Holidays

Things have been busy here these past few weeks because S's family was visiting. First his brother came with his wife and three-year-old daughter, then his parents arrived a week after the first lot left. This meant seeing some touristy sights that we hadn't gotten around to visiting, namely, the oldey worldey narrow cobblestone streets of Gamla Stan and the amusement park/zoo that is Skansen. Gamla Stan is probably the most picturesque part of Stockholm, given the architecture and the history and the proximity of the water (it's a tiny island), but Skansen has been the most consistently fun. There is something for everyone: rides for kids (including those coin-operated ones that you can stick your toddler on without paying because, really, he doesn't know the difference), an indoor children's zoo for when the weather's bad, another indoor zoo (with separate admission fee--why??), an outdoor zoo of Scandinavian animals (reindeer! bears! wolverines!), a bunch of traditional Swedish buildings and windmills that were brought piece by piece from all over Sweden (some with costumed "traditional women" who talked to you while doing things like knitting and roasting coffee--this kind of thing was more of a hit with the older crowd. I got a kick out of the traditional toys, which included a stick of firewood wearing a dress), and an outdoor marketplace with crafts and food. I think there was actually a lot more that we didn't see, because it's a pretty huge place. We even bought a family pass for one year, so if you come to visit us, it is pretty much guaranteed that we will drag you there.

S's parents were here for Thanksgiving, which they've only ever celebrated with us, and it was a little strange to not see anything Thanksgiving-related in Stockholm. I expected an American-style restaurant might have a special menu, or that someone in the expat group with which I'm loosely affiliated might organize something. It would seem that everyone's too busy getting ready for Christmas. And boy, people get ready early over here. I think I started seeing some decorations before mid-November. Lots of stars and candles (though they're really electric candles) and special Christmas greenery. And weird elves with very long beards. We do not have anything Christmas-related up yet other than some poinsettias on the windowsill. Maybe I should look into an electric Christmas candle thing soon...

A Helping Hand

Ever since we arrived in Stockholm, I've been feeling rather helpless when it comes to the simplest tasks. Both S and I were stumped by our building's elevator on the first day--there were two buttons on our floor, one on top of the other, so we naturally assumed we should press the bottom one to call the elevator to go down to the lobby. Instead, we sent the empty elevator shooting past us from above. In the case of our ancient elevator, the bottom button ("ned") always sends the elevator straight to the lobby, while the top button ("hit") is the "call" button that just brings the elevator to your floor and doesn't care if you want to go up or down. Since then, we've noticed that most old elevators only have a "hit" button to call the elevator, and it's only the modern buildings that have up and down arrows to press at the elevator bank.

I also get tricked by the different credit/debit card machines at the various supermarkets and stores. Sometimes you enter your pin and press OK, and that's it. Other times the cashier has had to say something to me in Swedish, then say "Press it again" in English when it's obvious I haven't understood that I'm supposed to press OK again to accept the total amount I'm being charged. I've gotten slightly better at paying attention to what the screen is saying (meaning, I look out for the letters "OK"), and yet, I feel like a moron every time it catches me out.

I still don't understand how the paper subway ticket works. I'm trying to avoid having to understand this by using a swipey travel card instead.

All of this is to say that, after feeling like a lost child for the past several weeks, it was refreshing to actually help someone else out for a change. I've become friendly with our upstairs neighbor, a kindergarten teacher originally from Chile who moved to Stockholm to settle down with her Swedish fiance. She's been here for over five years and is basically fluent in Swedish now but, given that my Swedish is non-existent, I've been practicing my Spanish with her. I'm taking advantage of the fact that she is currently on maternity leave with her 6-month-old son and is available during the day to just hang out. O and I went up to her place for a chat a week ago, which was a little eerie because their unit is identical to ours apart from a covered over doorway and a huge opening where there used to be a wall (you know, kind of like that Fawlty Towers episode, except nothing threatens to fall down).

Yesterday she and her son came down to our place and I got to show her the toys that O had as a baby (a lot of which he still likes). This was how I was able to be helpful. During our previous chat, my neighbor had mentioned not knowing what toys to buy, and I offered to show her what O had. She really liked a few things and was able to take pictures on her phone to see whether she could find identical things here in Stockholm. I definitely do not want to be that mom handing out unsolicited advice, but it's kind of nice to know that I could be helpful with my own experiences as a parent if she needs help. That is, if I remember what life with O was like 20 months ago...

