The rules of the children's game, Candyland, are simple. One chooses one of four brightly colored gingerbread men and places them at the start. Then one picks a card from the deck of face-down cards and moves the gingerbread man forward to the appropriate spaces, generally one or two colored spaces. To make the game more exciting, there are several points along the trail with a special picture, a gummy drop or lollipop. If one gets the card with one of the special pictures, one moves to that space. It can be a great leap forward or back, depending where you are in the game. The object of the game is to reach the Candy King's castle first.
My kids love this game. Laney, especially, LOVES this game. She wants to play it all day long. ALL. DAY. LONG. Now, I know what you're thinking.
"Nothing sounds more exciting that an all-day marathon of Candyland. Playing the game again and again and again and again must be such fun!"
You'd be wrong, my friend. Oh. So. Very. Wrong.
Mostly, it's a problem of the rules. There are The Rules, and there are Laney's Rules. She knows how to play correctly. She has even done so on occasion, but she prefers to live dangerously, playing by her own Candyland rules.
Laney's Rules for Candyland
1. The picture cards are the best cards. The others, boring. Take all the picture cards and put them on the top of the draw pile. Even if the cards are face up, act surprised and happy when you pull your favorite, the lollipop girl. Joyfully move your gingerbread man to the appropriate space. When all the picture cards have been drawn, put them back at the top of the pile and start again. This way, the game NEVER ends, because you move only among the "fun" spaces. Remember to act surprised every time you pull a card from the pile.
2. When forced to use the boring ole colored cards, if it indicates you are to move ahead to the next blue space, you can really move back a blue space or ahead three blue spaces, or to another colored space of your choosing. If your picky older brother starts yelling about "cheating" and "not playing with you anymore," just shake your head from side to side and say, "Noooo." Watch his face twist in frustration. You can also yell back, thus increasing the amusement of the other players, namely, mommy.
3. You can decide to be a different gingerbread man at any point in the game -- your older brother's will cause the most excitement. If he objects, just pick up his gingerbread man and run. Run until he catches you (because he is bigger, stronger, and faster) and wrestles you to the ground. Scream at the top of your longs in outrage. Don't give in until the fight ends in tears for both of you. As you may have guessed, mommy is generally very entertained by this behavior.
4. When you are finished playing, scatter the cards to the four winds and hide the gingerbread men. When no one can find them later, act very confused indeed. If mommy does find all the pieces and puts the game away, let her have her minute, then drag it back out and ask to play again.
One can never play too much Candyland.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Laney's Hair
Pre-mommy-of-a-three-year-old girl, I thought my relationship with my daughter's hair would be one of joy. . .of braids and ponytails, pretty bows and clips. I was excited about all the cute pigtails and fun I would have with my daughter's hair. What is it about little girls' hair, anyway? She was so adorable and would be even cuter with bows in her pretty hair.
I didn't think I'd have to wait too long. When my son was born, he had a head full of thick black hair that quickly grew into a head of thick light brown hair. I could have put littlechoking hazards cute clips and barrettes in his hair by the time he was four months old. Laney was born with a bit of downy brown hair, but not near as much as Nicky, and it grew slowly.
Then, finally, FINALLY her hair began to grow out. First, it was her bangs. I thought I would let them grow out and just put them back. Clip went in her hair, two seconds later, little baby hands took them out again. Clip went back in, one second later, little baby hands took them out again. It was a battle of wills. I, of course, lost. Poor thing went around looking a little shaggy until I finally gave in and cut her bangs on a regular basis.
Then, last summer, her hair was just long enough to really run a brush through. Not long, just long enough. As I gently pulled the hairbrush through her hair, it felt unbelievably good. I had no idea that brushing my daughter's hair could make me feel so gooey inside.
I will wait until after Christmas pictures, at least, but I don't know if I can wait until she's 7 or 8.
I didn't think I'd have to wait too long. When my son was born, he had a head full of thick black hair that quickly grew into a head of thick light brown hair. I could have put little
Then, finally, FINALLY her hair began to grow out. First, it was her bangs. I thought I would let them grow out and just put them back. Clip went in her hair, two seconds later, little baby hands took them out again. Clip went back in, one second later, little baby hands took them out again. It was a battle of wills. I, of course, lost. Poor thing went around looking a little shaggy until I finally gave in and cut her bangs on a regular basis. Then, last summer, her hair was just long enough to really run a brush through. Not long, just long enough. As I gently pulled the hairbrush through her hair, it felt unbelievably good. I had no idea that brushing my daughter's hair could make me feel so gooey inside.
