be ashamed.******

So I resolved to resolve this.

And, for anyone who looks to the left side of the page you may have noticed that I follow my dear friend Anne's blog A Good American Wife. She writes and cooks and a few months or so ago,******* she posted a recipe for the Unstoppable Bacon Egg and Cheese Muffins.

When I read it, I thought, "This only has five ingredients. I can DO this." I even got a little fancy and switched out the bacon and scallions for sauteed ham and onions.

(If you are making the bigger muffins like I did, it takes it a bit longer to get brown on the top.)

And they were good. But I spent so much time watching them to make sure I didn't burn them that I lost track of time. So we had them for dinner, too.

Mmmmmm muffins. And there were still ones left for breakfast for the next few days.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*This did not go well.

**I LOVED these days. Wherever we go next has to be a town with a matinee movie showing. That was one of the hardest transitions when we moved here. No more afternoon movies.

***This happened occasionally, but even then sometimes I would stay up to visit for breakfast.

****Okay, for those who are counting, Husband was not technically Husband at that time. Sorry BigD, but I was 99% certain that he would be eventually, so hopefully that counts.

*****We have hundreds around. Some in a book from the first year we were together. Some in drawers around the house and always a few tucked in his wallet. Those are probably good luck.

******And I am.

*******Oh my gosh! Has it been this long ago?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was thinking all day about what to write, wondering if I should say something about yesterday, but I couldn't. Even eight years later, it's a little too vivid to talk about it all. I can't even say the name that people use to refer to it...it just doesn't seem big enough. And more than that, if I feel this way from my own personal experience of being there and seeing and watching it all from my West Village vantage point, it's really too much to consider the people who were really really there. So not this year and maybe not next year either. I do think about every detail like it was yesterday.

Burning up at Midnight (Or How I Disappoint Trekkies When They Google)

A few weeks after we told BigD I was pregnant, I opened our mailbox to a slip of paper informing me that there was a package waiting for me at the post office.

Inside the package was a copy of Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare, a copy of What to Expect When You are Expecting and a note that said, "These two are the only books you'll need. Love, Mom."

In the days before Elliot (AKA Pickle) arrived, I read them cover to cover. I underlined things, scrawled notes in the margins and highlighted key bits for Husband to scan.

I thought I was a bit prepared.

But last night, Husband and I were downstairs visiting, with the baby moniter on low. Elliot, who has had a little sniffle for days, had been in bed for a few hours.

Around eleven, we heard him whimpering a bit, which was odd. Elliot is a LOUD baby. He rarely whimpers. He does babble and often call out, all of which usually happen at top volume.*

So I went to check on him and he was burning up, like I have never felt a baby. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks were red and he was damp all over.

This may not be frightening to more seasoned mothers, but as I am not one of those mothers**, it was frightening to me.

We took his temperature and it was right on the borderline of all the measures. Our farenheit thermometer read 101.4. Our celcius one read 38.3. He is four days shy of the six month mark.

If you believe Dr. Spock,*** "If your baby is three months old or younger, call right away for a temperature of 100.5 or higher."

And a few lines down..."As a rule, consult your doctor if your baby has a temperature of 101 or more."

Therein lies the rub.****

We have no one to call.***** We don't have a pediatrician. Not really.

We sort of do. There are very few pediatricians in the Stavanger area. There are a few on staff at the hospital and another small number that work privately. Seriously. That is it.

Early on, Elliot and I went to meet one, so we could be all acquainted when and if we needed to come and see him. And I wish I could describe this person here, but the person is a character and you might recognize this person.

Suffice to say, this person is great and Elliot loved him. And I thought this person was really nice and seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. I'd heard great things about this particular one from other expat moms who had used this person, so there you have it.

(And I wish I could tell you some of the statistics about how many pediatricians there are in the enormously wide swath of southern and western Norway where we're located. But I won't.)

But all that said, the pediatricians don't seem all that busy.

