The Year That Was

Is this the customary end of year post? Well no since I haven't done one on my blog yet and yes in the hope of this being customary in the future. I have to thank my enthusiastic friends who coerced me into thinking and presenting the highlights of 2017 of my mundane life. Armed with limited skills and to top that with shyness and general weirdness, my only form of expression is writing. If I had to just read this aloud in front of an audience I would sound like a bumbling idiot (in front of the bathroom mirror nothing short of broadway).

But moving on let's take a look at some of the highlights, in no particular order:

1. The weight loss saga - Like every year, my year starts with focused determination to lose weight, to be thin and sexy and that focus lasts about a day till I open the first packet of chips and then it's Mexican Fiesta (my new found flavour) all the way. However in the middle of this year I was forced by my sister to join this health group and I shed about 8 kilos (which only I could notice), put back 4 of them already (may be more, but I blame it on Christmas) and next year I will most definitely make more weight loss plans that I will not follow again. 

2. The house - To move in or not to move in. Living in our tiny apartment in the city we were content. Of course we couldn't fit in all the people we wanted at one time, though we have managed some extremely crammed gatherings where people were walking sideways for the lack of space, but we were still content. To leave the convenience of the city where we didn't need a car and managed very well with public transport; where during winter snow melted away immediately when temperatures hit above zero (no dealing with extreme icy conditions and no need to get out the grandma spikes, which I still have to learn to walk in by the way); where we could easily get a takeaway in 5 minutes walking distance if we were too tired or rather too lazy to cook (usually the latter). However, the greed for more space to store all the junk we had collected over the years won over and we decided to move to the suburbs.

3. The stuff - How much stuff can you collect in 5 years? I'll tell you; 4 large suitcases, 26 large cartons, 12 medium cartons plus throw in a few blue ikea bags for things we will now call miscellaneous. And this is excluding furniture and appliances. Our tiny apartment was a fully furnished serviced apartment which meant that the only stuff that belonged to us were our small personal items which would normally be clothes, books, toys (the kid's of course), etc. 

If you had to ask me to recall all the items in those boxes we could be sitting here for months, just trying to recall. I think there was one box filled only with wires. I don't know what they did, where they went, what they connected to, but what if we did need them one day and had thrown out that exact same wire, oh the horror! So of course, we had to keep all the wires including the neon green ones with a broken ear bud at one end; for a future auditory emergency! These wires had been together so long they were now almost one entity. There was probably some binary fission action happening there while we were not looking.

4. The move - Friends offered to help us move and we had to politely decline. Have you tried fitting 38 boxes in one car? We were not aiming for a world record here. So on moving day we ended up with a humungous van and a very bewildered friend who had trouble believing the amount of stuff this tiny apartment was spewing out. 

5. The hill - I always thought that the walk to my daughters school in the city was a bit cumbersome because of the climb, all 100 meters of it. And then came the walk  to Emma Hjorth Skole.  First day of school was full of blood, sweat and tears, by a very unfit 38 year old, me. That evening a desperate googling for electric cycles happened. It was either that or I needed a teleportation device. The hill was ultimately conquered with some more sweat and tears, until winter came and out came the old lady shuffle. One evening it took me over 30 minutes to walk down the hill, it would have been faster if I just rolled down.

6. The bartender - After more than 16 years of working in IT the husband quit his job, and decided to become a bartender. He slogged it out in bartending school, topped his class and truly achieved his dream. More drinks for us. Also, now our daughter has dropped her confused looked when asked what do her parents do. The dad's profession is voiced vociferously to whosoever will listen; even the random guy at the takeaway place.

7. Bijli ki Rani - The most mind-boggling discovery of this year after about 30 years of living in blissful ignorance, was when my friend corrected the words of the most famous song of my one of my favourite movies as a child, Mr. India. The Indian lady pretending to be a Hawaiian was actually saying 'Bijli Giraney' (which means she came to drop lightning) and not 'Bijli Ki Rani' (The queen of lightning) which I had believed to be true my entire life up until few days ago. I am still coming to terms with it... she was the queen of lightning...the queen!

To round up, we still have boxes to unpack, still have the goddamn hill to climb, but I hope 2018 to be just as great, of 'Bijli ki Rani' revelations and may be this year will be the year of the thin and sexy.

Happy New Year!

The Sleeping-Dressing-Wiping Negotiation

This morning I had a 'deja vu' moment when Kicky said 'You previously agreed on 10 and now you're saying I should do 30'. I felt the urge to open my laptop, rummage through my email of previously sent mails and give her the evidence of what was actually agreed.