I remembered all the times I sat in a chair as my mom brushed my own hair and braided it or put it up -- the brush tickling my scalp before it began the descent down the long length of my hair, lightly tugging my head backward. I could feel the my mother's hands gently parting my own hair and forming it into braids or putting it up in a ponytail.
Now, it was me on the other side of the chair. I was doing the brushing and running my fingers though my daughter's silky soft hair as she sat quietly in the chair. The surge of memories from the past, of me and my mother, combined with visions of the memories-to-be, of me and my daughter. The past, the future, and the now, all connected through this ritual, the brushing of hair. It felt a little weird to feel this sudden onslaught of emotions over a simple, everyday thing, but I was a little emotional. I loved brushing my daughter's hair.
That feeling lasted exactly one afternoon.
The problem is my daughter comes with a strong personality, one that isn't so fond of having her hair brushed. Actually, she hates it and carries on like a lunatic whenever she sees the brush coming toward her hair. From that blissful afternoon to the present-day, our hair-brushing ritual has degenerated into me chasing her around the house with a brush. If these walls could talk. . .
"Laney, get over here now!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Most days I am bothered to try and catch her. Often enough, I get the brush through her hair a few times while we're both on the run. What a ridiculous image. How did I end up here, again?? Maybe I get a barrette in to try and keep her long locks out of her face. She yanks them out and throws the cute little barrettes on the floor.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't WANT to wear these! I ALWAYS have to wear these!"
If I try to force her into submission, she shakes her head violently and musses her hair with her hands, tangling it further.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Is that me or her? We're usually screaming in unison at this point.
Our hair-brushing encounters often winds up in tears, hers, and migraines, mine. That's when other memories of me and my mother come flooding back. Her, in the mad dash of the weekday morning, yanking my hair back into a quick ponytail while tangles were brushed quickly and painfully into submission. All the while, I was yelling, "Ouch! Stop! You're pulling my hair!" My tears. Her migraines.
When I was 7 or 8, my mother took me took me to a beauty salon and spoke conspiratorially with the beautician in Japanese. When I left, I had a little pixie cut. My mother also got me a perm once, leaving me with a semi-afro, a highly unnatural look for a half-white, half-Asian girl, but that's another story for another day. I never thought I'd want to do this, but I some days I want to give my daughter her own little pixie cut and be done with it. I'll spare her the afro.
I will wait until after Christmas pictures, at least, but I don't know if I can wait until she's 7 or 8.
Monday, November 10, 2008
There is no gown
When one moves to a new country, one inevitably compares their new country to "home." Things are done differently here and there. It's not always good or bad, just different, although one's stage of culture shock can color the comparison.
In the early stages, the honeymoon period, ones sees only the positives of the new country and feels secure in the decision to have moved. They can't breathe in enough of the crisp, clean air. The beautiful scenery astounds them on a regular basis. Medical care is free. Crime rates are low, literacy rates are high. It's cold but not THAT cold, and summers can actually be quite pleasant and warm.
In later stages, comparisons become less favorable. People begin to have doubts. They begin to wonder -- wonder why the hell they ever let their husband drag them to the end of the planet where one could buy a small plot of land in the rest of the world for what it costs to fill up the tank of a car, where people don't tell you to have a nice day, where it is never, ever, ever, EVER warm, and for the love of all that's good in the world, why the hell don't people hold the damn door open for those that follow?!?!?!
Oh, sorry. Lost my train of thought. By the way, it's not as if I've ever thought those thoughts. I'm just sayin', hypothetically speaking. . .
Where was I going with this?
Vaginal exams, right.
Didn't see that coming, did ya? Since I didn't move to a country with a vastly different culture from my own, I was never hit with big waves of culture shock. Instead, it was always the small things that would startle me into the realization that, yes, I've moved to a different country. It's in the subtleties that I notice the difference.
Small things, like in the control of the underlife. (Tee hee. Norwegians don't understand why sometimes their lovely language can send me into peals of laughter. A womanly exam is called an underlivets kontrol, meaning an underlife appointment, but kontrol sounds like control. . .get it?? Voice tapering off as no one else finds it quite so amusing.)
So while the big picture is not much different, it's in the details.
In both countries, when a woman submits to this decidedly unpleasant but medically necessary part of preventative health care, she is shown in to the examination room and told to undress.
