tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26687561628725714972024-02-20T00:20:15.191+02:00HeadspaceAn expat in FinlandKatriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-46624569764167577662013-05-29T22:50:00.000+03:002013-05-29T22:50:01.519+03:00Bad dreams<br />
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For
years now I have had a recurring dream. I am back at high school. There is an
exam tomorrow and I haven’t studied at all. Sometimes I haven’t been to a
single class in that subject. Sometimes I hadn’t even realized I was enrolled
in the subject.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I
am enraged at my own subconscious when I wake up from this dream. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<i>What are you trying to tell me? That I’m not
trying hard enough? </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When
will I have convinced myself that I’ve put in a solid effort in life? Just thinking about it makes me tired and sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I
have spent most of my adult life living in countries where I didn’t grow up, trying
to make it all work while being perpetually just outside my comfort zone. I am
a parent to two little girls. This year I went back to work as a lawyer. I can read
and write Japanese. Last month I rang a
car mechanic and in Finnish asked for an appointment to have the tyres on my
car changed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Why
have I convinced myself that this, my life, is a poor effort?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I
admit, sometimes I do aim for an “adequate” performance rather than a job well
done. I am sloppy with my foreign languages. I don’t try as hard as I possibly
could at all times with my kids or my husband. There is plenty of room for
improvement in my work-related skill-set. I snack too much and don’t exercise
enough. I should call my parents more often. I never put my dirty dishes
straight into the dishwasher and my ironing pile continues to rage out of
control.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The
list is endless. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yet,
even if I were a serial perfectionist, it wouldn’t help. I’ve had this dream
even at times in my life where I was trying my absolute best; aiming for
excellence across the board. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At
this point, I’m tired. I’m just so tired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-1556813035101959172013-05-09T06:35:00.001+03:002016-06-03T22:14:00.617+03:00Arctic Man<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It
was the late 90s and, love-struck, I had moved to Turku, Finland to be with my
then-boyfriend while he wrote his thesis.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Before
I left Australia, an older lady I knew mentioned that her son Trevor was
planning to visit Finland. Politely, I handed over my Finnish contact details,
never for a moment imagining that Trevor would actually call me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He
did call me. Not only did he call me, but a matter of weeks later he turned up
on our wintery Turku doorstep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He
was a sight to behold. Tall, padded out like the Michelin man, and with no part
of his body visible except his eyes, he had dressed for the elements.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As he started peeling off layers in the warmth of our apartment, he
proudly divulged the reason he was so thoroughly protected against the cold. When
clothes shopping for his Finland trip, he hadn’t wanted to trust the people at
North Face or Kathmandu who had tried to sell him GoreTex. He did not believe that any ordinary clothes could possibly withstand
the extreme cold of a Finnish winter. He decided to take matters into his own
hands. He ordered a tailor-made bodysuit made entirely of sheepskin, complete
with slit-eyed balaclava, booties, and oven-mitt-type gloves. His idea was that
at all times he would wear this under his normal clothes, rendering him
impervious to the coldest of temperatures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">(I later wondered, had he worn all that stuff during the entire flight from Australia? or had he schlepped it all on board in a huge carry-on bag and effected his Trevor-to-Arctic-Man transformation within the cramped confines of a Finnair toilet cubicle?)</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sadly
for Trevor, Finland had a pretty mild winter that year. It was barely below
zero the day he landed. By the time he made it to our door, he was sweaty and
breathless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And
so his stay in Finland began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The
second day, I offered to show him around Turku. He obligingly walked around
with me, but seemed bored and distracted. The third day, when I again offered to be his tour guide, he flatly
refused. “I’m not really interested in sight-seeing”, he said, and proceeded to
spend the entire day sitting at our kitchen table, intermittently reading a
manual on motorcycle repair, and expounding his theories on life (which
included: why watch the news -- who needs to know what is going on in the rest
of the world? And: never eat sugar, because it is evil. He was ahead of
his time on that one). It turned out that he was a taxi driver. Somehow, this
fitted perfectly. He struck me as someone who had spent an awful lot of time
with his own thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My
Finn and I asked each other in whispers why on earth he had come to Finland if
not to take a look around? We were baffled, not to mention just a teensy bit
worried at the thought of just how many days he might want to spend within the
four corners of our apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On
the fourth day, we were relieved when Trevor announced that he was going to
Helsinki. We were puzzled, though – he had, after all, confessed to a complete lack of
interest in being a tourist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And
then, shyly, he revealed his big news. <i>He
had come to Finland to meet a woman. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">To be more specific, he had come to
Finland <i>to find a wife</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He
had done some diligent groundwork: he had placed advertisements in a few major
newspapers, and four or five Marjas and Katjas had actually expressed interest.
<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Why
Finland?” we asked him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He smiled with unmistakable satisfaction – clearly, he
had thought carefully about this and was dying to share his rationale. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Because
Finnish women are the only pure women left in this world.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Three
weeks after embarking on his quest, Trevor phoned me – to invite us to his
wedding. Another three weeks later, I watched him walk down the aisle with his
new bride on his arm. It was all a bit surreal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He
told me after the ceremony that he’d worn long underwear under his wedding
clothes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Disappointingly, though, not his sheepskin bodysuit.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-70124881407882672812012-10-20T09:29:00.000+03:002012-10-20T09:29:09.380+03:00No Finnish line <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I first met my Finnish husband almost 17 years ago, I never planned to study his native language. In fact, he actively discouraged me from doing so, on the grounds that Finnish was such a minor and complicated language that it was hardly worth my while, and because English is widely spoken in Finland. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><br />And yet, after we finally moved here, I found that I couldn’t stand not knowing Finnish. I wanted so badly to understand and be understood, and being in the dark linguistically was frustrating and unsatisfying. <br /><br />And so, here I am, nine months and three language courses into learning Finnish. <br /><br />My Finnish studies thus far have caused me immense frustration and self-doubt. I still make several mistakes per sentence when I venture out of my comfort zone (read: when I try to have a *normal* conversation with any Finnish person). Sometimes when I try to read a newspaper or magazine article, I feel myself spiralling into panic and despair when word after word is unknown to me and must be painstakingly looked up. Yesterday, my daughter’s friend (aged 7) innocently asked me, “Why do you speak Finnish so badly?” Ouch. <br /><br />Frequently, I have felt like a failure, and have caught myself wondering if this is a task that’s beyond my capacity. <br /><br />But I'm not, and it isn't, and dammit, I will not give up! For years I’ve wanted so badly to know this language, and hard though it is, quitting now would only make me feel worse. And so, when I feel overwhelmed and oppressed and even slightly tearful about it all, I force myself to take a deep breath and reflect on some basic truths about mastering a new language: <br /><br /><b>1. It won’t happen overnight </b></span><div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I started studying Finnish in January of this year. I don’t know why I expected to see dramatic results within weeks or months. I started studying Japanese in high school and 20+ years later I’m still not perfect at it. I started learning English at birth, and even now I still make grammatical mistakes and come across unfamiliar words. </span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />Languages are vast and complex. They have tens of thousands of essential words, and each one has to be committed to memory, along with the grammatical rules governing its use. No wonder language-learning takes time. <br /><br />A lot of time, in fact, since: </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>2. The task is never-ending </b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Language-learning is a lifelong, cumulative pursuit. There is no finishing line – no “last” milestone that marks the perfect mastery of a language. You are forever either learning more, or reinforcing (and trying not to forget) what you have already learned. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />The news is not all bad, though. Every so often you will feel a sense of achievement – after constructing a grammatically-correct sentence for the first time, understanding the gist of a tv program, surviving a shopping trip, or managing to talk on the phone with someone. It is important to embrace and inwardly celebrate each of these moments, as they are validation that you are making progress. The sense of pride and accomplishment they bring are your reward for sticking with the task. While your journey has no end, each language-learning milestone opens up the path to bigger and greater milestones, and the further you go the easier and more rewarding your journey becomes. <br /><br />You do need to accept, though, that: <br /><br /><b>3. Some days it will be two steps forward, one step back </b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sometimes it takes a while for new information to sink in. The older I get, the longer it seems to take! I find myself going over the same vocabulary and the same grammatical rules multiple times because they didn’t stick in my head on the first, second or even third try. There is no point in getting stressed or frustrated about this (or so I keep telling myself). You really can only try to keep calm and have another go. The main thing to remember is – the information will stick eventually, even if it takes three or ten or twenty repetitions. Some days, your brain will seem curiously resistant to new information. These are the days you should put down your textbook and go for a long walk. And then, on other days, inexplicably it all somehow gels. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />Some people (especially your children) will remember new information instantly and forever. Salute them and acknowledge their rare and enviable talent. Remember, though, that most adults simply do not have this talent, and have to work a bit harder to learn new things. <br /><br />Which leads me to my next point: <br /><br /><b>4. Don’t compare yourself with others! </b><br />Language-learning is not a race – how could it be, when there isn’t even a definite finishing line! We all learn languages for different reasons, at different paces, and with different styles. Some of us are natural chatterboxes; others have beautiful pronunciation; others are naturals at reading and writing. You yourself know whether you’re trying hard or not. If you feel you could realistically try harder, do it! If you’re trying as hard as you can, congratulate yourself, and keep going - at your own pace and on your own terms. Force yourself not to think about that incredible Chinese girl you sit next to in class who has a prodigious memory for new vocab and progresses much faster than you. Try not to feel bad when a seven year old corrects your grammar. Being a beginner in another language, and being severely constrained in your ability to understand or communicate even the simplest ideas, can feel humiliating enough at the best of times. Don’t fuel that internal fire of self-doubt and low self-esteem. This is your own journey. <br /><br /><b>5. Practice Practice Practice </b><br />When I was about 15, my high school French teacher gave us a definitive how-to guide to learning a language: <br /><br />1. Listen <br />2. Read <br />3. Write <br />4. Speak <br />5. Repeat steps 1-4 many, many times </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is far and away the best advice I have ever received in connection with language learning. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><br />The only way you can progress and maintain your language skills is to USE that language, every single day, as much as possible (without doing your head in through over-immersion!) Talk to people. If you hate talking to people, try to write a diary. Read something – anything. Pay attention when people are speaking (in real life or on tv/radio) and try to decipher what they’re saying. <br /><br />It’s always easier when you have a good teacher to help you learn to do steps 1-4. In the case of Finnish, unless you’re a child (or an adult with a brain that absorbs everything and magically figures out linguistic patterns all on its own), I think it’s virtually impossible to learn correct grammar without the help of an experienced teacher, or else a really good textbook and extremely high self-discipline. <br /><br /><b>6. Try to enjoy yourself! </b><br />Language learning unlocks linguistic and cultural doors, and bridges divides between people of different countries. It is also said that learning another language has powerful effects on the mind, creating new neural pathways and warding off Alzheimer’s disease. For all these reasons, language learning should be something positive – hopefully something that’s even fun and uplifting. Whenever you are feeling low or frustrated about your learning, go back to the stuff that truly interests you and fuels your passion for language, whether it’s talking with a friend, watching a particular tv show, or reading things that intrigue or entertain you. Lately, when I feel like throwing my Finnish textbook across the room in frustration, I’ve taken to swapping it for my daughter’s Risto Räppääjä books. The language is clear and the grammar straightforward, and to my great joy I can follow the stories, even though I can’t understand every word. <br /><br />In the end, this is what we language learners need to hold on to in times of trial – those moments of great joy. Those moments when we know what it is to transcend the limits of our own nationality and our own native language. Those moments when the puzzle pieces come together in our head and we see, breathtakingly, glimpses of a whole new world that was hidden from us before. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-85138869557056843802012-10-01T22:45:00.000+03:002016-06-03T22:10:41.836+03:00Little Children, Great Expectations<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Back in August, my daughter started school. It has been an eye-opening
experience for me. A lot has changed in the 30+ years since I
started the first grade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I still remember my first day of school. It was January, 1981. At going-home time, our teacher helped us make a “newspaper”. In</span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;"> her
handwritten lettering that not a single one of us could read, she wrote, “Today we played
with play-dough and puzzles.” Later that week, we learned to read and write the
letter ‘A’ and the number ‘1’. Our school owned one Betamax video cassette player and two television sets, which were shared among 500+ students from grades one to seven. When I was 12 we took turns on the school's new computer (just the one).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Times have changed. Big Sister was taught to read last year at preschool, and was tackling chapter books before she started school. Her first grade class already does simple
multiplication and division. The class uses online resources. We communicate with her teacher via email. It is a different world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">Something else that has changed is the parents. In my childhood neighbourhood, Helicopter Parents were few and far between. Thirty years on, I find myself
having conversations with anxious expat parents whose children learned to read
at age 2 and were counting to 10,000 by age 3 (only half joking). These parents are concerned that their child is not being pushed to
the outer range of his/her competence and at this rate is not going to get into Harvard. Parents question me (politely, but with challenge in their eyes) about Big Sister's extra-curricular
activities. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Before the age of 8 I was involved in a total of zero extra-curricular
pursuits. When I started school, I couldn't read, write, swim, catch a ball, play a musical instrument, or speak a foreign language. I was allowed to learn piano from age 8, but it was A Big
Deal. Outside school hours, I ran wild with the neighbourhood children, barefoot
and carefree (both literally and figuratively). I don’t remember homework until at least the third grade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Despite this slow start in life, I still qualified as a lawyer, and got a Decent Job that paid well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If my children decide that a Decent Job is what they want, I want them to be able to achieve that. I worry about my children lacking the necessary edge to succeed against stiff competition. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And yet, I can't believe that my children should have to sacrifice their
childhood for the sake of their future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Already during her preschool year, Big Sister had often
seemed hopelessly tired by the end of the week. I eventually realized that preschool was not to blame. We - her own parents - were the
problem. We fairly bombarded her with “interesting” and “stimulating”
extra-curricular activities – </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Japanese school, </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">ice skating, swimming, kung fu, singing.