Seems like when there are two parties to a contract, there is one who is always trying to renegotiate scope, cost and timeline. Yes now you know what I do for a living, project management.

There were mainly three points or let me say, the scope of the agreement was for Kicky to
1. Sleep in her own bed for 30 days, and not jump into ours in the middle of the night
2. Get dressed on her own every morning for 30 days
3. Wipe herself after her morning business for 30 days without seeking our help
At the end of 30 days she would be entitled to a gift.

This discussion has been taking place for over a month now and had not been fully implemented for lack of a tracker or let's say a plan.

Last night we created three trackers, one each for Sleeping, Dressing and Wiping. Negotiations started almost immediately. The main driver for creating the tracker was that some activities had already started without being tracked and so as to not lose sight of progress she actually pushed me to create this.

Her first status update was that she had slept on her own, for one night, when we went up to a cabin in the mountains last week. Of course that was an achievement, and I told her that I was very proud, tried to bring out my best 'proud of you' smile and also added a well done and big hug. That ought to make me the favoured parent for a few hours. So 'Day 1' of the tracker for Sleeping was marked with a sticker.

Now on the Dressing and Wiping, she has been doing this on and off on her own, but not progressively. But she approached it with a bang and gave it her best opening, "I have been doing this some times. So can we say 9?" Not 10 mind you because that's a whole round number which gives you the impression of too much. Has she already grabbed the concept of charm pricing.
We finally shook hands on '5' and were both happy. Though I'm quite sure I was played. Stickers were stuck on the chart marking the days and then it was time for bed.

There was some resistance in getting to bed as there always is and that's when I was quick to threaten with a penalty clause, where in I would take away a stuck sticker if there were tantrums, show downs or ignoring instructions. She said its unfair to do that because the activities were unrelated. I get the point,it's probably unfair, but the threat worked.

And then this morning, after having put her stickers for completing the 3 tasks, and subsequently doing the math of how much more she had to go to get a gift, she tried the 'if-my-memory-doesn't-fail-me' trick. It's the oldest trick in all of the books.  She said, "You previously agreed on 10 and now you're saying I should do 30."
To which I replied, "No I never said 10. We never decided on the number of days." Of course being larger and louder my decision prevailed. But what hit me was my conversations at work and home were now almost similar.

The terms and conditions of the gift haven't been decided yet. That will surely hit me on Day 30 when claims are filed. I think I need to lawyer up.

The Sibling Discussion

About two years ago while I was dropping Kicky to the barnehage ('bar-na-ha-gay': kindergarten in norsk, you might as well have a crash course in Norwegian while you're reading this blog); so during one drop off, the kid asks me, 'Mama is there a baby in your tummy?' Don't blame her really, I actually look more pregnant now than when I was actually pregnant. No wonder people are offering me seats on the bus and are giving me that sympathetic look. Oh well, if they are so kind, I just oblige.
I had to tell her that I was just plump (that might be understating it, but it's impolite to say 'fat') and that though I had a big tummy there was no baby in it. She seemed to accept that, even though she seemed a little suspicious.
Ever since I randomly find myself in baby conversations with her.

One time she asked me how were babies born. Now in Norway I think they just present the facts to the kids; no mention of a big bird dropping you off in a soft blanket which is, magically, appropriately coloured and definitely none of the angel stuff, which I made up by the way. So I told her that an angel put her in my tummy and that's how she was born. Of course the actual foretelling was much more magical; I know that for a fact because from time to time I find myself narrating this story at bedtime and also reminded of the original text by an eager kid who remembers the first telling verbatim.

Once she heard the story of her birth, she wanted to know if the same would happen if she were to have a baby sister or brother. I told her that a baby growing in my tummy was one way of getting a sibling, but another way was also to bring home a baby who didn't have a mama or dada. Of course the efficiency of the angel could be questioned here but we didnt get into that. And then she asked, 'So can we buy a baby' The question was loaded with hope. Err, yes it could practically be a financial transaction but I was not going to bother her with those details. I had to twist the facts a bit and repeat the inefficient angel bit. Again in a loud voice, 'So are we going to BUY a baby?' Luckily we were at home and trusted that our doubled glazed windows worked also as partial soundproofers. I was not ready for child trafficking SWAT teams to raid my apartment.