In the States, after a woman undresses and lays her neatly folded clothes on the chair. I can't be the ONLY one who does this. She puts on a paper gown and drapes a paper blanket over her lap while she waits for the doctor to come in. You know, to protect her dignity for later when she is laying back on the table, legs in stirrups while a total stranger inspects her most intimate regions with a spotlight. Many American doctors also have some kind of picture on the ceiling for the woman to stare at while they are trying to pretend they are somewhere else. Oh, look! Pretty flowers! I'm in a garden. Twirling! Dancing!
As much fun as you could have making light of all these little niceties, hours of unadulterated laughter, I'm sure, you miss those niceties when they're gone. Desperately.
In Norway, there is no paper gown.
Do you hear what I'm saying?! No paper gown. This means that once you're undressed, you stand there, naked (or, at least, half-naked). What exactly are you supposed to do when standing naked in an unfamiliar, well-lit room? Just get on up in the chair, put your legs in the stir-ups, and wait? You don't want the doctor to think you're unprepared, do you? Or start rifling through the drawers to take your mind off the fact that your ass and, gulp, front are just hanging out in the breeze? We're never more free than when we're naked, so maybe we could just start dancing to pass the time.
The worst was, the worst was, please don't tell anyone. I'm just sharing this with you. . .and everyone else with an internet connection, but really, it's private. The worst was, shortly after my daughter was born, I had to go in to the doc for a check to make sure all was okay with my underlife. I had only recently moved to this country and didn't understand the no-paper-gown-thing. The dressing/undressing area was at the back of a cavernous exam room, which was roughly the size of a football stadium. I dutifully went back, undressed, and looked desperately for the safety of a thin paper gown. There was none. The doctor and the nurse and, I think, half the hospital staff waited for me to come out. Finally, someone asked me if everything was okay, clearly expecting me to walk out in all my post-baby nakedness to the exam chair, which was placed on the other side of this gigantic room.
If I think about it now, it was probably that moment I began my descent toward Stage 2 (everything in the new country sucks) culture shock. And of course, there are no pictures on the ceiling here. Doctors don't chat away. Instead, they do the exam in cold, stony silence.
Generally, I appreciate the European/Norwegian attitude toward nudity. I think it's much healthier than our puritanical American attitude. Nudity is natural. It's not that people run around in the streets naked (too cold), but children's butts aren't blurred out on the television either, because really, we're talking America's Funniest Home Videos not depravity.
I also think this attitude lends itself to healthier body images. In any case, people shouldn't feel uncomfortable in their own skins. I can respect that. A commonplace medical exam is not exactly the time to be modest. All of the other stuff is simply unnecessary. I can understand that, too.
But seriously. What the hell is so wrong with paper-gowns?!
In the early stages, the honeymoon period, ones sees only the positives of the new country and feels secure in the decision to have moved. They can't breathe in enough of the crisp, clean air. The beautiful scenery astounds them on a regular basis. Medical care is free. Crime rates are low, literacy rates are high. It's cold but not THAT cold, and summers can actually be quite pleasant and warm.
In later stages, comparisons become less favorable. People begin to have doubts. They begin to wonder -- wonder why the hell they ever let their husband drag them to the end of the planet where one could buy a small plot of land in the rest of the world for what it costs to fill up the tank of a car, where people don't tell you to have a nice day, where it is never, ever, ever, EVER warm, and for the love of all that's good in the world, why the hell don't people hold the damn door open for those that follow?!?!?!
Oh, sorry. Lost my train of thought. By the way, it's not as if I've ever thought those thoughts. I'm just sayin', hypothetically speaking. . .
Where was I going with this?
Vaginal exams, right.
Didn't see that coming, did ya? Since I didn't move to a country with a vastly different culture from my own, I was never hit with big waves of culture shock. Instead, it was always the small things that would startle me into the realization that, yes, I've moved to a different country. It's in the subtleties that I notice the difference.
Small things, like in the control of the underlife. (Tee hee. Norwegians don't understand why sometimes their lovely language can send me into peals of laughter. A womanly exam is called an underlivets kontrol, meaning an underlife appointment, but kontrol sounds like control. . .get it?? Voice tapering off as no one else finds it quite so amusing.)
So while the big picture is not much different, it's in the details.
In both countries, when a woman submits to this decidedly unpleasant but medically necessary part of preventative health care, she is shown in to the examination room and told to undress.