She was being pushed to her full potential six days a week. She was frequently exhausted and tearful.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A Tiger Mom would have given her a brisk talking-to and driven her to
her next commitment. My choice was to pull the plug on every extra-curricular activity she wasn't enjoying. I even let her
quit Japanese Saturday school, knowing full well that this was the only thing
keeping her from forgetting Japanese completely (we haven’t lived there in over
two years). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">These days, she loves school. She does her homework efficiently and without complaint, and after that she plays tag in
the park with her friends, draws creative pictures, reads The Famous Five, designs and sews clothes for her Barbies, and writes in her secret lockable diary. Sometimes
she even has fits of generosity towards her little sister and deigns to play Guess
Who or dress-ups with her. Sometimes they perform lavish concerts for me (Big
Sister favors singing Diandra’s “Outta My Head”; Little Sister favors
her infamous “bottom dancing”). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">These days, with “only” school and a weekly singing class, my big girl
seems so happy. Her life seems full of pursuits that are interesting and
challenging and fun. It doesn’t feel like I’m preventing her from
reaching her potential or ruining her future prospects. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I still have lingering doubts - am I doing the wrong thing in not pushing this capable child beyond her comfort zone? But my</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> gut feeling is that </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">pushing our children overly hard has significant side-effects. It can stifle their creativity, their resourcefulness, and their feeling of freedom. It can leave them with insufficient time alone with their own thoughts. Worst of all, it can also make them unhappy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Other
families’ choices notwithstanding, I've decided to stop pushing my kids against their will to achieve adult-defined goals. Short-term, I'm not going to force Big Sister to study Japanese. Long-term, I'm not going to actively promote so-called "top" jobs (with six-figure salaries, long workdays, and necessary sacrifice of free time, sleep
and health) as the Holy Grail. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here’s to children being children, and
to adults allowing that to happen.</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-3352814303475731912012-08-29T14:16:00.002+03:002016-06-03T22:16:22.151+03:00The white noise of parenting<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Usually I write in a quest for clarity and headspace. Lately, however, family life, with
all its ups and downs, has been coming at me thick and fast, with no time to process things fully. Getting my thoughts corralled has seemed overwhelming.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The kids’ summer holidays, which ended earlier this month, were
wonderful and exhausting; highly fulfilling and overly frustrating. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Some days I felt as though being a parent and having whole days and
nights with my children was the greatest gift in the world. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Some days I felt more as though being a parent was like having a white
noise machine pointed directly at my ear all day, every day: the noise wasn’t
always unpleasant, and yet sometimes I just longed for silence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Small children have so many needs and
questions, and so much within themselves that they’re struggling to sort out. Fulfilling
their needs takes time, energy, patience, and often more skill than you thought
you had, and when the going gets tough you can’t just throw in the towel and
walk out. Once you are a parent, there is no going back. You wouldn’t even want
to go back because you’ve never loved someone like this, and yet some days you
just don’t want to keep going forwards either. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A particularly low moment came one Friday evening. We had just arrived
home from a five-day family road trip. It had been a satisfying and memorable trip
- lots of fun highlights, quality time with good friends, delicious Finnish
summer food, and smiles and laughter. However, the drive back had been long and
tiring, and after an hour of hefting stuff from the car, unpacking, and finding
something to eat for dinner, all the while dealing with a steady stream of
interruptions, questions and pleas for attention from the kids, My
Finn and I were short on energy and patience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finally, I sat down for a few quiet moments at the computer. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Almost immediately, my younger daughter appeared at my knee. “Mummy,
look! There’s a man!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wrenched my attention from a Facebook message, sighing with slight
annoyance at the interruption, and followed Little Sister's gaze through our fifth
storey window. I dutifully acknowledged the man she’d spotted (sitting out on
his balcony). I turned back to my laptop.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Moments later I was startled by deafening yelling from my husband. On
the other side of the living room, Little Sister had pulled the coffee table
over to the open window and had climbed up to get a better look at her man.
Hubby had happened to walk into the room at that point, and the walls literally
shook with the force of his shouting at her to get down immediately. Little
Sister started crying frantically, surprised and devastated at this sudden
explosion. A bitter exchange followed. I angrily accused hubby of excessive
anger that was clearly targeted at me (on my laptop AGAIN, not paying enough
attention to my children) and that he could have dealt with the situation very
differently. He maintained that extreme measures were justified when a child
was climbing up to reach a fifth storey window and it was a matter of “life and
death”. But yes, he was angry at me too, because I had chosen the wrong time to
occupy myself with Facebook. Little Sister had been doing something that was
(admittedly) very dangerous within a few metres of me, and I hadn’t been aware
of it because I was in my own little social media world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">[In my defence,
the double-glass window in question does not open more than about 10cm and
Little Sister absolutely could not have fitted through that space. But still.]<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I felt overwhelmed at the truth in what he was saying, and overwhelmed
at the reality that parenting requires vigilance and selflessness always,
tiredness/bad moods/feelings of wanting a break right now notwithstanding, and
I still felt shell-shocked at all the shouting, and in that moment I really
wanted to give up and walk out of my own life. But instead I burst into tears
and fled to the kitchen for a tissue.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A minute later Little Sister came rushing in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">LS: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[tearfully]</i> I hate you,
Mummy!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Me: Why do you hate me?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">LS: I don't want you to be my friend any more.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Me: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[Exerting myself to stay calm]</i>
Why is that?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">LS: Because you're too naughty.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Me: <span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><em>[Takes deep breaths]</em> </span></span>What could I do to be less naughty?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">LS: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[Thinks for a moment] </i>I
just want you to be happy.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I thought about that conversation for days and weeks afterwards. It is
so vitally important for children to see happiness in their parents, and so
important for parents to do the things that will help them both appear and genuinely BE happy – making
time for themselves and their spouse, getting enough sleep, and generally
<a href="http://theheadspaceblog.blogspot.fi/2011/11/essential-nature-of-oxygen.html" target="_blank">making sure their own air mask is fitted before attempting to help others</a>. I
got caught out by my unnervingly perceptive three year old, and I want to do better in future. I’m
working on it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This summer wasn’t all white noise and fights and meltdowns, though. Honest
to God, we had so many wonderful moments, too - playing in sunny parks and on the
beach, swimming (when it was warm enough), visiting friends’ homes and summer
cottages, chilling out with close family, seeking thrills at fun-parks (we even
made it to Särkäniemi’s Angry Birds Land!) and hanging out with our lovely
neighbours in our building’s shared courtyard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Big Sister learned to ride a bicycle without trainer wheels and (mercifully
unconnected with bicycling) lost her front tooth just in time to look like
a *real* first grader. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She went from being a solid beginner reader to an
avid consumer of books. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Lately, she has developed a passion for fashion
designing, and with help, has even managed to make a few pieces for her Barbie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This summer, Little Sister learned to catch a ball and shoot baskets into a pint-sized
basketball hoop. At the science centre, she managed to haul a bowling ball into
the air! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></span> <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She passionately seeks speed and danger – on bikes, on things that whiz around and around, and on climbing frames or anything else that is high off the ground…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At a shopping centre last weekend we were playing in a
kids’ activity corner next to an escalator. Suddenly Little Sister got it into
her head to grab the moving handrail (from the outer side of the escalator) and
next thing I knew she was being swept up into the air. Giggling loudly, she saw
absolutely no danger in this situation, and didn’t for a moment consider letting go at a safe height. Thankfully
I was quick enough to grab her while she was still within my reach - before
the handrail continued on its two-storey climb upwards. My heart stopped
momentarily at some point.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Kids do that to you. They fill your heart to overflowing, and wring it out,
and stop it completely for terrible split-seconds, all in a single 24-hour day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This summer, I had fifty of those days, all in a row. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It has been quite a ride.</span></span></div>
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</div>
Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-24118498065391926362012-07-01T14:33:00.000+03:002017-09-15T17:53:40.113+03:00In praise of imperfection<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My high school class will have its 20 year reunion later this year. At
the time of our 10 year reunion, we phoned each other to give invitations and
replies; fast-forward ten years and virtually everything is being done through
a Reunion Page on Facebook. I’ve been able to reconnect with people I haven’t
seen in years and view photos of our young selves, all
without the reunion having even taken place yet!<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Taking myself back twenty years has filled me with nostalgia, and yet has been painful in the extreme. Perhaps there are people whose teenage selves were carefree and confident and socially adept. I am not one of those people. As a teenager I had acne and bad clothes, and my parents drove <a href="http://theheadspaceblog.blogspot.fi/2012/02/bertha.html" target="_blank">a bomb of a car</a>, and I was a nerd. Perhaps my one salvation was that I had a small group of truly great friends. My social standing was also helped somewhat by the fact that I was reasonably good at sport. Even so, I have lots of very negative memories of my high school years. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In one photo posted on Facebook, a group of us are sitting in school assembly, and for some reason I’m holding a piece of paper up to the camera. I wrote a comment, “Why on earth am I holding up that piece of paper?” Someone replied, “Maybe it’s your straight-A report card! :-)”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I’m sure it was only meant as a joke, but reading that reply made me feel sick to the stomach, and the smiley at the end felt snide and poisonous <em>(and for the record, I got a fricking ‘B’ for mathematics! So there.)</em></span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At school, it was assumed that academic success made me smug and arrogant, and people who barely knew me cut me down in anticipation. Perhaps that has weighed on me subconsciously over the
years. Perhaps that’s why, since high school, I seem to have taken on lots of
the kinds of open-ended challenges that can’t truly end in success –
learning obscure languages like Japanese and Finnish, living in countries whose
national language is not my own, being a parent, trying to make my mark in high-powered
workplaces full of bilingual over-achievers…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wish my former classmates could see me now. A one-time BigFirm lawyer
who thought she could have it all but found herself burnt out and disillusioned
(and nodding in agreement at <a href="http://m.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/07/why-women-still-can-8217-t-have-it-all/9020/?single_page=true" target="_blank">certain long articles in the Atlantic about work-life balance</a> that are somehow of only limited comfort). A mother yelling at her kids that bit too
often. An immigrant, speaking Finnish less fluently than a child. An
almost-middle-aged, unexceptional-looking woman with her hair hastily pulled
into a ponytail. An average person living a quiet life in a faraway country. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On Friday, on the beach with my children, I was ambushed by a TV news
reporter. Well, sort of. The reporter suddenly appeared from nowhere with her
cameraman and asked, in Finnish, if they could film my children playing in the
water. I agreed. A few moments later, suddenly she asked if she could do a
short interview. I was feeling happy and relaxed in the sunshine. I was caught
off guard by the request, and recklessly said yes. In the moment, I didn’t feel
nervous speaking on camera, and I just tried to listen carefully to her
questions and answer in simple sentences. Afterwards, though, I started to fret
about my “performance”. Reflecting on my answers, several glaring grammatical
errors jumped out at me. I started to feel a bit sick at the thought that
friends might see the footage. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The footage did make it onto the evening news. I watched it with
critical and judgmental eyes. While I was overjoyed to see my daughters’ summer
fun captured beautifully by the camera, I wished so badly that they had cut out
the part where I was speaking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A few friends texted me immediately with excited and encouraging
messages, while I struggled to calm down and get perspective. It wasn’t all that
bad. I probably came across as a happy non-Finnish mum, enjoying the Helsinki
summer with her children, and not being completely fluent in Finnish but having
a go nevertheless. My Finnish was still comprehensible. I was smiling. I was
pictured tentatively dipping my feet into the water, with my daughters on
either side of me. Spontaneously, my younger daughter cheekily splashed me and
the shock of the icy-cold water made me scream like a little girl. We looked
energized and happy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Maybe it was ok that my performance was less than
perfect. Finns probably smiled to hear me try at their language. Fellow non-Finns probably
smiled in sympathy at the difficulty of speaking correct Finnish, especially when put on the spot.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I might hate myself for imperfection, but it turns out that the world in general likes me better for it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here’s to being honest
and light-hearted about our own shortcomings, even as we try to work on them.