On our first visit, as we were chatting, this person said that he/she'd been to Atlanta once, to meet some business people, because he/she's come upon a business that was exactly what Norway was missing.

The second time we went to the office, was when Elliot wasn't feeling well after our travels. (After thousands of miles, he apparently caught a bug of sorts on the way home.) As we were sitting in the waiting room, a friend of ours walked through the lobby. She, who is about 30 or so years past childhood, has been seeing this person for nutrition and dietary needs.

So, as you might note, being a pediatrician is not big business in these parts.******

Most babies go to the family doctor for illnesses and to the health station for shots and growth checks, etc...

Baby health care in these parts is a tricky business. At least it is for me.

And, to make it more complicated, while we are eligible for the public healthcare, we also have private insurance through Husband's contract. So, in many case, we are fortunate to be able to pick and choose what we'd like from the many private doctors in the area. Then we pay for it, submit the bill and get reimbursed for most of it from the insurance company.

Except when it's something big and then the only choices are public.*******

My doctor, who I loved and handled all my prenatal care, was nowhere in the vincinity, most certainly not in the room or even the hospital when I gave birth.

When Elliot was just a few months old, he had a high fever in the middle of the night, so we took him to the urgent care at the hospital. He had a fever of 102, which according to Dr. Spock is a big deal. He wasn't eating, his breathing was labored and he was not his usual self, in the early early morning.

We took him the urgent care and waited and waited for about two hours. When the check-in nurse finally called us up, she took a look at our forms, where we had marked that we had a private doctor. She asked why we didn't go see her and said we should go there even if she didn't open for another 90 minutes.

Then when we asked if someone could please just help us, they put us in a back room with a thermometer and said to check it ourselves. Finally a doctor came in and said he didn't have baby sized instruments, so they sent us to the pediatric wing of the hospital, where a pediatrician did the basic tests and chalked it up to nothing, but an unexplained fever.

It was a less than satisfactory experience, so this time, because all the factors were borderline, we skipped it.

And this is not to say that the healthcare is bad or that the Norwegians are weak. Quite the contrary. No one pays much attention to the "borderline" fevers and antibiotics are not handed out unless it's extreme, but when it rains, which it does often, the children put on their weather gear and get outside to play. They sleep in their prams in the fresh air in practically any temperature. They are a hearty lot, so it just stands to reason that they are doing something right.

But still, I'd love to have my own doctor who follows Elliot through it all. Not just the shots and the growth scale,******** but one who knew every single detail and could put the whole picture together.

And one who had a nice nurse or a 24 hour help line I could call when my son is burning up at midnight.*********

________________________

*Seriously. If I were writing a book and Elliot was in it, I would write all of his dialogue in capital letters.

**I am the other kind.

***Page 699

****In a bit of etomological service-y-ness, did you know this phrase is really a bit of slightly paraphrased Shakespeare? I knew that it meant a conundrum of sorts, but who knew that it's all thanks to Wills? You're welcome.

*****I mean to say professionally. I do have the Big D, my sister, my sister-in-law and a smattering of friends, but just in a coincidence, I only got my mom for a second and then answering machines for all the rest. We're on our own in these parts.

******My friend looks fantastic, though. And, to this person's point, there is a distinct lack of eating establishments that serve awesome wings and foamy beers on platters carried by bosomy women wearing orange short shorts and nude tights.

*******PS This is not the forum to debate Obama's healthcare plan, in case you are thinking on that. I am not making any sort of statement pro or con'ing it or any nuances et. all. I haven't done enough research on it to make an informed statement. I will say that I was uninsured for many years because though I was making a really good living in New York, I couldn't afford it. That was scary and not right.

********Which is a whole other post. Norwegians are tall people. Americans are medium sized. So Elliot's numbers on the two scales are very different. I'll post about that in a few weeks after his next check up.

*********He's much much better now. Still a little hot and sniffly, but not scary.

And one for my mom, too, please.

(Photo and champagne courtesy of Erin.)