Next day when I picked her up from the barnehage, I met her best friend's mom, who softly asked me 'I heard something. Are you expecting another one?' Took me a split second to comprehend, because I had completely forgotten our 'buying a baby' conversation. The only way to explain this was to repeat the whole story again. Yes, it's a bit awkward and strange when a person you don't know very well is talking about angels and buying babies. Too much information. Actually, too much weird information.

A few months ago, Kicky told the husband, 'Dada, may be Mama will have a baby in the summer.
Dad: 'Why do you think so?'
Kicky: 'Dada (rolling her eyes, frustrated that she had to explain herself), I said "maybe" '
The operative word being 'maybe' but again very hopeful.

Some days, she looks at my tummy which has now grown even bigger, and asks me if I am sure there is no baby in there. Sometimes I look at the tummy and wonder if something is gestating in there and might just pop through. Have you watched this weird show called 'I didn't know I was Pregnant'? There was a girl who popped in her car, in the car...! it was gross. Actually, it's probably gross even in the hospital but you cannot see it. Thank god for sheets and screens.

I don't think I am off the hook with the sibling discussion yet. I have been told (by Kicky) that it's unfair that she is the only kid and that all other kids have baby brothers or sisters. Some days she looks so sad and wishful I really wish it was easy to just buy a baby.

The 'Talking To Kids' Gawkiness Factor

Right,  I have now managed to break all my new year resolutions, successfully. My hands have involuntarily opened that bag of chips (evidence duly destroyed), I haven't stepped into my gym this year (this has been trending since sometime last year, but who's counting), though monthly payments are promptly made (this is the second organisation I support and no tax benefit even) and yes I have forgotten my blog a bit.

To think you can keep your blog alive and fresh everyday is being too ambitious. My life is not interesting, far from it. I have to rely on  my 5 year old for fodder for this blog and if I do that a tad too many times, I might come off as an obsessive mother; I think I am borderline obsessive already. For a girl who is not fond of kids, oh come on, it's not that I hate them, I am just very awkward around them.

When I pick up Kicky at the kindergarten, I see how other parents are so cool around kids, asking them questions and saying funny things. 'Oooh did you have a great time at ski scool today' 'Yaaay! We did!' Seems simple right. Not quite.

First of all I have this default look on my face, which seems to say, 'Lay off, unless you want to get punched in the face' I was born like that, my face looks grumpy, stern, serious, about 90% of the time. My actual feelings don't seem to manifest on my face instantly, so I know, I look a bit intimidating.
Sometimes I conciously remember to relax my face and maybe smile a little. Then I look like a psycho who has escaped the loony bin, and suddenly people are walking on the other side of the road to avoid an awkward ineteraction with the crazy lady.

The other hurdle is of course the language. My comprehension and knowledge of Norwegian probably is still at toddler level. I am quite sure they (the toddlers) know more words than I do, so basically I am one notch above a 2 year old in the 'dada dada' phase and a level lower than a bumbling village idiot.
One day on my out of the kindergarten I meet Kicky's friend who is coming in with her dad. She says something to me in norsk, in all that she said, I just heared 'Innika'. I reply, 'Yeah Innika is upstairs' She looks at me, then looks at her father and looks back at me again. She knew this was a lost cause, if she tried explaining her question that would make it worse, for her. At this point she was staring at me may be hoping for intelligent words to come out of my mouth. Her dad, sensing the awkwardness jumped in to translate. So what she actually asked was if Kicky could come over to her place for the evening. So imagine her surprised when my answer to that was 'Yeah, she is upstairs!'
I fled the scene, feigning 'late to work' syndrome.

This morning when I dropped off Kicky, one kid asked me if we were from England because we spoke English. I managed to hold a conversation for about two minutes, telling them in brief that we were from India and that there was no language called Indian (Indisk in norsk). Then they had me say something in 'Indian' (I give up!). Post that, there was that confused look and awkward silence again. That was my cue.

Also, you know how some people are suddenly extra nice when they talk to a kid. Yeah, that's not me. I can't fake affection (ask my husband). And kids are really smart; if you fake it, they know it. So I am down to playing it cool, speak when I am spoken to and not bother a seemingly busy kid. Else, my face will show that its being overworked with fake emotion and I might remind the kids of Chucky that weird killer doll. Oh wait, theres a new kid on the block in that department, Annabelle was it?

The 'Who is the Boss' Conundrum

The kid is at her chattiest during dinner, when I say dinner that includes making dinner too. From the time we get home we put together dinner in approximately 60 mins, sometimes 90 mins (when 'you know who' offers to cook, not Voldemort). There's none of the sitting down to relax and have my evening chai stuff. It's apron on!