And here’s to being kinder and more generous towards people who experience
moments of perfection in their otherwise human lives.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-35369222505437654952012-06-15T13:20:00.000+03:002016-06-03T22:24:12.775+03:00What is a payphone, and other unexpected questions<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Look, Mummy!”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My three year old was pointing insistently at something. I could see
nothing untoward – trees, an apartment building, a guy mowing the lawn. Little
Sister dragged me towards the man for a closer look – but why? He was an
average-looking guy wearing a t-shirt and shorts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It finally dawned on me that Little Sister had never before seen a
lawnmower. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Different feelings washed over me in that moment. I was excited at Little
Sister’s excitement (imagine discovering a fantastically noisy machine that
before your eyes was turning a bunch of overgrown weeds into a smooth green
carpet!) At the same time, I was completely taken aback and a bit sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up watching my dad mow the lawn in our
backyard with our rickety old Victa. The weekend chorus of lawnmower engines
and the intoxicatingly fresh, green smell of newly-cut grass are enduring memories from my
Brisbane childhood. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My children have grown up in apartment buildings. In Tokyo we lived on
the 28<sup>th</sup> floor and our apartment building was surrounded by
concrete. We didn’t escape the concrete when we moved to a neighbourhood in
central Helsinki, and here the ground is also covered in snow for half of the
year. Lawnmowers are not thick on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My kids aren’t deprived children, and yet, for a moment I couldn’t help
feeling that they were missing out on something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And then…<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Earlier this week, we were listening to Maroon 5’s latest song, and Big
Sister asked, “Mummy, what’s a payphone?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Seriously?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Actually, it is completely possible that she has never seen a public
phone being used. She was born in 2005. By that year, most people owned a
cellphone – one that could also take photos and connect to the internet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Big Sister and I talked about the concept of a static phone inside a
glass box that a person could pay money to borrow. We talked about a time before
cellphones - when the only phones we had were attached to the ground, and
payphones were therefore a big part of life. She was blown away at the thought
that, back in the day, you couldn’t just call someone anywhere and anytime you chose.
First you had a find a phone, and then you had to call at a time when your
call-ee was actually at home. It never seemed like a problem at the time, but now it would be a struggle to go back to those days. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I started thinking about other things that I remember fondly from my
childhood, but are mysteries to my kids. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Cassette tapes<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Far from the ease of playlists on iPods or PCs, back then making a mixed
tape was a time-consuming labour of love. Fast-forwarding to the exact starting
point of a favourite song was an art form. And remember how sometimes the tape
recorder “ate” your tape? Painstakingly, you’d untangle the chewed-up, crinkly mess
of tape and coax it back in to the cassette, hand-winding the cogs with your
pinky finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Film Cameras<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My
first camera was absolutely non-digital and non-automatic. After snapping a photo, I had to
wind on the film with a little thumb-operated wheel, and when the roll was
finished I used another little wheel to hand-wind the film back into its case. One
time, a newly-loaded roll of film freed itself from the little teeth that anchored it to the
winding wheel, and stopped winding on. Blissfully unaware of this, I took 36 photos all on
top of each other. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Looking through my photo albums, it’s easy to see the point where I
switched to digital. Suddenly, photos are consistently in focus, subjects have
their eyes open, and there are no huge pinkish thumb-blobs in the corners. The
instant gratification offered by digital cameras and their display screens –
like being able to take endless Polaroids until you got the shot you wanted – was
nothing short of miraculous. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">All the same, I miss that moment of collecting a packet of developed
photos, and flicking through them, elated at seeing photos I’d forgotten I’d
taken and which had come out perfectly, and thoroughly dejected when a wonderful
memory was blurred to buggery. Once, I found a forgotten roll of film in the
back of a drawer, and the photos that we developed from it – of the first
neighbourhood where we lived in Tokyo – were a poignant surprise.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><strong>Street Directories<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Remember those days before Google Maps and GPS? We used big thick books
of maps, and we had to figure out our own routes. It was always a bit tricky if
you were trying to drive and navigate at the same time – did you balance the
UBD precariously on the steering wheel and swerve in a hair-raising manner as
you tried simultaneously to drive and map-read? or did you leave it open on the
passenger seat, scrabbling for it at red lights and invariably having it
slither onto the floor in a heavy flickering of pages… <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The milkman<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My childhood bedroom was right next to the front door, and early every
morning I’d be aware of the milkman’s hurried jog-walk up our front path, the
jingling of the glass milk </span>bottles in his little wire carrier, and the scraping
sound as he picked up a handful of coins from the doorstep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In summer, you couldn’t sleep in too late unless you first rescued the milk,
which could already be a write-off by as early as 8am – gloppy, sour, and smelling
faintly of sick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We always fought over who would get to keep the shiny foil milk bottle
tops. If you were careful, you could prise them off intact, and flatten the
edges to make play-money coins.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It makes me feel old to think of all these things that were once so much
a part of life, but are now either endangered species, or well and truly
extinct. Other memorable things, though, have somehow survived and have made it
into my children’s lives – corner stores that sell lollies and popsicles, HB
pencils with erasers on the ends, giant chalks for drawing on concrete, movie
theatres, ferries, and hula hoops. Rocks found in the park are
still glittering treasures. Blowing dandelions’ white fluff into the breeze is
still thrilling. Cracking eggs into cake mixture is still immensely satisfying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There are so many new things, too, that I’m delighted to see here in time
for my kids’ childhoods – DVD players, high-quality digital cameras for
capturing memories, and of course, the computer, which in our house plays the
role of radio, CD player, source of printable colouring pages, and (thanks to
email and Skype) the means of sharing our life with friends on the other side
of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The world keeps on moving. Some things change, some stay the same, but the world remains full of wonder and satisfaction. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-25274012943910061692012-06-04T20:43:00.000+03:002016-06-03T22:26:59.325+03:00The Bubble Theory of Life<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Last weekend, I made a guilty confession to my husband.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Lately I’ve been having a really hard time being in Finland.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">After two years here, the “honeymoon period” of life in a new place is
completely behind me. I am well past the stage of traipsing happily through the
Helsinki market square nibbling on fresh Karelian pies, and wowing myself with
my ability to say “Kiitos”. Lately, I no longer feel ok about speaking English
with shop assistants and with the teachers at my daughters’ schools. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I’m no longer comfortable being the Unassimilated Foreigner. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Lately, I’ve been knuckling down and trying harder to take on
board the Finnish language and culture. As a result, I’ve
started feeling the full weight of that challenge. I’m starting to understand
how long it might take me to feel even reasonably proficient at living life in
Finnish and among Finns. The language is difficult, but lately I’ve felt that
mastering basic cultural norms is even harder. It is like playing a new board
game that hasn’t come with any rules. My fellow players are experts who don’t always
understand why I’m struggling. They are usually at a loss to identify or explain
particular rules that have always been second nature to them - rules like “don’t
get involved” and “don’t say ‘thank you’ too much”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At the moment, I feel like much more of a foreigner here in Finland than I did in Japan. I
might never have mastered Japanese to native level or lived a truly Japanese
life, but thanks to years spent in the company of Japanese host families,
friends and colleagues, in the vast majority of social situations I understood
the rules, and even if I broke them sometimes, I usually did it knowingly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here in Finland, I still regularly make social faux pas and breach basic
tenets of the social code, but without having a clue that I’m doing it - not
until I see other people looking uncomfortable. By then it’s too late.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am not a Finn and have no illusions that I will ever be truly a
“local” here, but I do have a strong desire to integrate to the best of my
ability, as a mark of respect for
the country that has been kind enough to accept me as a resident. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And I’ve never enjoyed being on the outer. I crave
acceptance now as much as I ever did as a nerdy teenager with bad skin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I told my husband all this, in a big emotional rush, and finally I paused
for breath. He took a moment to digest it all. I was keen to hear his thoughts.
After all, he has spent longer outside his home country than I have outside
mine. Before coming back here two years ago, he lived outside Finland for twelve
consecutive years, and – something that always astounded me – he always seemed quite at peace living abroad, and never really homesick.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He finally said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Well, I see
things a bit differently.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And so it was that I heard, for the first time, his Bubble Theory of
Life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Wherever you go
in the world, you should make your own bubble that contains your home and those
who are closest to you.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What? So people who move to another country don’t need to make any
effort to assimilate?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“No, no! Whenever
you move to another place, of course you have to build your bubble with what
you find there. You have to obey local laws. You should try to follow basic
social norms and learn the language. You shouldn’t do these things out of some
sense of pressure or obligation, though. You should do them for yourself and
the people in your bubble. The more knowledgeable you are about your
surroundings and the more in harmony you are with them, the better quality of life you’ll have there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If you’re looking to get encouragement and
acceptance from the locals, you are going for the wrong goal. You might get positive
feedback sometimes. Enjoy it when you get it, but don’t ever expect it. It was
your choice to move to this new place, and people in your host country have no
obligation to encourage you, to help you, or to make you feel at home. It’s up
to you to do that for yourself. Remember that the only place where it’s
important to work for acceptance is inside your own bubble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If you don’t
ever want to change yourself, then you shouldn’t ever move away from your own
hometown. It’s totally unreasonable to expect that you could live exactly the
same life in a different place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On the other hand, when you build your bubble
you still have to hold on to who you really are and what is important to you. It
can be difficult to know what you should and shouldn’t change – what to hang
onto and what to leave behind - but you will figure it out in time.</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If you find
that you can’t be at peace with your environment and also at peace with
yourself, or if you find yourself constantly looking to places far away for
elements that you feel are missing, then you are probably in the wrong place and
should think twice about being there.</span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Just remember,
though, that there’s no need to be just like a local. You need to be polite and
respectful and a nice person, but you can be all those things without being
exactly the same as everyone else.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But if you’re different from everyone else, wouldn’t you always feel
like an outsider? Wouldn’t that make you feel sad?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“In my case? Perhaps
sometimes, but never for long. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What matters to
me is my own bubble and the people inside it. I absolutely need their love and acceptance.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As long as I
have that, I’ll never be an outsider, no matter where I live.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here’s to spending less time fretting about correct Finnish grammar and social
acceptance by people I barely know, and more time enjoying and investing in the
people I love most in this world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And here’s to my wise and loving husband and our well-travelled bubble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-26297051810408456192012-05-16T14:37:00.000+03:002016-06-03T22:32:09.759+03:00The Finn who came in from the cold<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I’ve now lived in Finland for over two years, and I have been with my
Finnish man for more than fifteen. Finally, I feel as though I’m starting to
understand the Finnish psyche.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wish I could say that with understanding has come acceptance. I’ve
learned a lot about when to adjust my behaviour appropriately and when to keep
my mouth shut, but there are still times when a little voice inside me screams
resistance even as I exude a calm and neutral outward demeanour.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Last Saturday we attended our new little God-daughter’s christening. She
is two months old, and is a gorgeous, contented little poppet of a baby. Tears
at christenings are not unusual, but Saturday’s event was a particularly
emotional one, because this same little girl contracted pneumonia when she was
a week old, and almost didn’t make it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Her father, our long-time friend J, broke down within the first sentence of his speech ("There was a point when we weren't sure whether this would be a christening or a funeral"). He stood there, surrounded by his nearest and dearest,
trying to compose himself and failing miserably. The tears ran down his face,
and at one point he started sobbing uncontrollably. It was painful and moving
to watch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">J’s wife was standing right beside him the whole time. She glanced in
his direction, but did not make any move to embrace him, or even to hold his
hand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">J’s mother was sitting a few metres away. She was clearly affected, but
she sat perfectly still with her head bowed, and did not even make eye contact
with J.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I knew better than to follow my instincts and rush up to J with a big,
effusive hug. I knew that my urgent need to offer support and comfort must be quelled. I was supposed to stay right where I was, and leave him
alone to be (and to be seen as) a Finnish man – a <a href="http://theheadspaceblog.blogspot.com/2012/03/lone-wolves.html" target="_blank">lone wolf</a> – coping with his inner
