Hi

hi gang,

doing a lot of one-handed typing these days, as my main computer time is when leo is on my lap doing something like nursing or snoozing. so forgive my lack of caps.

sunday morning, ben and i are half-listening to a podcast of "fresh air," and leo is waking up on my lap. okay, now leo is shrieking, a rare occurrence of late. i think maybe eating half a head of romanesco (like fancy broccoli) last night might not have been the most brilliant idea. ben is walking him around as he arches his back in pain. poor little guy.

[Interlude. I feed Leo some fennel tea. He pukes on the floor. Ben takes over, rocks him underneath the stove fan, Leo's favorite noise. Susie cleans the house frantically while she has two hands free.]

And now Leo is on Ben's lap, and I have capital letters again. Life as a mom continues. Oslo is spectacular these days: crisp, sunny, breezy, and all the sorts of things that happen in summer somewhere else happen in September here: the nighttime candle-lit walk along the Akerselva (the river that runs through East Oslo), the two-day farmers' market extravaganza on Karl Johans Gate. It's great to have diversions and things to do when you have a new baby and your husband is simultaneously writing a Masters thesis and looking for a job.

I have up and down days. I'll admit the lack of independence can get to someone as happy about her free time as I am. But Leo is steadily becoming more joyful to be around. I feel like we just had a couple breakthroughs that have made my life feel more complete and a little less chaotic. One, he seems to need to eat a little less frequently, or maybe I have figured out that he wasn't really eating the whole time he was camped out on my boobs for 45-minute long sessions that took place every 90 minutes (let's just say, Leo is a breast man at the tender age of eight weeks). And, and I almost hesitate to write this lest I jinx it, he seems to have become a better sleeper in the past five days, napping more consistently and, better yet, falling asleep on his own (i.e. without a parent rocking him to sleep, which we had to do every time before now). The funny thing is I would have just kept on rocking him, assuming he wouldn't fall asleep on his own, had Ben not unceremoniously dumped Leo in his basinet one night because his back was hurting and he was sick of standing up with him in his arms—only for us to find three hours later that Leo had fallen fast asleep and stayed that way. Oh joyous day. He compensates grudgingly for this move of independence by wanting to be carried a lot during the day and taking at least one nap cradled in my arms. To be honest, I don't mind one bit. It is, to use the Norwegian word, one of the most koselig things I can imagine, having a little warm cute guy all snuggled up in the crook of your arm. These days don't last forever, so the experts tell me.

And he's smiling; looking at books with pictures of dots and circles and things. I'm singing to him and reading him poetry. He tends to start crying when I read the poetry. He smiles when I sing.

Not much else to report. Today is a little gray and we're going to go for a walk in the city, maybe get a coffee, stroll around. My thoughts are starting to turn to home and so are Ben's, though there are days I don't want to leave Norway at all. Part of this is practical—the medical care is incredible here. Seriously. Any of you, or your relatives, who wants to hear about my experience with socialized medicine, I am happy to share. And I have made some really good friends, and of course the thought of leaving the Steen and Brook Steen families makes my heart break. But I really miss my family...Ben's family...tacos...

Here are a couple of recent pics.

Leo with grampa Tim, who visited a couple weeks ago:



Leo with Auntie Jorin, who surprised us, armed with raw goodies and John Lennon onesies and fancy Italian leather baby shoes:



And Leo and me in the Vigelands Park. In case you were wondering, yes, the gorgeous thick hair I had for nine months is falling out in clumps. Fleeting pregnancy hormones, ya bastards.




Cheers,

Susie