We have a no TV, no laptop, basically a gadget free time on weekdays, only until the kid is asleep of course.
It's a different thing that on weekends gadget control levels are hitting subzero and the kid is wired on playdoh videos, peppa pig videos and have you come across these 'egg' videos? There's this kid or teenager, who continuously opens these toy eggs and shows us what's inside. I think its absolutely disgusting!
The 5 year old in our house is banned from watching them and I just know when she's trying to get a peek at one of those. She goes into the bedroom, tries to lower the volume and tries to watch the video ever so slyly. But I follow her and bust her and then she says, 'But I clicked the video by mistake. I don't want to watch it. Really'.

The peppa pig videos are annoying as well, but she learnt to play 'Snap' from it, also her manners have improved in a proper British way, so the humour (which I don't get) and the slightly bothersome tone of the whole show is a small price to pay.

So while on weekends the kid is virtually non-existent, on weekdays, she is forced to make polite conversation with the older people of the house, meaning the hubby and me.
Yesterday while cooking dinner she asked, 'Mama, who is the boss of the house?'
Me: 'Who do you think is the boss of the house?'
Always better to check first about what they think.
Kid: 'You are the boss of the house, aren't you?'
Me (with my ego now fed and secretly smiling): 'Why do you say that?'
Kid: 'Because you cook the food!'

It was a bit ironic because yesterday the hubby actually offered to cook the main dish, while I was making chapathis (one type of Indian flat bread - just in case there are international readers).
Of course I should have given her high five said, 'Right on babe! Mama is the boss'
But you know sometimes I just have to do (or say) the right thing and I hate it.
Me: 'You know babe there is no Boss of the house. We all take care of the house.'

But later when I was telling the hubby what to do with his dish; hey I don't poke my nose in someone else's business, we were trying to determine if the dish was done or not and I was trying to tell him succinctly that it was done and if we cooked it any further it would turn to mush. So I must have looked a tad hysterical when I repeatedly said, 'Turn it off, turn it off'.
Anyway, while we were deliberating, the kid then quite vehemently told the hubby to listen to me, apparently coz I knew better, and may be was also louder.
Kid: 'Listen to Mama, Dada. She knows what to do. Just listen to her!'

I see signs of a feminist uprising in the household. In a few years we'll know who really is the boss.

Salt and Ice and Everything Nice

For a country that has an overall population of 5 million people, you would think taking the public transport in Oslo in the morning would be a pleasant affair.
But whether it's Bangalore (population 10M), London (population 9.5M) or Oslo (1.5 M), during the office rush hour, you are guaranteed to stand-in as acting 'Cheese Slice' in an unsavoury sandwich. Or worse because you're really short (yes, I am short) are forcibly tented under a massive arm; some days you're wishing you had that blocked nose.

Yesterday, I was stuck standing near the drivers seat and honest soul that I am, was trying to activate my travel card at the nearest card reader. I was in a half ballet pose, balancing on one leg (which is never a good idea in a moving bus) and since I am short, have short and pudgy arms, still could not reach 'swipe point'. A kind lady then swiped my card for me, only then to be pointed to an easier accessible swipe point right next to the driver by another fellow traveller, who seemed to have enjoyed my little pseudo-ballet number and waited to tell me after I had a near muscle cramp from all that stretching.

Public transport in Norway is actually very good, though the locals still complain. But coming from a place where handkerchiefs were considered a fair way to reserve seating on the bus, not to mention the condition of the buses themselves, one journey could send your back into spasm, public transport here is well maintained, clean and comfortable (if you have managed to secure a seat).

It's been snowing quite a lot these past two days, but the roads, at least the expressway my bus takes, seem clear of all snow at all times. Now call me uninformed, or naive or just highly optimistic of modern technology, but I thought (actually was quite sure) that the roads were made of some stuff or there was something in them that was melting all the snow. Yes, the question around what would happen in the summer then, did cross my mind. But these days you get underwear which will keep you warm when it's cold and the same damn thing will keep you dry and slightly cool when temperatures rise. If you can put this sort of technology into underwear how difficult is it to apply to roads.

So I asked my Norwegian colleague (not about underwear), how is it that the roads are free of snow when it has snowed like bloody 'The Day After Tomorrow'. He said that they salt the roads. Huh, so much for advanced technology. Salt and snow ploughers, I gathered.