turmoil alone, in his own space.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">After the ceremony, J came over to where my husband and I were standing,
and to my surprise he held out his arms for a hug. I guess he realised that I
was the only person in the room who would willingly show that kind of outward
affection in front of elderly (and deeply Finnish) grannies and grandpas, and the
one person who, courtesy of Foreigner’s Privilege, would get away with it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Saturday’s events have been nagging at me. The whole situation felt so
cold and wrong. Did no one else feel J’s pain? Surely they did, and yet no one
reached out to him. They left him alone, and for all my understanding of why
they did, I cannot comprehend how anyone felt better for it. In a room full of his family and closest relatives, J had to turn to a non-Finnish friend for the small gesture of warmth that he clearly needed.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong - I really do like Finnish people. They have been nothing but welcoming, friendly, tolerant of my Aussie quirks, and
generous with language-related praise and support. Ultimately, though, in some ways we’re fundamentally different. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mostly, this is just fine. Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m the only
person aboard a solitary little boat anchored in a big foreign ocean. At those
times, I feel lonely and isolated, but stubbornly I still refuse to abandon
ship. My odd little boat has
something unique about it, something worth hanging onto.</span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-30238462705568508692012-05-08T22:33:00.000+03:002012-05-08T22:48:17.705+03:00My little mongrel<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Recently, for the first time in years I spoke to my older daughter on
the phone. Is it just me, or is there a huge difference between children “live
and unplugged” compared with their telephonic versions? In person, the actual sound
of a child’s voice is somehow less obvious - it is just one part of the overall
impact. I hear what my children are saying, but their words are coloured and
flavoured with countless visual distractions – animated little faces,
enthusiastic gestures, and those little quirks like pulling at clothes, or
jumping restlessly from one foot to the other. In contrast, all you get on the
phone is their pure, disembodied voice. They sound younger and more vulnerable,
somehow, and their speech sounds so much more quirky and unfinished.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And speaking to Big Sister on the phone the other day I realised, for
the first time, what a strange accent she has.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Frankly, I’m amazed I didn’t notice it before. In terms of grammar and
vocabulary, she speaks English well for her age (surprisingly well, really, considering
that she has never lived in an English-speaking country). Her pronunciation and
intonation, however, are a direct reflection of the fact that she has lived in
Japan and Finland, has parents from Australia and Finland, and attends a school
where teachers speak English with American, Finnish and British accents. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She has what could be called a truly international accent. Her English
pronunciation is, frankly, a bit of a mongrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In one sense, I love this. I love that she’s not from anywhere in
particular and has absorbed all kinds of cultural influences during her young
life. I love that, at the age of 6, she has already learned three different
languages. I love that she’s bright and original. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On the other hand, her different-ness – the very thing I love about her –
makes me panic a bit. As a child, especially at primary school, what I always
wanted most was to be the SAME as other children. People who were different got
teased and bullied. In this sense, I can’t help worrying about my little
mongrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I also worry from a language perspective. If you don’t speak English
with a recognisable accent (British, Australian, American) is your English
still, technically, “correct”? Amongst native speakers, will you still get recognised
as one of the crowd, or will you always be regarded (consciously or
unconsciously) as a foreigner? I am not a native speaker of Finnish, so I can’t
make an accurate first-hand judgment of Big Sister’s accent in her
second-strongest language, but what if my little girl’s Finnish is similarly tainted
with The Unusual? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Does coming from a culturally-rich background mean, in real terms, that
actually she comes from nowhere in particular, and consequently will be an
outsider wherever she goes?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Many friends have told me to let these worries go; that they are not
worth fretting over; that her uniqueness is a strength, not a weakness. Of
course, over time I will try hard to help her be confident in herself and proud
of who she is. I will try to help her embrace challenges and tackle them in her
own, distinctive way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">God help me, all I want is for her to be happy, but have I, by my own
hand, already denied her that? I can’t help worrying that my own life choices
have set her up for a bloody complicated road through life. Please let her be up to the challenge.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-85756731087129316062012-05-01T21:33:00.002+03:002012-10-22T14:16:42.935+03:00Chili fries and homesickness<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Several of the friends I’ve made here in Helsinki are American. Some
moved here for love and are dedicated long-timers; others are expats whose days
here are limited and who are quietly counting the hours. It seems, though, that
<a href="http://www.cnngo.com/explorations/eat/best-usa-travel/10-foods-and-beverages-americans-miss-most-while-abroad-164890?hpt=hp_bn8" target="_blank">this recent article</a> (on the ten foods Americans miss most while abroad) struck
a chord with all of them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I read through the list, thinking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>seriously?</strong>
</i>Chili fries? Taco Bell? Breakfast cereal? <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After reading the article and my friends’ enthusiastic Facebook
reactions to it, initially I felt really disappointed. Angry, even. Helsinki
has so much good food on offer, especially right now – fresh, sweet peas in the
pod, an array of colourful berries, fresh salmon in abundance, my favourite Karelian
pies, a wealth of delicious varieties of bread, every possible form of dairy
product known to man – and yet apparently none of it is good enough; none of it
quite matches up to the joy of a big greasy serving of chili fries. My friends’
longing for foods that sounded inherently unmemorable felt like a slap in the
face for Finland. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On reflection, I realised how incredibly unfair and judgmental I was
being. I am, after all, the woman who lives in this country of abundance, yet MUST
have Vegemite in the house. I am the woman who bakes Anzac biscuits almost
weekly and presses them on everyone around me. I am the woman who, while living
in Tokyo (which has been named among the culinary capitals of the world)
encouraged my husband to sneak Finnish rye bread and Oltermanni cheese through
customs, sometimes a whole suitcase at a time. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'd been practically accusing my friends of being obnoxiously pro-American when really, they were just homesick. Homesickness has nothing to do with
culinary or cultural superiority, or rejecting local ways. It honestly is just
what it is – a deep-seated longing for one's former home, and for those everyday, familiar things that
suddenly are nowhere to be found. Certain very ordinary foods, or more to the
point, their absence, can trigger strong emotions. Some tastes, like root
beer and Vegemite, are learned in childhood and are deeply nostalgic. They are
unique and irreplaceable. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We strangers in strange lands, in moments of feeling overwhelmed and
alone, cannot help turning to the old and familiar – food, language, habits. It’s
a conscious choice to look back and ignore local culture for a moment, and it
smacks of real disloyalty to the country that is offering us a home in the here
and now. Be that as it may, at moments like these, what we foreigners need (especially
from each other) is sympathy and understanding, not harsh judgment and anger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-66245374461326256682012-04-26T21:33:00.000+03:002012-04-26T21:44:06.473+03:00Fear<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I seem to spend large chunks of my daily life dreading things.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here are some examples of Things I Dread: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><ol>
<li>Situations which require me to speak a foreign language </li>
<li>Travelling/dining out/attending social events with my children </li>
<li>Social events generally </li>
<li>House guests, especially people visiting from overseas </li>
<li>Answering my own phone, even when it's a close friend </li>
<li>Having to complete multiple tasks/commitments within in a limited time </li>
<li>Big life changes and unfamiliar tasks/situations (actually, my fear of The Unknown goes beyond dread, and is practically a phobia) </li>
</ol>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In short, I dread just about everything except sitting at home by myself
and communicating with no one. All this irrational dread bothers me, especially
since many of the examples above are regular, even <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">daily</b> occurrences in my life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Let me clarify one point. Most, if not ALL the things that I dread, are
things I truly enjoy doing once I’m actually doing them. It’s just the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought</i></b>
of doing them that makes me shudder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Recently, I finally unearthed the common thread running through the
things I dread. They are all things that require me to exert myself – mentally,
socially, physically, or emotionally. Deep down inside my psyche a belligerent little
voice badgers me constantly, insisting that anything except 100% exertion and a
perfect performance equates with failure. In consequence, just the thought of doing
stuff makes me anxious and exhausted. What a fricking surprise.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No wonder I bloody-well never want to do anything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Recently, I was invited to be on the board of the Japanese school that
my daughter attends once a week. I was additionally offered the responsibility
of organizing the school’s annual excursion. In the spirit of doing my fair
share, I felt compelled to say yes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was instantly filled with dread. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I panicked myself with visions of endless meetings and correspondence in
Japanese, rife with awkward moments and shameful linguistic errors. I worked
myself up over the fearsome challenge of meeting the exceptionally high
standards of the Japanese school community (who are known for their obsessive
attention to detail and their quest for perfection in all things). What did me
in most of all, though, was the fact that I’d never done anything quite like
this before, making it that most feared of fearful things – The Unknown. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Long story short, I made myself almost physically sick worrying about
all this Board stuff. I am embarrassed to admit that <em><strong>I actually thought
seriously about taking my child out of the school as an avoidance strategy</strong></em>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As usual, I dealt with my fear by launching myself into girly-swot-type
feverish over-preparation. I made lists, I printed out a stack of relevant
correspondence and documents, and I found myself a neat little file in which to
store it all. I spent an inordinately long time composing a polite email in
(what I hoped was) reasonably correct Japanese to the five other parents who
had volunteered to help out as Excursion Committee Members. I planned what
I would wear to the initial meetings of the Board and the Excursion Committee. I
was determined to do anything I could to avoid “failing”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Finally, I was as ready as I’d ever be to throw myself into the fray.
I was still terrified, but at least I had charted the four corners of my fear.
I was ready to be
laughed at and criticized and pitied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And <em><strong>quelle surprise, yllätys yllätys</strong></em> - the dreaded First Meeting of the Excursion
Committee did not result in my painful death by cruel Japanese firing squad. It was a lovely chat with five friendly, funny, terrific mums. At
the outset I apologised for my poor level of Japanese and was instantly swamped
with kind comments about how nicely I wrote/spoke. Everyone had great ideas
about where we should have the excursion, and we had a productive discussion. The
meeting was, frankly, enjoyable, as was the initial board meeting. I was
incredulous to realise that I was possibly even going to enjoy this new role. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Why the hell couldn’t I have cultivated that level of positive optimism
from the outset? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t get energy from staying at home quietly by myself, doing nothing.
I am an extrovert who literally NEEDS constant social interaction to remain
happy and invigorated. I get a kick out of succeeding at difficult tasks and
projects. I am irresistibly drawn to language-learning, and have lived
literally half my life in countries where English is not a national language. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Why, then, can I not stop the cycle of fear and pressure which prevents me from
looking forward to all the things I enjoy doing? It's ridiculous that I get crippling performance anxiety even
though I truly love the performing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Obviously, retraining my psyche will be a long-term project. What I need
to learn is this: there is, actually, no such thing as failure (unless I keep
bloody telling myself that there is). Every day, human beings hit rock-bottom and
resolutely start again from scratch, and they end up doing just fine, and if I’m
honest, I have never in my life experienced anything even close to “rock-bottom”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It’s ok to want to do things well, and it’s ok to prepare diligently for
situations where preparation is necessary or possible, but after that life is
just life. There will be days when I don’t try as hard as I could at particular
things, because that day something else in my life is occupying a higher
priority, and because it is inhuman and freakish and unenjoyable to put 100% into everything
all of the time. And even when I do put in a stellar effort, sometimes
situations will play out in a way that leaves me bitterly disappointed in
myself or others. None of this is good or bad. It just is.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">If I live in dread I will die having lived in dread. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">That would really suck.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-3397669044361033812012-04-10T16:04:00.001+03:002019-11-02T23:34:06.829+02:00The Courage to be Different<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It is so easy to poke fun at the odd, the eccentric, and the unpopular. I’ve
been wondering lately why human beings do it. Teenage kids, picking on the boy who is passionate about
chess. Mummies, taking against the one amongst them who serves organic wheatgerm loaf for morning tea.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Asserting strength over other people is all about
power and control. Moreover, turning someone else into an object of scorn deflects attention from our own shortcomings.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ironically, it’s often the bullied eccentrics of this world who have the
very thing that others crave – a kind of inner power born of deep-seated
self-confidence. They might struggle to fit in socially, but it doesn’t stop them from
pursuing favourite hobbies and behaviours that others find quaint, weird, or
incomprehensible. They have the sense to realise that the judgment of others is
irrelevant, and that the key to happiness and satisfaction in life is doing
what you love, and doing it as well as you possibly can. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I think of eccentricity, I can’t help but remember my years in Girl
Guides, and the lady who was our leader.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For 5 years of my life (until age 15) I was a Girl Guide (or “Girl Scout”).