When in Rome

The other day it was raining, relatively lightly, though still heavily enough that I would never have taken O out to play had we been in Washington. But given that we were in Sweden, I felt compelled to do what the Swedes do. You know, "There's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." And we had, after all, invested a decent amount of money in a rain jacket, rain pants (with attached fleecy bib) and boots. The only problem is that my son hates having anything on his head. It was a real struggle getting the rain hood on, and that seemed to spoil his mood completely. Whereas he'd normally be content to walk from our building to the little playground that's literally five minutes away, this time he insisted that I carry him. In the rain. At the playground, he kept fighting with his hood. It didn't matter that I pointed out how literally every single child but him had his or her head protected from the rain, so they wouldn't get wet and cold and sick. We probably stayed for fifteen or twenty minutes, neither of us especially thrilled though he did seem to enjoy playing with some of the cars and trucks. But you know, we have cars and trucks at home, where it's dry. And we also have books, which I think he might even love more than playing outside. So while I know the Swedes take their kids outside every day, no matter the weather, we might be content to make that decision on a case-by-case basis, probably winding up somewhere between our old habit of making a run for cover at the first drop of rain to the Swedish way of splashing around in 40F weather.

Random Observations

Stockholm weirdly reminds me of parts of Madrid. Have I already mentioned this? It's something about the style of architecture and the small, very specialized shops and the fact that you can find pick-and-mix candy everywhere.

 Elevators here are a little scary because there are some that only surround you with 2 or 3 walls instead of 4. This means you can see the elevator shaft whizzing past you and could touch it if you wanted. (But there are illustrated signs warning of the dangers of actually doing this.)

 People are not surprised that I speak English well. Does this make Sweden the most open-minded country I've ever lived in with respect to that, apart from the good old USA? Seriously, even in England, there was a bit of an assumption that English would not be my native language.

 I've seen some very attractive Swedish people (almost all women) but the city is not exactly crawling with supermodel types as I'd been promised. Disappointing.

 Finally, every Saturday we've been here, we've seen at least one loud group of women parading around in honor of a bride-to-be, who's wearing some kind of hideous outfit with a tiara or animal ears, and she's got a list of tasks to complete. And this inevitably takes place around noon. I'm used to this kind of thing at night, where the bars are. A couple of weeks ago we were having lunch at a falafel place when one of these groups came in and the bride kissed one of the cooks. I was so afraid she was going to kiss Owen on her way out, but she just gave him a big smile and said hello. He was fascinated.

The Defects, and The Delights

A plumber is coming by at 8 am tomorrow morning because the dishwasher doesn't work. For the first couple of weeks we'd been terribly environmentally unfriendly and ate all our meals off disposable dishes, so you can imagine our excitement when our proper plates and glasses and cutlery arrived. Poor S loaded up the dishwasher, only to find that it made a whirring noise for about thirty seconds before falling back into silence. He's been doing all the dishes by hand for the past few days as we've argued with our landlord, who swears the machine was working perfectly fine when she last used it and who appears to believe that we don't know how to use a dishwasher. (I'm pretty sure we do, and it will be extremely embarrassing if I'm wrong about that.)

At first I thought, Gee, this would never have happened at The Windermere. (That's our old building back in Washington.) I've been looking back extremely fondly on our old place and our old neighborhood. The management office was right there in the lobby if you had any issues come up, and there was a dedicated maintenance staff always around who were very friendly (to the extent that one custodian gave O a present shortly after he was born, and yes, I know it helped that I spoke Spanish), and there was always a doorman on duty in the evenings. Basically, you almost always saw someone in the building, and I liked that. It felt like a neighborhood within a neighborhood. But there are always pros and cons. We were living in a small apartment. The fact that it was laid out well with high ceilings and lots of natural light and hardwood floors made it feel bigger, plus we had two giant closets, but there's no denying the fact that we had an almost-2-year-old sleeping in a curtained-off nook adjacent to the main living space. Our kitchen was a narrow galley with only one drawer. And a small one at that. There was barely any counter space (we bought a separate piece of furniture for both counter and storage space), but there was a dishwasher! Oh, and laundry was all in the basement for roughly $3 a load. But that was actually kind of fun because O liked playing down there.