On my bus ride home yesterday I sat in the first seat, this basically is 'bus' shotgun, you're kinda next to the driver but a few inches behind him. It's kind of like being in a simulator, where you can feel the speed and watch the track in the front of you, only here it is real.
Just before my ride home I happened to read a news article of a huge truck in an accident because of Black Ice. When I lived in my utopic world of self-snow-melting-roads I was confident that however fast my bus went on these roads I was not going to die. Also, I have immense faith, almost to the degree of blindness, in drivers who are by profession, drivers. A cab ride in India can give you the same thrill as the 'Banshee'. But because he is a driver by profession I travel undeterred. However, when with hubby who is a careful and skilled driver, I am pushing imaginary brakes and shouting out one word cautions, often expletives. I never said I was a pleasant passenger.

Now with my new found knowledge of salt, snow ploughers and accidents because of ice, I was watching out for black ice on the road (which is stupid, because you never really see black ice), cussing the driver (in my head) for driving so fast and was desperately trying to remember the hail mary. I usually read on my commute, but yesterday I had put down my Mindy Kaling (she's quite unputdownable by the way) and concentrated on the road, just to scare my already wildly beating heart more.

I am usually not paranoid, actually I am quite rational and sometimes do the putting of two and two together, as they say. Oslo saw two major public transport accidents last autumn. If you can screw up and get into a head on collision in totally dry conditions, how hard was it to do the same on ice. Ice which was now possible because it was a manual process of salting and ploughing, dependent on a guy who could miss a spot, a spot that could spin your car around in a very 'The fast and the furious' style.

Today I stood in the rear of the bus and had my nose in my book, ignored the two thuds of something hitting the bus from below. If I died today I would have at least died laughing. (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? - Mindy Kaling)

Walking on Ice

Yesterday's weather forecast was snow, and well it's always nice to have snow as long as it stays snow. And even though I wore my good boots (by that I mean, feminine looking and not waterproof) to work, I thought it wouldn't be that bad walking in them in the snow.
But no, meteorologists failed to announce to us that this snow would fast turn into rain and the snow which had laced, more like blanketed, footpaths and walkways would now be looking like the disgusting machine drink that kids love so much, only this color was not neon blue or shocking pink.

So on my way home from work I had to reluctantly place my feet (alongwith my boots) in almost ankle high slush. There was just no escaping this potential hazard to the leather on my boots. Yes, that's all I could think of while squelching through the melted snow. But I got home with very wet feet and no further incident and hopefully my boots have forgiven me for putting them through that ordeal.

This morning however, was what you could describe as the Ice Queen exploding.  Of course, after yesterday's snow and rain, temperatures had to drop just enough to create ice. Let's see Hammer singing to this.
It's one thing to walk in slushy snow with pretty boots but a different game when you get out the big ugly 'I can withstand a snow storm' shoes also known as winter boots.

When you're experiencing winter for the first time (yeah whatever you say, there is no such thing as winter in South India) you look for the most practical gear; a jacket that will keep you warm in -30, shoes that are waterproof and that will keep you warm in -30, a cap that is windproof, gloves that are waterproof, windproof and durable.
What this means is, once you get dressed to go out and experience the winter you're
a) looking like a dork
b) not able to move freely enough and are now walking like a cross between the michelin man and a duck
c) actually now too hot, because it never hits -30 in the city.

Anyway, coming back to this morning, out came the mother of all winter boots. And when you wear these kind of boots, because these are the right kind of boots to wear in this weather, you have this sense of confidence that since you're wearing the right stuff, you're protected and also may be feel a hint of invincibility. That feeling shot me down twice.

I was running late today and have to take two buses to work. I had exactly 3 minutes to get from stop A to stop B, didn't pay any attention to the driver's warning about ice and what do you know. Yes, I fell, which I have already confirmed, in a previous post, is not a pretty sight. Then this one guy helped me up, I really dont know where he came from, asked me if I was ok, me still trying to get to stop B thanked him briefly may be even sounded curt, said I'm ok and dashed off again. So leaving behind a slightly annoyed norwegian (due to my lack of graciousness) with the left calf of my jeans wet, I managed to catch the bus.

The further away you get from the city the icier it gets. Strike Two. I fell just after I crossed the road, once I got off the bus.
You know there's a moment when you know you're going to fall and that there's no use fighting it, you just have to take the fall. Right calf now wet, at least my jeans now looked symmetrical, and people would not wonder if I couldn't hold my water, I treaded carefully to work. I have seen old ladies with walking sticks and spikes in their shoes walk faster than me.

Time to shop for spikes and may be a stick? People will at least be telling me how wonderful I look for my age.