I kept this fact very quiet indeed. It was supremely uncool to be
in Guides. However, even those among my Guide friends who were Cool Girls at
school quietly kept coming every week. Naff and anachronistic and cringe-making
it certainly was at times (what 14 year old would admit to gathering with a bunch of other girls in uniforms to sing The World Song, execute three-finger salutes,
and build stuff out of wood and rope?) It was, nevertheless, fun and
challenging, and we learned things there that I wouldn’t otherwise know how to
do – I learned to build a fire and cook edible food on it, I learned (after
hours of service at a disabled children’s home) how to take care of kids with
various physical and mental disabilities, and I even learned how to make quite
useful things out of wood and rope. We were often challenged beyond the four
corners of our life experience, and it was pretty great when we found we
could deal with those challenges.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was also, frequently, a lot of fun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We did hair-raising outdoor night-stalking. We played a fantastic (and
borderline blood-sport) game known as “duster hockey”, where two girls at a
time, each armed with a long wooden stick, would battle it out, trying to push
a piece of cloth to the end of the wooden-floored room and flick it up onto a
chair to score a goal. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One year we entered a talent contest known as Encore. One of the mums
was a professional dance coach, and somehow she transformed our group of ungainly
teens and pre-teens into a slick, vibrant act, resplendent in 80s dance fashion
and with hair back-combed to within an inch of its life, strutting our stuff to
“Funky Town”. We were actually chosen to represent our state at a national
concert in Sydney (a city many of us had never visited before that). We met
other girls from all over Australia. It was incredible. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I would never ever have admitted it back then, but something else I secretly
liked about Guides was the part that was completely uncool - the part you were
supposed to scoff at with disdain – the ritual of it all. I liked the uniforms
and the ceremonies and the fact that there was a masterable “right” way to do
things. I liked the idea of being part of a worldwide
network and a long history. On Guide camps I felt a certain mysterious joy as we
sat around the campfire at night, wrapped in blankets, singing songs. I certainly didn't let on to anyone how much I enjoyed all this.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Our leader was the only person I knew who had zero disdain (real or
feigned) for any part of Guiding. She loved it all with a passion, and she wasn’t afraid to
admit it. She was known to us by her Guiding name, Dixie. Some of the younger
girls didn’t realise that it wasn’t her real name. Even our parents called her “Dixie”.
Somehow, it was fitting. Dixie was who she intrinsically was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She was a true eccentric.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dixie was a stickler for accuracy and perfection in all the rituals – everyone
marching into position at the start of meetings; flag-bearers carefully placing
the world flag in position; National Anthems and Taps and salutes in all the
right places. The sight of a perfectly-executed knot or an immaculately-polished
brass Promise Badge would bring a happy smile to her face. At big events – gatherings
of Guides from all over Queensland or further – it was always Dixie who was
asked to get up and lead everyone in the various songs, because she knew every
single one of them word-for-word. She would smile with unselfconscious joy as she led the
singing, completely unembarrassed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She was literally an expert in Guiding, and she took a quiet, happy
pride in her ability to do it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As our leader, Dixie was unbelievably active. I remember overnight camps
multiple times per year, trainings, sports days, swimming
carnivals, and fund-raising drives. Remember, she was not paid a cent to be a
Guide Leader. Her work was 100% voluntary, and she organized most events almost
single-handedly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She was constantly cheerful and even-tempered; she was endlessly
energetic. There was something almost unreal
about how happy and selfless and capable and unflappable she always was. She
never said a bad word about anyone and she rarely showed anger or frustration. She was the epitome of everything a Girl Guide was supposed to be.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Little idiots that we were, of course we couldn’t help but mock Dixie
sometimes behind her back – her loud-and-proud singing of Guiding’s Greatest
Hits, the fact that she could quote the Guide Handbook practically verbatim, and
her almost cringe-making enthusiasm about it all.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now, I wish I could find within myself what she has. She has found her life's calling. She leads expertly and from the heart, and clearly gets immense fulfilment and satisfaction from
it all. She attracts admiration and gratitude, and even awards, from people who can’t
believe the extent of her community service, but I doubt she does it for the
thanks or the kudos. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And I doubt she will ever look back on her life and think, I wish I’d
been more mainstream.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I found this photo of her online, taken three years ago. There she is, still in her element. She looks a tiny bit older these days, but her smile is exactly as I
remember. The smile of a truly happy person.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpXbHxV4Z5LIwIGD1SUfTl1bDAHXvYMQh6N5ZfVyjsyJ2X2zFDjBO4cDX60ygSs8WGkK6DJemf9BbUpbWdIGcvHNj_UwAy2p4iwn-ZbwJ8QqYjuj4DUodU_0kIV0X6E3Xex0Gx8kqUHDC/s1600/Dixie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpXbHxV4Z5LIwIGD1SUfTl1bDAHXvYMQh6N5ZfVyjsyJ2X2zFDjBO4cDX60ygSs8WGkK6DJemf9BbUpbWdIGcvHNj_UwAy2p4iwn-ZbwJ8QqYjuj4DUodU_0kIV0X6E3Xex0Gx8kqUHDC/s320/Dixie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://www.newsphotos.com.au/ImageDetail.asp?RefNum=28708730" target="_blank">Photo credit</a></span></o:p></span></div>
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Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-14843892934276715032012-04-05T22:20:00.000+03:002012-04-05T22:20:17.668+03:00Men and Women<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I was a mid-level associate in a big law firm, almost all my
immediate colleagues were male. In some ways, I really enjoyed working with men
– their frank, no-BS approach; their easy-going attitude; the fact that they
were pretty easy to read. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">However, several things used to frustrate me no end
about the men’s world that was my workplace. Here are a </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">few:<br /><br /><strong>Procrastination.</strong> My male colleagues loved to fly by the seats of their tailor-made pants. No one ever seemed to want to get started on the newest piece of work on our plates. Diligent little me, driven by deadline anxiety, would proactively generate outlines, first drafts, and various other efforts aimed at pushing things forward. I might as well not have bothered, as no one was ever interested in looking at them until very late in the piece. We never got things done ahead of time, and many times we went right down to the wire, pressing “send” in a haze of adrenalin and exhaustion and takeaway pizza and coffee fumes. I would have liked our team to start on new assignments the moment they came in the door and I would have loved for us to have finished them with hours or days to spare. I got the feeling that my male colleagues preferred to wait until the adrenalin kicked in, and didn’t see the need to waste time starting early when they knew they could get it all done in a final mad rush.<br /><br /><strong>Time-wasting. </strong>My male colleagues loved to sit around and “strategize” or “brainstorm”; an awful lot of talk about everything else under the sun crept into those meetings. Although many of those colleagues had wives and children at home, I felt like the only one in any hurry to get things done quickly and efficiently during the day so as to make a quick getaway at night. I would get so impatient sitting </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">in
conference rooms or in other people’s offices, wondering how much longer I’d
have to listen to three guys debating the pros and cons of the newest Apple
product, but if I tried to turn the discussion back to the task at hand I’d be
called a Goody Two Shoes, and the Apple debate would anyway be argued to
completion before people turned their minds back to work. I understood the need
for those moments that build camaraderie and good relationships among co-workers,
but so often I felt that the timing was all wrong.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
The [precious few] times I got to work on all-women teams I couldn’t believe
the difference in efficiency and productivity. I felt that we were streets
ahead of men in this respect. It seems to me that women prefer to slog away
like Goody Two Shoes and then beat a hasty retreat once the work is finished,
but men get bored with the task at hand and seek fun distractions at frequent
intervals.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Teasing.</span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> Men seem to
love to tease each other, relentlessly and mercilessly – poking fun at the
chubby guy; mocking the guy who can’t find a girlfriend; humiliating the guy
who can’t catch a football thrown the length of the corridor. Privately, I
found it mean and cringe-making, but I knew better than to say anything. You knew
you had been accepted by your male colleagues when they started teasing you with
nicknames like Goody Two Shoes, or when they included you in a series of
co-worker South Park characters they were creating (cheekily giving your
tiny-boobed character a t-shirt saying “Hooters”). <br />
Women seem to be on a different wavelength when it comes to office humour.*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* One time I did
conspire with a [male] colleague to put a life-size cardboard cut-out of Darth
Vader in our boss’ office. I did it to be cheeky, yes, but not to be mean. In
fact, I was sure my boss would secretly love to be compared with Darth Vader. I
wasn’t wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On the home front, I have to admit that it’s more or less the same
things that really get my goat – in particular, the difference in my husband’s
and my sense of time, urgency, and detail. I have a deep-seated need to plan
things far in advance in minute detail while hubby is keen to wing it (his
solution, in a crisis situation, being to turn to me and ask anxiously, “do you
have any snacks for the kids?” or “do you have a tasteful guest gift we can
take to the friends whose hospitality we will be enjoying in less than 30
minutes from now?”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lately, the first world has been hung up on gender equality. More men
putting in more time at home; more women making their way to the top of the
corporate ladder. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I firmly believe that women are more than capable of doing what have
traditionally been men’s jobs. I also firmly believe that men are capable of
caring for children, doing housework, and cooking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What I don’t believe, though, is that men and women are the same. On the
contrary, we couldn’t be more different. It follows that men and women would
take different routes towards accomplishing the same task, and that in order to
work together, at home or at work, we need to allow each other to be and to
work differently.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Have we really been trying to do that? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It seems to me that, thus far, in the corporate workplace we’ve taken
what is an essentially male-focused model and tried to fit women into it, and
in the home we’ve taken the role of wife and mother and encouraged men to take it
on. Consciously or unconsciously, we want corporate women to behave like men in
the workplace, and we want men to behave like women at home, and yet, if they
do we feel confused and uncomfortable, because they are no longer behaving like
the woman/man that they are.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This is just not going to work in the long run – not if women want to be
organized and efficient at work and go home early to their families, while men still
get to fly by the seat of their pants and enjoy the thrill of the pursuit and
the ultimate catch; not if women want to live in an orderly household with clean
laundry and outings unspoilt by foreseeable disasters, while men are still able
to romp good-naturedly with their kids (preferably with sport on the tv in the
background) and focus less on laundry and more on changing lightbulbs, washing
the car, and fixing that broken tile in the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Maybe this frustration about fitting in, and (perhaps worse) having to
welcome someone who feels like an outsider into “your” space, is one of the
biggest reasons we aren’t seeing equal representation of men and women in top
positions in the workplace, or as managers on the home front. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We need to have different ideas of teamwork and equality. Equality doesn’t
mean doing the same things in the same way. We have to let each other be
different.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The question is, of course – how on earth are we going to do this?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-81903093873108665042012-03-29T17:46:00.000+03:002012-04-29T12:40:23.681+03:00Not as young as I was<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sometimes I feel young. I mean, good grief, at 36 I <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">am </b>still young by most people’s standards. However, lately life has
done its darndest to remind me that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m
not as young as I was…</i><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Item
1: HOW long ago were the 90s?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today Big Sister and I were finding our favourite songs on youtube. I
suddenly thought of “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette, which featured on the
soundtrack of that unforgettable 1990 movie “Pretty Woman”. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was a shock to realise that 1990 was <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">22 years ago</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Item
2: I know that song on the radio because I’ve heard it before, as in, ‘before
you were born’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There are way too many songs coming out lately whose lyrics I know word for
word - unsurprising, since said songs are covers of hits that are 20 years old or more. Fame.