In the States, after a woman undresses and lays her neatly folded clothes on the chair. I can't be the ONLY one who does this. She puts on a paper gown and drapes a paper blanket over her lap while she waits for the doctor to come in. You know, to protect her dignity for later when she is laying back on the table, legs in stirrups while a total stranger inspects her most intimate regions with a spotlight. Many American doctors also have some kind of picture on the ceiling for the woman to stare at while they are trying to pretend they are somewhere else. Oh, look! Pretty flowers! I'm in a garden. Twirling! Dancing!
As much fun as you could have making light of all these little niceties, hours of unadulterated laughter, I'm sure, you miss those niceties when they're gone. Desperately.
In Norway, there is no paper gown.
Do you hear what I'm saying?! No paper gown. This means that once you're undressed, you stand there, naked (or, at least, half-naked). What exactly are you supposed to do when standing naked in an unfamiliar, well-lit room? Just get on up in the chair, put your legs in the stir-ups, and wait? You don't want the doctor to think you're unprepared, do you? Or start rifling through the drawers to take your mind off the fact that your ass and, gulp, front are just hanging out in the breeze? We're never more free than when we're naked, so maybe we could just start dancing to pass the time.
The worst was, the worst was, please don't tell anyone. I'm just sharing this with you. . .and everyone else with an internet connection, but really, it's private. The worst was, shortly after my daughter was born, I had to go in to the doc for a check to make sure all was okay with my underlife. I had only recently moved to this country and didn't understand the no-paper-gown-thing. The dressing/undressing area was at the back of a cavernous exam room, which was roughly the size of a football stadium. I dutifully went back, undressed, and looked desperately for the safety of a thin paper gown. There was none. The doctor and the nurse and, I think, half the hospital staff waited for me to come out. Finally, someone asked me if everything was okay, clearly expecting me to walk out in all my post-baby nakedness to the exam chair, which was placed on the other side of this gigantic room.
If I think about it now, it was probably that moment I began my descent toward Stage 2 (everything in the new country sucks) culture shock. And of course, there are no pictures on the ceiling here. Doctors don't chat away. Instead, they do the exam in cold, stony silence.
Generally, I appreciate the European/Norwegian attitude toward nudity. I think it's much healthier than our puritanical American attitude. Nudity is natural. It's not that people run around in the streets naked (too cold), but children's butts aren't blurred out on the television either, because really, we're talking America's Funniest Home Videos not depravity.
I also think this attitude lends itself to healthier body images. In any case, people shouldn't feel uncomfortable in their own skins. I can respect that. A commonplace medical exam is not exactly the time to be modest. All of the other stuff is simply unnecessary. I can understand that, too.
But seriously. What the hell is so wrong with paper-gowns?!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Fun Links for Friday
Have way too much time on your hands? Then check out your color vision. Why not? It's Friday!
Warning: Doing so may make you feel blind and dizzy for a few minutes following.
The best score is zero. Mine was 7. I almost went blind getting that score!
Warning: Doing so may make you feel blind and dizzy for a few minutes following.
The best score is zero. Mine was 7. I almost went blind getting that score!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Early Bird
You know what I envy my daughter?
BESIDES her youth and her perfect, unblemished complexion. . .
I envy her the way she wakes up in the morning. The rest of us in this family are slow to get out of bed -- the two adults being the worst. If we had our way, we'd never get out of bed. (Not as sexy as it sounds, really. We're talking about snuggling under our own covers, in blissful sleep, inflicting our morning breath on no one). Nicky also loves to luxuriate in the mornings. If I don't miss my guess, he will be crawling out of bed at two in the afternoon when he's a teen. Don't get me wrong. He's not difficult in the morning. As long as I let him wake up at his own pace, he gets up and gets dressed easily. (We'll see how that changes once he HAS to be up early for school).
Laney, on the other hand, bounds out of bed. I often hear her wake up. First, the covers rustle as she rolls this way and that in those last moments of sleep. Suddenly, she pops awake and pat-pat-pat-pat, I hear running across the floor, full of life and full of chatter. If I have to wake her up before her own internal clock has, it generally takes just a soft whisper in her ear that it's morning, and she sits straight up in bed, still half asleep, but quickly forcing herself alive.
She is so excited for every new day.
I hope that she will always love coming awake in the morning. I hope that she'll always bound out of bed because there is so much she is excited to do that day. Of course, it won't be every day. I just hope those days outnumber all the others. Of all of the dreams and hopes that I have for my daughter, that she continues to love starting her day is at the very top of my list.
