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Day thirtytwo of 365

How to impress your two-year-old:

Make a ball. Role it under the palm of your hand. Role the worm – or just stop there if you don’t feel like making this too complicated. A worm is good. Be content with yourself. Parenting is no easy job and you’ve done your best. Or go on, role the worm up into a coil, leaving a bit out for the head of the snail. Bend the head up and divide the antennas using your nail. Form slightly after artistic feel – this part will be done best by those of you having a BA in Fine Art but the rest should be content they at least are better than the worm parents.

Well done! That’s all for planned parenting for today.

(Play-doh please contact me for bank details).

Day thirtyone of 365

Baby is at the table, well he’s two but I call him baby. We gave him scissors the other day, not as child abuse but as in a pair of plastic ones from the toy store. From age three. If you try to cut things that are too thick with them they come apart at the hinge in the midle. Baby’s new game is throwing the scissors on the floor or hitting in on something so the hinge comes apart and then crying MAMA til I come and fix it.

Reality now in our home: MAMA

So I have to go. This is life at 7:17 in Stockholm this autumn morning.

Three minutes later he’s played with the xylophone, drawn, played with clay, and is now eating musli. I’m reading Camilla and the Horse, a novel by Danish author Christina Hesselholdt. Like a collection of interwoven short stories. Something to inspire my own short story writing. I sent in my latest to the Umeå short story contest, it’s annual and the largest in Sweden since 2008.

Day thirty of 365

So this is making my own pesto. When you find lots of fresh basil on sale next time you know what to do. Mix it with any cheese – I don’t buy parmesan just for pesto, I take what’s in the fridge – and any nuts (well edible), I used almonds cause I had some at home. And olive oil. And voila. Tastes much better than the ready made ones you get in a jar. To be itten with pasta. Much simple. Prego. I know nuthing.

Day twentynine of 365

Gosh, 365 posts is a lot. I wonder if I’ll make it.

I also wonder why all Swedish universities use differnt platforms for there internet based courses. It makes no sense, none of them are particularly good and so one ends up having to learn a whole variety of user unfriendly platforms. Couldn’t they all go together and choose one – the best one? – and make studying easier and more enjoyable?

This is last year in the Baltic. Uh, in the second top country… Lettland – Riga. Lots better than Estland, Talin, which I visited the year before that. Riga has more soul because of the old architecture. And the horrific Museum of Occupation is well worth a visit. It’s not about career planning, I can tell you that.

Day twentyeight of 365

Spent the day in the Haga Park.

Day twentyseven of 365

 

Raining again today, it’s been a very rainy summer.

Walked yesterday to Solna Business Park. What a name for an area? “Let’s go for a stroll to a café in the business park?” Not very romantic or inviting. And it’s not either – esthetically. It’s just a lot of concrete and glass boxes. But out here in the suburb it’s at least an option to the mall. Which bores me even more with its franchises.

 

Day twentysix of 365

 

 

The trees on the lawn beneath our 7th story window, as seen in the previous post, look like brocoli. In the photograph I mean, in reality I have no idea what they look like. I just assumed they looked like trees or that it didn’t matter to me.

 

 

It makes sense that author’s have to know things. I do know things. I’m writing a children’s book. It’s about brocoli. See, I just made that up. But really, I will now write a children’s book. But I will write it in Swedish.

I’m thinking. This makes me nervous.

Hold on.

Nu vet jag hur jag ska göra, jag ska cykla! tänkte Emil. Och så tog han nallen och la på flaket, satte persikan han fått av mormor bredvid – i fall de skulle bli hungriga på vägen – och så rullade han ut från uppfarten. Trehjulingens trampor kunde han inte trycka ner, men han sparkade med fötterna i asfalten och snart var de förbi granen vid husknuten och ute på stora cykelbanan. Mot grisen.