Creep. Billy Jean. Like a Prayer. In Your Head. I have to hold my tongue to
stop myself airing opinionated middle-aged-womanly comments like, “Oooh, it’s a
brave person who would do a cover of MJ/Madonna” or shaming myself by using
words like ‘travesty’ or ‘disrespectful’ when pointing out bold and ill-advised
alterations of lyrics.</span></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Item
3: Why are you dressed as an 80s tragic?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Everywhere I look, people are wearing stuff that I remember (not very
fondly) from the 80s. I am officially old enough to be seeing a retro rehash of
my early teenage years. Oh dear God.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Item
4: Mirrors and other harsh critics tell me I’m looking old<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have suddenly found myself in the target market for anti-ageing creams
and potions featuring words like “repair”, “transformation” and “miracle” in
the title. I will buy just about any product that promises to “reduce the
appearance of wrinkles and age spots” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because
suddenly I have a whole bunch of wrinkles and age spots.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Some time ago I was discussing my crow’s feet with Big Sister:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">BS: Mummy, why do you have all those things around your eyes?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Me: You mean my wrinkles? Well, as we get older our skin gets weaker,
and it gets lines and wrinkles. When I smile you can really notice them, can’t
you?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">BS: I can really notice them even when you’re not smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Item
5: Even impartial bystanders think I look old<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In Japan, even when I was still in my 20s, if people guessed at my age
it was not unusual for them to pick a number in the 40s. I still remember
attending a meeting as a first year associate in Tokyo, and being mistaken for
a partner. To be fair, the average 40- or even 50-something Japanese woman is
ageless and fresh-faced and has so few wrinkles it defies belief. Being told I
look as old as these graceful women is not insulting. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I had long reassured myself that this over-estimation of my age was mere
cultural error. I had blissfully believed that among other white-skinned people
I still looked on the young side. It was a shock, therefore, when earlier this
year my doctor remarked disingenuously that although <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">young women </i>didn’t need regular medical check-ups, I should be bringing
myself along for one every year. He realised his faux pas immediately and hastily
tried to backtrack: “By ‘young women’ I meant women in their 20s!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I had almost recovered from this blow to my womanly confidence when,
less than a minute later, he brought up the subject of menopause. Hello??<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Overall, in recent weeks I’ve been made aware that the transition
from spring chicken to speckled hen is well and truly complete.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Now that I’ve had this cathartic rant, I’m going to promise myself to
read this post again 10 years from now. I predict that I will laugh. Hard. I
predict that I will look at photos of myself taken this year and think, woman,
what were you on about? You looked young and gorgeous!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Age is all relative.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to slather myself in Miracle Potion
and google “hormone replacement therapy”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-77499668066521893742012-03-21T15:03:00.000+02:002016-06-03T22:37:22.626+03:00Lone Wolves<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Since moving to Finland, one thing my Finnish husband has told me repeatedly is Not To Get Involved. It turns out that Not Getting Involved is a characteristic distinctive of Finns. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finns don’t actively communicate with strangers on the bus, on the
street, or waiting in line beside them. Finns don’t ask personal or searching
questions of people who aren’t close friends. If a Finns sees someone asleep on top of a wall or wearing a bathrobe in the Helsinki city centre, they don't pursue the matter. They go about their business
quietly, keeping themselves to themselves. They live and let live.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Australians (myself included) are decidedly opposite in nature. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I am visiting my hometown, I’m always struck by how
relentlessly talkative and friendly Australians are – in stores, on public
transport, at the supermarket checkout – wherever I turn someone is cheerfully engaging
me in conversation. In Finland, without ruthless self-editing I come across as
over-effusive and a chatterbox. Even friends often look a bit taken aback when I’m
talking to them. I sometimes see actual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fright</i>
in people’s eyes when I’m enthusiastically explaining something, gesticulating with
wild abandon. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s more than just wanting to talk, though. I want to HELP. If I see
someone on the street holding a map and looking lost, I feel compelled to ask if
they need directions. If we’re at the park, I’ll quietly keep an eye on that
kid who’s wandered away from his mum, and stop him from eating snow/mud/his
own snot. One summer’s day we were playing on the beach, and suddenly a woman nearby
started yelling, saying that she couldn’t find her two year old son. I felt
her horror so keenly that I almost rushed into the water myself to start the
rescue effort (I would have, actually, except that my Finnish husband implored
me Not To Get Involved). Eventually little Simo was spotted playing happily in
the sand further down the beach, oblivious to all the fuss. I couldn’t help
thinking, though, that if this was Australia there would have been half a dozen
dads already in the water searching for Simo, while their wives gave his mum
hugs and moral support and big brothers and sisters scoured the beach, shouting
his name. All that fuss would somehow have felt comforting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Aussies really are <strike>officious</strike> enthusiastic participants in other people’s
lives. If an old lady slips on the footpath, or a small boy is lost, people
rush up to offer assistance and concern. If a group of teenage kids is making
trouble in Queen Street Mall, it’s only a matter of time before an older bloke
wearing wraparound sunglasses marches up to them and commands them to get their
shit together. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You could call us busybodies, but really the average Aussie is just a “people
person” through and through, and gets immense pleasure and satisfaction from interacting with others. More than that, though, there's a sense of wanting and needing to
reach out and make sure others are ok, and a genuine belief that offering
someone a kind word and a smile will make a positive difference –
even only temporarily. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In Australia, if you see a stranger in trouble, and you ask, “You ok, mate?”
what you're really saying is, “I see
you’re having a hard time, and I feel for you. I hope you can find your way
through it.” You aren’t trying to set yourself up as a new friend, or a
guardian angel (let’s face it, you probably won’t even tell that person your
name). However, you do connect for a moment - just long enough to give that person
a little kick-start towards helping themselves. Just long enough to show them
that another human being noticed and felt their pain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And it truly does make a positive difference - to the person in trouble, yes, but also to you.</span>
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Even after two years in Finland, I’m still not sure why Finns are
so hesitant to reach out in the same way. I don’t believe they are
cold-hearted, lazy, or indifferent (and for the record, if you do initiate
conversation with a Finn who is a stranger, their response, though wary at first, will almost always be a positive one). I think it’s mostly about
uncertainty – not being quite sure what to say, not wanting to take the liberty
of anticipating someone else’s needs, and not wanting to be seen as officious,
interfering, or a know-all. These sentiments are fair enough. My best guess at
a Finn’s thought process is: “This person has their own family and friends; if
they want to talk to someone, they will talk to <em>those</em> people; if they need help, they will seek it from <em>those</em>
people. There is no place for me in this person’s life, so it is appropriate
that I do not interact with this person.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">All the same, as a nation, Australians come across as reasonably happy
and smiley and cheerful, whereas Finns are seen (even by their own) as solemn,
melancholy, and even somewhat depressed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finns often seem to me like lone wolves, stoic in the face of
hardship and terrible weather, reluctant to burden others with their troubles,
hesitant to reach out even when another person’s suffering hits them right in
the heart. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Poor little lone wolves. I want to help you not to be so alone.</span></span></div>
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Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-53185536174623568522012-03-18T08:49:00.001+02:002012-03-21T12:19:34.162+02:00Hitting back at the demons within<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bad head-state last night.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was doing well earlier in the day. Big Sister had a friend from
Japanese school over for a playdate. At first I was speaking to them in
Japanese, but Little Sister was getting annoyed (she was so young when we left
Japan that she didn’t learn any Japanese at all). Big Sister finally admonished
me, in Finnish, “You are going to Finnish school now, Mummy. You should speak
to us in Finnish!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She was right, of course. And so I did, and surprisingly, it wasn’t the
unmitigated disaster I thought it would be. The kids understood me. I
understood them. They corrected some of my more glaring errors. All good. My
confidence levels were high.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That was, until later in the day, when we went to a friend’s house for
dinner, and all the adults except me were Finns. I realised, yet again, how far
I still have to go with Finnish. I can’t deny that I understand fractionally
more than before, and these days I feel slightly braver than before about trying to say
things in Finnish rather than jumping straight to the comfort of English. But
still. I realised, with a pang, that there is just <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">such </b>a lot more I still have to learn just to survive basic
conversations. Last night, feeling wrung out and demoralised, I couldn’t even
bear to think about the long road I still have ahead of me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Being unable to do something well used to hit me right in my sense of
ambition. A poor performance would only spur me on to greater efforts. But
lately, I seem to slip far too easily across the fine line between Stimulating
Challenge and Overwhelming Burden. Too often lately, I don’t feel like I’m
enjoying this journey; rather, I feel as though I’m getting my arse whipped by
the Finnish language in no uncertain terms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I spent last night feeling deeply and pathetically sorry for myself. I
say “pathetically” because at the end of the day I really, really do want to
learn this language, and therefore I just have to bite the bullet and move
ahead, one word and one new grammatical structure at a time. Feeling sorry for
myself is only going to make things that much more difficult. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This morning, in the bright light of a new day, I choose to push back
against the mocking naysayers and the defeatist voices within my own head. Dammit,
you guys, just shut up and let me get on with it. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In an effort to cheer up and remember the fun side of language-learning,
I am listening to one of my favourite Finnish songs of all time. I love this
song, even if it is, strictly speaking, a kids’ song, because </span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I can understand the words, and it makes me think, smilingly, of my children, and because some days this is who I secretly want to be – Kuningas (or, more accurately, <em>Kuningatar</em>) Ei!<br /> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Have a listen, even if you don’t speak Finnish. This song is catchy and irresistible,
and transcends linguistic barriers! Just in case, below is a rough translation
of the lyrics. Enjoy!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="http://youtu.be/vr3mqGxV8ac"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">http://youtu.be/vr3mqGxV8ac</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Finnish-speaking readers: comments on my translation are warmly welcomed! I think that the more correct translation of the title would be "King No", but somehow I like the sound of "The King of No" better in English :)</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>KUNINGAS EI</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">THE KING OF NO</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> <strong>Mä en tahdo syödä muumilautaselta,</strong> '</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna eat off a Moomin plate<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo syödä mitään.</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna eat anything!<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo istua ruokapöydässä,</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna sit at the dinner table<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo tehdä mitään.</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna do anything!<br /><br /><strong>"Otatko sämpylää?" - Ei.<br /> </strong>“Would you like some rolls?” NO!<br /><strong>"Otatko omenaa?" - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Would you like some apple?” NO!<br /> <strong>"Palanen juustoa?" - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“A piece of cheese?” - NO!<br /> <strong>"Vai lasi maitoa?" - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Or a glass of milk?” – NO!<br /> <strong>En tahdo, eikä mun tarvitse.</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t want to, and I don’t need to!<br /><br /><strong>Olen kuningas,<br /> </strong>I am the king<br /><strong>Suuri kuningas,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The great king¨</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Kuningas E ja I.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The king of N and O<br /> <strong>(x2)</strong><br /><br /><strong>Täällä hallitsee Kuningas Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here rules the King of No!<br /><br /><strong>Mä en tahdo laittaa sukkahousuja,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna put on my tights<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo laittaa mitään.<br /> </strong>I don’t wanna put on anything!<br /><strong>Mä en tahdo laittaa kumppareitakaan,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna put on gumboots<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo tehdä mitään.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna do anything!<br /><br /> <strong>"Mennäänkö puistoon?" - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Shall we go to the park?” NO!<br /> <strong>"Saat ajaa polkupyörällä." - Ei.<br /> </strong>“You can ride a bike.” – NO!<br /><strong>"Muutkin on ulkona." - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Other kids are outside.” – NO!<br /> <strong>"Puetaan päälle." - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Let's get you dressed!” – NO!<br /> <strong>En tahdo, eikä mun tarvitse.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t want to, and I don’t need to!<br /><br /><strong>(chorus)</strong><br /><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Teitä hallitsee</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You are ruled by him<br /><strong>Kuningas Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The King of No<br /><br /><strong>Ja mä voin soittaa rumpuja</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And I can play the drums<br /> <strong>Keskellä yötä puoli neljältä.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At 3:30 am in the middle of the night<br /> <strong>Ja teidän riemuna</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And what joy for you</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>On tehdä töitä pussit silmillä.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To work with bags under your eyes<br /> <strong>Ja näin se käy,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And this is how it goes<br /> <strong>Näin se käy.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This is how it goes<br /><br /><strong>Mä en tahdo pestä hampaita,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna brush my teeth<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo pestä mitään.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna brush anything!<br /> <strong>Mä en tahdo mennä nukkumaan,<br /> </strong>I don’t wanna go to sleep<strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Mä en tahdo tehdä mitään.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t wanna do anything!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>"Pää tyynyyn." - Ei.<br /> </strong>"Put your head on the pillow." No!<strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>"Hyvää yötä." - Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Good night." No!<br /> <strong>En tahdo, eikä mun tarvitse.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t want to, and I don’t need to.<strong></strong></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Olen kuningas,<br /> </strong>I am the king<strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Suuri kuningas,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The great king<br /> <strong>Kuningas Ei, kuningas Ei.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">The King of No, The King of No</span> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span></b></span></span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-20097446107422663112012-02-29T19:00:00.003+02:002012-02-29T19:03:03.327+02:00The Prodigal Sun<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Part 1: Tuesday<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today, for no good reason, I’m feeling brittle and fragile and on-the-edge.