BESIDES her youth and her perfect, unblemished complexion. . .
I envy her the way she wakes up in the morning. The rest of us in this family are slow to get out of bed -- the two adults being the worst. If we had our way, we'd never get out of bed. (Not as sexy as it sounds, really. We're talking about snuggling under our own covers, in blissful sleep, inflicting our morning breath on no one). Nicky also loves to luxuriate in the mornings. If I don't miss my guess, he will be crawling out of bed at two in the afternoon when he's a teen. Don't get me wrong. He's not difficult in the morning. As long as I let him wake up at his own pace, he gets up and gets dressed easily. (We'll see how that changes once he HAS to be up early for school).
Laney, on the other hand, bounds out of bed. I often hear her wake up. First, the covers rustle as she rolls this way and that in those last moments of sleep. Suddenly, she pops awake and pat-pat-pat-pat, I hear running across the floor, full of life and full of chatter. If I have to wake her up before her own internal clock has, it generally takes just a soft whisper in her ear that it's morning, and she sits straight up in bed, still half asleep, but quickly forcing herself alive.
She is so excited for every new day.
I hope that she will always love coming awake in the morning. I hope that she'll always bound out of bed because there is so much she is excited to do that day. Of course, it won't be every day. I just hope those days outnumber all the others. Of all of the dreams and hopes that I have for my daughter, that she continues to love starting her day is at the very top of my list.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Election '08
I was fascinated to see an advertisement yesterday on TV2 (one of the larger TV networks here) for 24-hour Election '08 coverage. This is the American election we're talking about. The Norwegian elections are next year.
It made me really stop to think how powerful the president of the United States is. His (one day her) election is covered the world over, not in passing, but in 24-hour special coverage.
A little ironic. Most Norwegians can tell you who the president of the U.S.A. is and many will watch this coverage of the next president. Most Americans, however, don't know the difference between Norway and the Netherlands. No! They're not the same place! And yes, Seven has been asked if they have wooden shoes where he's from after he has said he is Norwegian.
Many Americans can't even name one other world leader. I can, but I cheat, because I live in a foreign country. I know the Norwegian prime minister is Jonas Stoltenborg. (Ha! Just kidding! Trying to give the Norwegians in the crowd a little heart attack.)
To be fair, Americans live in a country of 300 million people. There is a lot going on there. Like everything American, the election is BIG. Big enough to travel oceans and make it top news in other places.
In honor of Election '08, the cutest election conversation ever.
A friend of mine told me her son's class is studying a little bit about the elections and is holding a secret ballot. My friend's son said that he has decided to vote for Barack Obama. His four-year-old sister chimed in, "Yeah, I'm going to vote for A Rock Omama, too!"
I'm sure one could collect all the cute ways kids say the candidate's name.
*For those of you who don't know and are curious, the prime minister's name is really Jens Stoltenberg (2005 - ). You never know. That piece of knowledge may be the answer that will win you a game of Trival Pursuit one day. Hang on to it.
It made me really stop to think how powerful the president of the United States is. His (one day her) election is covered the world over, not in passing, but in 24-hour special coverage.
A little ironic. Most Norwegians can tell you who the president of the U.S.A. is and many will watch this coverage of the next president. Most Americans, however, don't know the difference between Norway and the Netherlands. No! They're not the same place! And yes, Seven has been asked if they have wooden shoes where he's from after he has said he is Norwegian.
Many Americans can't even name one other world leader. I can, but I cheat, because I live in a foreign country. I know the Norwegian prime minister is Jonas Stoltenborg. (Ha! Just kidding! Trying to give the Norwegians in the crowd a little heart attack.)
To be fair, Americans live in a country of 300 million people. There is a lot going on there. Like everything American, the election is BIG. Big enough to travel oceans and make it top news in other places.
In honor of Election '08, the cutest election conversation ever.
A friend of mine told me her son's class is studying a little bit about the elections and is holding a secret ballot. My friend's son said that he has decided to vote for Barack Obama. His four-year-old sister chimed in, "Yeah, I'm going to vote for A Rock Omama, too!"
I'm sure one could collect all the cute ways kids say the candidate's name.
*For those of you who don't know and are curious, the prime minister's name is really Jens Stoltenberg (2005 - ). You never know. That piece of knowledge may be the answer that will win you a game of Trival Pursuit one day. Hang on to it.
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