What's it like in Stockholm, you ask? Well, the things I love: the apartment is the biggest I've ever lived in. In addition to having two bedrooms (which, ok, I've lived in a 2BR), it has 1.5 baths! If you've never had that extra bathroom and you're sharing an apartment with someone, I can only hope for your good fortune in the future. There no longer exists a mad race for the single toilet after a long morning shopping trip out. (Presumably this will change when O learns about the potty, but I'm blocking out any and all considerations of this for the time being.) The ceilings are crazy high and the windows are proportionately tall and the wood floors are amazing. The kitchen is large enough to eat in (and there are SIX drawers!) and looks recently renovated with some pretty posh appliances. (Except for the broken dishwasher.) And there is a ton of storage. And a washing machine in the full bath!

BUT. There is no dryer in the full bath. There is no bath in the full bath. Heck, there isn't even what we Americans would call a proper shower in the full bath. There is a drain in the center, more or less, of the bathroom floor. There is no raised border or anything similar to delineate a shower stall. Just a curtain that's pretty short, so water gets everywhere. 

But back to the lack of a dryer. We don't have one in our unit. The laundry room is in the basement of a different building, across the courtyard, but they don't have dryers either. They have something that's translated as "oven room", which is basically a very warm place to hang up your clothes. Interesting, huh? Maybe it's just another example of how the Swedes are more environmentally aware. All of this means that I'm doing the laundry much more frequently than I used to, because there wouldn't be space to line dry everything if I waited longer. So, we have a modern kitchen and washing machine and both cable and Internet included in our rent, but I'm washing the clothes every other day and hanging them on the line like an Italian grandmother. In our case, we have never yet managed to have everything. ("Everything" would include a proper spare room and a second full bath and functional dishwasher, washing machine and dryer all in the unit.) We will make do with what we have for now. And quirks aside, it's pretty great. UPDATE: The water to the dishwasher had been turned off. Quite possibly by us by mistake. Ok, very possibly. I'm not sure we'll ever be fit to own our own home.

Friends! Furniture! Fun Shopping! And bureaucracy

The past few days have been far more eventful than we'd anticipated. We knew for a while that we would have dinner on Sunday with some very old friends from Yale. They are Swedish and the husband, who was only the boyfriend back in 2002, had some kind of semester-long visiting position while his girlfriend, now wife, stayed back in Sweden. It just happened that all of us wound up starting out at Yale at the same time, so he's been part of a certain circle of friends that's been in sporadic communication over the past decade. My husband and I hadn't seen him and his wife since the wedding of other members of that circle, back in 2004, which made it extremely bizarre yet paradoxically familiar and comfortable to find ourselves at their gorgeously laid dining table with three little kids arrayed around us. Man, the Swedes do comfort food well. (I suppose this is out of necessity considering the winters.) And they also do comfort ambience well. I was so impressed by the candles on the table even with the presence of two two-year-olds, and there was an open fire popping away in the fireplace.

Of course our hosts only had to cover it up with the screen when our American son started wandering over to it in fascination. Their two daughters (4 and 2) were completely nonchalant in the face of fire, glassware, real metal utensils and ceramic plates. And they ate the same stew and rice that we did, and the apple custard pie for dessert, whereas our little one ate his own special food that we brought for him (which has nothing to do with allergies--he just refuses to try new things unless the new thing is almost exactly like something he already likes, or is fruit). I don't think this is necessarily one of those European vs American differences--I think it has to do with the fact that I have found it difficult to press this as an issue because of the crazy number of transitions that the poor boy has had to undergo. But I do think it seems as though Europeans tend to encourage independence and the imitation of adult habits at a much earlier age. Anyway, we had a lovely time. S, my husband, read children's books to the girls in Swedish, and the kids seemed to get on well playing with Lego. That's always a relief, because isn't it the worst when the kids of your friends turn out to be terrors? I haven't actually had this happen with good friends, but with acquaintainces. It's a shame to meet a mom at the playground with whom you have a rapport, only to discover that you cannot stand the child.

Speaking of, on Monday O refused to go inside the open preschool again because he wanted to play in the adjacent playgrounds, so I have yet to see what sorts of activities are on offer and what the other parents are like. BUT! Monday was exciting because we found out that our shipment of furniture and other belongings had cleared customs and could be delivered as early as Tuesday if that's what we preferred. To which we replied, "Yes, please." On Tuesday, meaning yesterday, a flatbed truck arrived in front of our building with a gigantic shipping container on the back. All three of us had our faces to the window, watching this monster parallel park and then lower its platform directly above the sedan parked behind it. From our vantage point it absolutely looked as though they'd plopped the loading platform directly on top of this Toyota's hood, but apparently there were a few inches of clearance. (Still, if you owned that car, wouldn't you be furious?)