I am full of rage and disappointment at no one and everyone, nothing and
everything. It is early afternoon, and in an hour I have to go and pick up my
kids. I should be doing my Finnish homework, but instead I am sitting in a café, looking out despondently at the
falling snow. I don’t know quite why, but I’m just about at the end of my rope.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I started the day tired, after a bad night’s sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(Little Sister is discovering dreams, and currently wakes up multiple
times per night shrieking my name, exclaiming loudly about what she just saw,
firmly believing that it was all true.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">[<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sitting up in bed and sobbing
with wild abandon</i>] “Mummy’s not THEEEERE! She’s gone! Mummy’s GOOOONE!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">[<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sitting up in bed and yelling at
high volume</i>] “Someone BROKE MY SUNGLASSES! On purpose! They are
brooookeeeen!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">[<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sitting up in bed in an indignant
huff</i>] “The new cow is called SNUNNY! That’s his name, silly. Hmph!”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then, for some reason (no doubt related to her own broken sleep) Little
Sister decided this morning that she was going to opt out of day-care. Her
initial efforts to implement this decision (engaging in fake coughing during
breakfast, refusing to have clothes put on her, and calmly informing me of her Day-Care
Embargo during the bus ride into town) failed, but Little Sister is not a
quitter. For the entire fifteen-minute walk from Big Sister’s preschool to
Little Sister’s day-care, she sat in her stroller and alternately cried and
shrieked and shouted about how much she didn’t want to go to day-care, as I
slid on the icy footpath and bent my head against the snow pelting stingingly
into my eyes, trying to make soothing platitudes issue forth reassuringly from
my mouth, but finding their calming effect was negligible because Little Sister
could only hear me over the wind and the traffic if I raised my voice to a
shout.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I finally got to my Finnish class, and had one of those days where I had
to look up more words than I understood, drew a blank at words I knew we’d
already studied, and nearly cried when I couldn’t conjugate a type-1 verb in
the present passive. This was one of those days I could not summon any energy
or patience; could not find any elation in learning a new foreign language one
baby step at a time. I just felt overwhelmed and tearful and defeated, and as I
walked down the corridor on my way out a couple of shameful big-girl tears
dripped down my cheeks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I opened the street door to find that during the hours I had been
inside, the snow had not let up at all, and was now ankle-deep and rising. A sudden sense of blind fury rose in my
chest, momentarily overpowering the despair and pissed-offedness already
simmering within. Never mind that we’ve had it easy this winter. Only two
months of snow so far, and not even that many days of temperatures colder than
-15, and yet, I have just had a GUTFUL of the cold and the snow. I am sick of dragging
deadweight strollers and sleds laden with children through thick, porridgey
snow and over slippery ice; sick of having freezing snowballs thrown excitedly
at me; sick of feeling cold despite layers and layers of clothes; sick of
reminding my three year old multiple times a day not to reach out of the
stroller and swipe at banked-up, dirty, dog-wee-covered snow and put it into
her mouth; sick of trying to be a good mother and forcing myself to remain with
my kids in the park long after I’ve had enough of standing there in the cold,
knowing that no matter how long I remain stoic, the minute I announce that
we’re leaving they will still cry and whine because they would stay, revelling
delightedly in the snow and ice, for three bloody hours if I let them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It does no one any good to rage against the weather, but to hell with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I am also angry (in no particular order) about the following: the fact
that I love ice cream but lately it has inexplicably turned
on me and gives me brutal stomach aches; the fact that I can’t manage to get my
house key out of my bag and into the lock without taking off my gloves, and thirty
seconds without gloves is a hand-freezing eternity when it’s -10; the fact that
our building management has decreed that we must not leave anything in the <strike>huge,
echoing expanse of space</strike> corridor outside our apartment door and that therefore
our tiny front hallway is now crammed with a stroller, a sled, an enormous plastic box containing
the kids’ outside toys, and the whole family’s winter boots dripping dirty
puddles of melted snow endlessly onto the floor; the fact that I would love to work
as a lawyer again someday – sooner rather than later - but I cannot for the
life of me find a way to do that and still be there for my kids, let alone sleep,
let alone have some kind of a life outside work and kids; the fact that I have
so much to be grateful for and yet today I feel inexplicably low and cranky and
cannot manage to shake it off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today it is a bad, dark day inside my head. It’s as though someone has
turned the lights off and moved the light switch beyond my grasp, and the
culprit is hiding somewhere in the darkness, taunting and mocking me in a soft,
cruel voice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Life may be wonderful and beautiful and a gift, but today I’m royally pissed
off at it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Part 2: Wednesday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I can’t quite believe the change that came over me this morning, when
(noticing that the room was oddly bright) I looked out of the window and saw The
Prodigal Sun rising in the sky. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Suddenly, everything was ok again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It is gorgeously sunny in Helsinki today – clear blue skies, brilliant
sunshine that actually feels warm, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">temperatures
above zero</i>! This is weather we haven’t had for weeks and months, and
everyone’s spirits are soaring. The air is full of hope; infused with the heady
promise of spring. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It is early afternoon. I have an hour to myself before I have to go and
pick up my kids. I should be doing my Finnish homework, but instead I am
sitting in a café, defiantly eating ice
cream as the sun pours in through the floor-to-ceiling glass window beside me. After months of bitter chill,
right now I am toasty warm. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am actually
sweating a little bit.</i> It is thrilling in the extreme.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This day and this sun and the sense of hope in the air have literally
given me a new lease on life. This time yesterday, I was the same person,
sitting in exactly the same café as I am today, and yet today everything is
different. Everything is better. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Life is strange like that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">All you have to do is wait for the sun. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-50181697311962770782012-02-20T14:05:00.000+02:002012-02-20T17:05:25.953+02:00Parents Are Forever<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A family friend in Australia is separated from the father of her child. She
left him for various reasons which are less than clear to me, but let’s just say
that, at the time, her family breathed a collective sigh of relief. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Perhaps
unsurprisingly, since then she and her daughter’s father have spent a great
deal of time fighting over how much time their little girl (who is now 5) should
spend with each parent. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Currently, pursuant to a court order, Child spends about half her time
with each of them. When I heard this, I admit feeling surprised. It was
acknowledged in court that Dad has some issues that need the attention of a
therapist. Dad is strapped for cash. Dad
has repeatedly accused more than one of Mum’s relatives/close friends of
sexually abusing their little girl, who has been taught to yell at her
grandmother “Don’t touch me!” It is unclear how diligent Dad is when it comes
to regularity of meals, baths, and bedtime. Child, who is now 5 years old, goes
to stay with her Dad every Thursday night, and frequently returns to Mum on
Sunday evening wild with exhaustion and with nits in her hair (not to mention
small sores on her scalp where she has scratched at them).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />Granted, I don’t know Dad personally and have not had a chance to hear his side of the story, but I was still a bit surprised at how equally the court had divided parenting time between Mum and Dad. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Law geek that I am, my curiosity led me to delve into the relevant sections of the <em><a href="http://www.comlaw.gov.au/Details/C2012C00106/Html/Text#_Toc314647883" target="_blank">Family Law Act 1975 (Cth)</a></em> which has changed quite dramatically since I studied it. As I understand it, current Australia law presumes that it is in a child’s best interests for both parents to have a meaningful involvement in that child’s life and to share parental responsibility, except where there is a reasonable belief that a parent has abused the child or engaged in family violence. A court making a parenting order will try, wherever possible, to share parental responsibility equally between parents. Where it isn’t practicable for the child to spend equal time with each parents, the court will at least try to ensure that the child spends “substantial and significant time” with each parent (i.e., time that includes normal weekdays, weekends, and holidays, and allows a parent to be involved in the child’s daily routine and occasions/events of particular significance to the child).</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In making a
parenting order, secondarily the court will consider literally any fact or circumstance
that the court thinks is relevant (including things like: any views expressed
by the child; the willingness of each of the child’s parents to
facilitate and encourage a close and continuing relationship between the child
and the other parent; the practical difficulty and expense of a child spending
time with a parent; and the capacity of each parent and
other caregivers to provide for the child’s emotional, intellectual and other
needs). However, it must be
noted that these are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">secondary</i>
considerations that take a back seat to the all-important attempt to ensure
shared parenting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My take on current Australian law is this: if you are a child’s parent,
you have the right (and the duty) to have a go at parenting that child. You are
supposed to try hard to be a good and responsible parent and provide for the
child’s physical and emotional needs, you must abstain from violence, and you
are supposed to interact and cooperate with the other parent in matters of
parental responsibility, but apart from that there are not really any hard and
fast rules. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We live in a society where parenting standards are not prescribed.
As long as you don’t actually assault your children or fail to provide them
with the necessities of life, day to day you can parent them according to your
own personal ideology. There are no binding laws prescribing what time a child
should go to bed at night, what exactly you should feed them, which people you
should allow them to meet, what you should do to prevent them getting lice in
their hair (and what should be done if they do), or what you can and cannot teach
them about life and about the people around them. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If you don’t honour the other
parent’s wishes as to these details, the worst that could happen is that the
other parent can show evidence to a court of your failure to act in the child’s
best interests, but for the most part I imagine it would be very difficult to translate
“I don’t like my ex-partner’s style of parenting” into compelling reasons
why a court should limit your child’s time with that parent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Current Australian legislation seems to be trying very hard to emulate,
artificially, what would happen naturally when children have two parents of
average intelligence and with a normal sense of responsibility, who love each
other, live together in reasonable domestic harmony, and act as a team. In
those “normal” situations, the two parents are often with their children at the
same time, they each know their children and his or her routines reasonably well, and it's natural that they would jointly make decisions as to that child's life. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It should be remembered, though, that two parents who live together are also able to keep each other’s parenting in check
minute-to-minute and day-to-day. They tend to put a stop to behaviour in the
other that would otherwise be considered unwise, rash, too aggressive,
emotionally disturbing for a child, reckless, socially unacceptable, or just
overly dramatic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When two parents are estranged, these checks and balances cannot take
place naturally. The law says that parents who have separated are to have
shared parental responsibility and must consult with each other, and the court has
to assume that each parent will step up and do his or her responsible best.
However, the reality is that neither parent can know for sure what really goes on once the child is within the other
parent’s domain. Mum is required to
trust Dad (and vice versa) with the welfare of Child under circumstances where
Mum and Dad’s mutual love and trust have been so irreparably damaged that they
are no longer together. Mum and Dad each just have to hope that the other’s
love for Child will guide their actions and make them do the right thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The other tricky thing is this: most children want to spend time with
their parents, and most parents want to spend time with their children.
However, if you are separated from your child’s other parent, each minute of
quality time your child spends with that person is time spent away from you.
You are required to ignore your internal imperative to be close to your
child, and instead are required to consider, rationally, that it is in your child’s best interests to spend time with someone else – someone who is perhaps
the last person you yourself want to spend time with. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And yet, what would be the alternative to this system? That the “better” parent gets
full custody and the other parent barely gets to see the child? What does
“better” actually mean? – the one who plays with the child more? The one with
the better job and the nicer home? The one with fewer issues that can be
identified by a trained observer? The one who tries hardest to implement the teachings of Supernanny? The one who the kid chooses? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The reality is that parenting isn't a competition. The law cannot be seen to be judging parents against each other, and awarding extra one-on-one time to the "winner", because the rules of parenting are so vague and subjective that it would never be a fair contest. Besides, even in the face of what could objectively be considered to be "good" parenting, we cannot forget the simple fact that, as my Family Law
professor once observed (with some sadness), “Children bond even with the
most inappropriate of parents.” Small children don’t see their parents’ flaws.
They love their parents fiercely, unconditionally, and sometimes even
unjustifiably. </span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Family Law tries hard to find solutions in difficult situations, but the
truth is that families and the law are a very bad fit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The moral of this story is simple: don’t have children with a person
unless you are as sure as you can be that he/she would be a good and
responsible parent. Think about whether you could trust that person implicitly
with your child for days on end if you were not present. Consider that this
person will be in your life at least until your child is 18, whether or not you
love or live with each other. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After all, you can choose to end a relationship with your partner, but that
person will always be your child’s other parent - always and forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-72302116505594918052012-02-12T12:27:00.000+02:002017-09-15T17:51:05.512+03:00The Family Car<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">From the time I was in primary school until I was well into my 20s, my dad
owned the same car. He was devoted to its health and well-being. It was unique
and irreplaceable.</span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh770zHjlQwyc341KnYkzjGrL3rOjYrynSNWunmEQSRsnquW-BCV2-Q0S6DZFc__UhmS80VtweZ8dgp1GMJ80ucpRZYvtNmmR1HAP7xOCY-VuxBpwc5eV6E-JAu57VjPlgxjFYWug7yg2LU/s1600/Kingswood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh770zHjlQwyc341KnYkzjGrL3rOjYrynSNWunmEQSRsnquW-BCV2-Q0S6DZFc__UhmS80VtweZ8dgp1GMJ80ucpRZYvtNmmR1HAP7xOCY-VuxBpwc5eV6E-JAu57VjPlgxjFYWug7yg2LU/s320/Kingswood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:1976-1977_Holden_HX_Kingswood_sedan_01.jpg" target="_blank">Photo credit</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was a white Holden Kingswood. <em></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Until I was about 10, I saw this vehicle through my Dad’s rose-tinted
lens. I enjoyed its enormousness – the back seat that we once proved was big
enough for 5, the boot that could hold an implausible number of bikes and
scooters, the ridiculously abundant leg-room. I loved that in summer we would wind
down all the windows and let the warm breeze rush into our faces and ears. The car was affectionately nicknamed “Bertha”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then, one day, sometime in primary school, I suddenly noticed my
friends’ parents’ cars. Mighty Mitsubishi Pajeros. Zippy little Hondas. Gleaming Mercs. They had a lovely newness and a modern sleekness
about them. In one of those painful coming-of-age moments, my young mind
realised that (like proper Speedos instead of el-cheapo bathers from
Woolworths, and like Popper juice boxes rather than daggy re-usable drink
bottles) these cars represented Fitting In.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I realised with horror that Bertha was
the mark of a family that didn’t have the money for something better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Things got worse when I was a teenager, and my parents sent me to a
private girls’ high school that was known for its high academic standards. Unsurprisingly,
it was filled with girls from privileged families who owned luxury cars. In hindsight, I
was lucky enough to be able to attend this excellent school only because my
parents, with humble jobs as a public servant and a teacher, chose to invest in
my education, and not in new cars. As a teenager, however, I could not see past
my own confused angst and self-pity. I
would take two different buses to get home rather than be seen in that car. I
would cringe when friends came over and saw it parked in the driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In my view, it was the family car from hell. It stood for everything
that was wrong with my self-image.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My loathing continued in force for some years, until, at age 17, I was desperate to learn how to
drive. My dad was actually willing to teach me, but he and Bertha were a package deal. Having to be seen in Bertha was
an evil I would have to live with if I wanted that coveted driver’s license. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Bertha was like no other car I’ve driven since. Forget automatic
transmission and power steering – Bertha had a classic “three on the tree”
stick shift, and steering so heavy you could feel it in your triceps as you
tried to get around tight corners. There were only three forward
gears, but you could comfortably do 80 kmph in Bertha’s mighty second gear. Engaging
the clutch required considerable lower-body strength. While steering required
some level of brute force, at the same time you had to be a bit careful – in the wake of a dodgy repair executed by my dad, the steering wheel
was strangely wobbly, and in fact, a few
years later, it actually came off in my younger brother’s hands while the car
was in motion. <em>[When he told me about it, I was shocked and asked, “But what did you do?”