And then the unloading and unpacking began, and it was insane. We had paid for full-service, meaning a team in DC packed all our things for us, someone else dealt with getting it on a ship and clearing customs, and then a different team here drove it over to unpack it all and take away the boxes. They put our dining table back together (the legs had been unscrewed) and O's crib and our bed frame. They carried our sofa, which looked like a sofa-shaped paper sculpture, up two flights of winding stairs because it wouldn't fit in our tiny death trap elevator (remind me that I need to write a entire post about the elevators of Stockholm), and they spent a hilarious five or ten minutes trying to perfectly center our living room rug, which I don't believe strictly falls under their duties. They were really, really good. The DC team, on the other hand. Ugh. They didn't pack things well, so we ended up with breakage and other damage, and pieces/parts from one piece of furniture separated from the rest. We're reporting it, but overall the experience was good and I'd definitely go this route again as long as employers are footing the bill (or at least part of the bill) again.

Some art has been hung, all the furniture is essentially in the right place, but there is a lot of unpacking of small things (like books and more books) that is going to be tedious. And which will depend on the existence of bookshelves. Our old bookshelves in DC were junky, bowed IKEA things that probably wouldn't have survived the move, so we donated them. Unfortunately, without bookcases, I also can't artfully place my various frames, mementos and doodads. Kind of makes me wish I were a minimalist, but that will never happen. In fact, just today we went shopping for more stuff! Most of it was super practical: trash can, dish rack, tea lights. But I also bought paper napkins printed with giant strawberries (super cute and on sale!) and a new cushion for the living room that has a whimsical streetscape print of rowhouses reminiscent somewhat of Julia Rothman. I could not believe S went for that one since his preference would be a solid beige cushion, perhaps with beige piping. But he claimed it looked Scandinavian and therefore he liked it. (I think he just wanted to leave the store.)

The store, by the way, is my new favorite home store in the city. It's called Lagerhaus (which is German for "warehouse") and it's similar to the marketplace section of IKEA (meaning it doesn't sell any furniture), but its selection is more limited and it has much more funky and trendy stuff than basic stuff, though it has that too. And there's a yummy cafe attached, where we had lunch. I don't know if every branch has that but it was certainly convenient. So, kind of like a super mini IKEA, but smack in the center of the city on the busy pedestrian shopping street.

Ok, this post is getting ridiculously long, so I'll end by saying that we went to the tax office today and O and I are now one step closer to getting the Swedish equivalent of a Social Security Number. Tomorrow we take photos and give our fingerprints. How the hell are they going to do that with a two-year-old? I will let you know. And at some point I'll get up some before and after pics of the apartment. It was kind of gorgeous all empty, but it's good to have our things. Like I said, I'm no minimalist. (You can probably also tell from the length of this post.)

To be a SAHM or not to be a SAHM

That is the question.

That has been the question for a while, but the answer has constantly been postponed. When we decided to have a baby, I had recently earned my PhD and had followed my husband to DC where he had been offered a prestigious postdoctoral fellowship position. I managed to find a decent renewable one-year lectureship at another university in the area, and let me tell you, two bottom-rung academics finding jobs in the same city that do not require one or both of them to shoulder unholy workloads without even having benefits or an office or a university email address, well, that's pretty good.

 There were stressful aspects of my job as there are in every job, especially because I was in the position of supervising a team of fellow lecturers who'd been there longer than I had, but overall I really enjoyed teaching. And when I got pregnant, I was lucky and had an easy pregnancy for the first 8.5 months or so, which meant I enjoyed working while being pregnant. My son was due in mid-September, and my ambitious plan was to stay at home with him that fall semester and return to a lighter teaching load the following January. As my husband had no teaching responsibilities and a fairly flexible schedule, we assumed that we would both be able to work and share the childcare duties. The Chair of my department put my name on the course listings for that winter semester.

 Then O was born, and everything was rainbows and sunshine and he was the most beautiful bundle of plump cheeks and twinkling eyes that I'd ever seen. I loved him instantly and was over the moon for the first couple of weeks. And then everything plummeted, swiftly. I won't go into the gory details, but will say that post-partum mood disorders are very, very real and that I was lucky to have good doctors who (eventually) made the right diagnosis and found the proper treatment. Needless to say, I didn't go back to work that January. I just didn't feel confident about it, and by the time I thought I might be ready to teach that fall, when O would be turning one, there was no longer a position for me.

 I tell myself that the decision was made for me, but the truth is that I made no effort to look for other jobs. I LIKED the routine I'd created with O. We had our favorite playgrounds, our favorite museums (DC will forever be my favorite city for kids just for the free museums alone), the zoo (again, free!), swim lessons, music group, story time at the local library. It's not that I was ever one of those crafty moms making him toys or coming up with art projects. We just had a lot of fun hanging out doing cool things around the city, and then he'd be content to play with his smallish collection of toys and look at his books at home.

 So here's the dilemma. Part of me thinks we could continue to do something similar here. We've already found some great parks and playgrounds and have a library card. The library does music and storytelling stuff, which would be a nice way to learn some Swedish, and the building itself is fun. I could do a little research into other kid friendly places that are hopefully free. And if there's an indoor pool not too far away, I'd pony up for swim lessons again.

 On the other hand, part of me is starting to miss working and Sweden is supposedly one of the best countries for working moms. It's been a long time since anyone has called me Dr. K -- I'm sure lots of our playground acquaintances in DC only knew me as O's mom. The trouble is, I can't work until all my immigration documents are processed anyway, which won't be for another couple of weeks I think. I've obviously missed any chance to teach this semester, and wonder if it will be too late to look into teaching in January. And what about jobs other than teaching? Is that something to consider? And then there's the question of O. I've seen a bunch of these different preschools playing outside and they all seem a little... rough. Is this because I'm an overly protective helicopter parent? Do the Swedes let boys be boys more? Or have I just not paid so much attention to American preschoolers at the playground because I had no intention of sending O to one, and they're all like this? I just can't decide if he's still too young for it. Would it be good to toughen him up a bit and socialize him? Or would it just traumatize him? So many questions. Anyone out there with some answers?

Introduction

I moved to Stockholm on September 23, 2012, with three suitcases, three small pieces of carry-on luggage, a portable crib, a combination stroller/car seat, a husband with a brand-new job as an assistant professor, and a son who had just turned two the previous week. We left our beloved apartment in Washington, DC, on August 31, taking three weeks or so to visit my parents and my in-laws before depriving them of their adored grandson by whisking him away to the wilds of Scandinavia. The prolonged journey also had something to do with the fact that all our belongings (other than those mentioned above) were arriving by cargo ship, which would take several weeks. In fact, we still do not have those belongings. Maybe one day I'll look back on this brief (oh please let it be brief) period of bare rooms and of eating on the floor and off the windowsills and of sleeping on air mattresses for far longer than is intended, and I will laugh and laugh. But for now my back just hurts.

But where was I going with all of this? Oh, right, that I have a tendency to be negative and pessimistic and to complain too much. Part of my reasoning behind writing about this experience is to  keep in mind that it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that other people only dream of, so I shouldn't take it for granted and should view it as an adventure (cutting edge design! pretty buildings and boats! prettier people!) and not a punishment (dreary weather and dark, dark winters, rotten fish among other delicacies, a language that currently feels impossible to learn).

I will write about the bad but will aim to make my reflections as fair as possible. There will be positive and funny experiences, too! And mainly I'm writing because I like to write and I feel as though I've forgotten how to do it since becoming a mom. Life as a stay at home mom can be exhilarating (no, seriously, witnessing someone figure out how to walk or how to put words together and express himself in often hilarious ways is thrilling, especially when you know you've had a direct hand in it), but it can also be tedious and mind-liquefying. I want an outlet to record musings, to vent, to be creative, to keep my mind sharp, to remember that I'm still me even though I'm inhabiting a strange place.

I've started many a blog in the past, all of which either came to natural conclusions or just petered out. I'm not going to set out a ton of concrete goals right now. No themed posts each week or photos of my outfits or, more appropriate, Swedish outfits. In fact, there probably won't be many photos here at all, though I'm taking at least one photo a day for my own personal record. I'm going to shoot for at least one post a week and see where things go from there. Glad to have you along.