and he said, calmly, “I put it back on again!”]</em> The left indicator didn’t
work, or rather, it did, but for reasons Dad was never able to ascertain, turning
it on caused the horn to blare loudly. The radio antenna had been snapped off
by vandals, so Dad had ingeniously made a new one out of wire
that he’d sticky-taped around the inside perimeter of the windscreen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But against all odds, thanks to (or in spite of) Bertha I passed my driving test <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on
the first try</i>! </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">After that, when Dad had weekend errands to run, he would ask me to come with him, and handing me
the key to his beloved car, would say, “Go on – you drive!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I like to think this was his way of saying, “I love you, and I’m proud of you.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And by my 20s, my feelings about Bertha had mellowed. She was like an
elderly relative – full of flaws and quaint little idiosyncrasies,
but a lovable fixture nevertheless. Bertha came to symbolize something important
in my life. She represented humility, living within one’s means, and the need
to work hard for material gain. She reminded me of my parents’ love, and their
determination to send their children to the best schools they could possibly
afford, even if that meant living on a tight budget and cheerfully driving the same old car
for almost two decades. She taught me not to be ashamed of having fewer and
less nice material things than others, because in the end I had all the things
that were truly important.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was around this time that my younger brother was driving Bertha when he was involved in a car
crash. He walked out of it without a scratch. Bertha was so badly damaged that
she was written off. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was her time to go, I thought. By this stage, my parents were no
longer strapped for cash. They could go out and buy a newer, better-quality
car. </span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But Dad, somewhat devastated at his loss, wasn’t ready to give up on Bertha. Unbelievably and to my mother's horror, h</span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">e
went out and bought two scrapped Holden Kingswoods, deposited them in the front
yard, and started, piece by piece, trying to rebuild
Bertha. We tried to dissuade him from this task, convinced this would be a prolonged but ultimately futile attempt at resuscitation (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s all over, Dad. You did your best. Let
her go now.”</i>) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But he actually managed to summon a pulse. He succeeded in
rebuilding that damn car. The new Bertha was pretty rough around the edges
where Dad had tried his hand at DIY panel-beating, but she was back on the
road, and Dad was thrilled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was somehow shocking and just plain unfair when, one night not long
after that, Bertha was (no kidding) STOLEN, never to be recovered. Dad suspected joyriders. Even
we who had driven that joyless car were kind enough not to laugh.</span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dad gave in and bought a soulless but reliable Camry. It doesn't have a name.</span></span></div>
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</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-35689863722743722992012-02-05T22:02:00.000+02:002012-04-29T13:38:43.550+03:00Throwing in the towel on parenthood<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Like <a href="http://1978rebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/top-5-phrases-which-drive-me-crazy.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+HereComeTheGirls+%28Here+come+the+girls%29" target="_blank">this blogger</a>, sometimes I suspect that my inner reserves of
patience, which were supposed to last me an entire lifetime, have already been
all but completely exhausted after only 6 years of parenting.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I used to be known as a nice, kind person--generous in spirit, sunny and
optimistic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lately, some days I can still pull off “kind but firm”. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Other days, I really understand why some species of animals eat their
young. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Picture it: 8:30 am on a Sunday morning. Children sitting companionably
together on sofa. Mother smiling as she clears breakfast table, suffused with
dreamy images of familial harmony, enjoying moment of quiet joy. Father
outside, good-naturedly shovelling snow in uber-macho manner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Seconds later, older child starts teasing younger child mercilessly,
taking a favourite toy and holding it just out of reach. Screaming ensues.
Frustrated younger child belts living daylights out of older child and tries to
sit on her head. Screaming ensues. Younger child given harsh scolding and sent to
naughty corner. Screaming ensues. Older child loudly chastised for teasing
little sister. Sulking ensues. Older child grumps off to bedroom only to
discover that younger child has, at some point, sneakily unearthed box of
Secret Treasures from its hiding place and Touched Everything. Screaming
ensues. Mother screams at everyone to stop screaming. Younger child, liberated
from naughty corner, stomp-runs away at high speed and catches side of forehead
with full force on corner of bookshelf. High-decibel shrieking ensues. Mother
makes multiple, futile attempts at holding squirming and distraught child still
enough to administer bag of frozen peas to massive purple egg-shaped contusion.
Phone rings loudly and insistently. Smaller child is still shrieking
uncontrollably; panicked mother pictures
a hospital visit, head injuries, concussion. Older child finishes sulking and coolly
re-enters room, inexplicably having removed all clothes except underpants. She
observes the situation; judging from her neutral reaction, apparently
everything is perfectly normal. She suddenly demands to know (in tones loud enough to
be heard over little sister’s shrieking) what vitamins are in milk, how do tv
shows get to our tv, and when are you going to wrap the present I am taking to
Best Friend’s birthday party today? Older child commanded to wait 5
minutes until crisis at hand is under control. Older child bitterly accuses
parent of dividing attention unevenly between siblings. Younger child stops
crying and imperiously tells big sister to shush. Big sister has spectacular meltdown.
Little sister starts crying again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Less than TEN MINUTES of concentrated life with children, and already I
am wondering how I’m going to make it through the day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I love my girls so much. I wanted them desperately, and I still do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Some days, though, I am completely overcome by the frenetic, frustrating
minutiae of daily life with children. I know difficult moments are fleeting and
will pass, I know I just need to remain calm and deal with it and allow the ebb
and flow of life to take its course, but sometimes, secretly, I just want to
give up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I just want it all to go away</i>.
In those black moments, I don’t want to be anyone’s mother any more. I don’t
want to be responsible for anyone but myself and my own selfish needs. I find
myself wishing to go back in time to when I was a carefree twenty-something who
washed and blow-dried my hair and carefully applied makeup every morning, had
long, chatty brunches with girlfriends on Sunday mornings, and prided myself on
being able to handle multiple responsibilities with consummate ease and a smile
on my face. I mean, my twenty-something self would even buy special lingerie to wear for her husband on
his birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I love my girls so much, but dammit, parenting is hard work. It’s hard
to get right, and it’s even harder to know whether or not you’ve actually
managed to get it right. It saps my energy and my patience and my confidence
like nothing else. It challenges my inner resources beyond what I thought were
reasonable boundaries. At the worst times, forging ahead with the day is quite
literally a minute-to-minute challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I wrote all this in a surge of emotion this morning (after my husband
returned to the scene, took a look around, and - <em>God bless him</em> - told me to hide
in our bedroom for an hour and have some time to myself). Of course, right now, as I read back over the rush of truth that poured out of me just hours ago, already my girls
are making a liar out of me. One has set up her doll house furniture all over
the coffee table and is endearingly letting Sylvanian Families rabbits take
turns on the toilet (“Here you go, little one! Pisssssss!”) The other has just fired up some Maroon 5, and is shouting “I got the moves like dragon!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No way could I ever do without them, and no way </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">do I really want to go back to the days when I only dreamed about
having them. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They are hard work, but the very best things in life are
those that are worked for the hardest. I am also pretty sure that, for all my
whining, if I had to I would do my DARNDEST to find further, even endless resources
within myself to help and protect and fight for my children through the most serious or challenging circumstances. We all know that we could and would, and
my heart goes out to parents have already done just that - parents who really know what it is to give their absolute
all to save their child from illness, hunger, danger, or evil.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My secret, dark thoughts of throwing in the towel are, after all, only
thoughts. They are fleeting. They too will pass.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-74406137503305952182012-01-31T14:42:00.000+02:002012-01-31T16:29:15.846+02:00Influenza and Project Runway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My six year old has been home sick for a couple of days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It just wouldn't be winter without a bit of influenza in the house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I have to admit, though, that I've really enjoyed the two days we've spent quietly together. Little Sister, still fighting fit, has gone to daycare as usual. Daddy has been at work. It isn't often that it's just My Big Girl and me, but for the past two days we've had our Own Time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We've watched DVDs. We've done crosswords. We've read The Folk of the Faraway Tree (My Big Girl enjoyed it as much as I did at her age). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Best of all, we made a new game for ourselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My Big Girl has several books containing outlines of "models", with stencils that you can use to trace clothes onto them. We got bored with just tracing and colouring, and started to wonder whether some real models' clothes might fit our girls...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I grabbed a couple of old InStyle magazines that had been relegated to toilet-reading, and we got to work:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If My Big Girl ever ends up on Project Runway, I will claim this as the day it all began.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">She is almost better again now. I probably should feel happy that she will be well enough to go back to preschool in a day or so. Except that I'll miss her so much.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-1328874526870070962012-01-29T21:20:00.000+02:002012-01-31T16:26:06.715+02:00Clueless<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Every day you speak Finnish better and better!”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yesterday, after listening to my laborious efforts to talk to his 4 year
old in Finnish, my neighbour offered this kind comment. He knows that I started an intensive language course earlier this month, and (like all my Finnish friends) he has been hugely supportive of my efforts to learn his language.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If it’s true, though, that my Finnish is improving, I wish I’d start
feeling it myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The other morning I got a phone call from an unknown number. The woman’s
first sentence was completely incomprehensible to me. She was unable or
unwilling to speak in English. She powered on in Finnish, her tone firm and
insistent – urgent, even. I strained to pick up some clue – anything – that might
enlighten me as to who she was or why she was calling me. Was someone trying to
deliver a package to our apartment? Had my younger daughter (at Finnish
daycare) had some kind of dreadful accident? Was I in trouble with the police? Had
I forgotten to return my library books? The possibilities were endless, and
anxiety froze my brain and blocked all comprehension. I was spooked, too,
because this woman knew my surname and had my phone number, and at some point
she revealed that she knew my husband’s name, too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Finally, she asked me a question that I understood: “How often do you
recharge the credit on your [prepaid] cell phone?” And then it dawned on me,
with angry relief – this was a bloody sales call.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It is times like this that I’m furious with myself – furious that I
haven’t managed to learn better Finnish in the two years we have lived here;
furious because whether or not I learn Finnish is completely up to me, and I
wouldn’t still be in this state of frustration had I tried harder to study and learn;
furious because I’ve been LAZY and have caused myself stress as a result. For
years (even before we moved here) I have wanted to speak and understand Finnish,
and yet for years I’ve managed to find other ways to occupy my time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I do have moments that give me hope. Last weekend, I took my daughter to see a movie that was
dubbed in Finnish. I fully expected to be lost within the first 5 minutes, but was
happily surprised when I managed (more or
less) to follow the story of Alvin and his chipmunk friends. Yes, I was able to get the basic gist of a movie intended for 7 year olds. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Positive feelings were heavily overlaid with the realisation of just how
far I still have to go. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I really should take a leaf out of my daughter’s book. Talking to her
after the movie (hoping to get her to explain some bits of dialogue I hadn’t
grasped) I realised, with interest, that she hadn’t caught everything either. In
fact, in some ways she had missed more than I had, because not only was she
unclear on the language in places, she didn’t have the life experience to give her
extra clues. When I pointed out that perhaps she, too, was not quite sure what
happened in places, she shrugged and said, completely unconcerned and
unapologetic, “I don’t know ALL the Finnish words yet, Mummy.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Her calm words spoke volumes, implying complete confidence that one day
she would, in fact, know “all the Finnish words”, proclaiming that in the
meantime she could manage perfectly well, and gently chastising me for being unnecessarily
impatient about the organic process of language-learning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The trouble is, though, that it’s harder for adults,
because it’s assumed that we are not clueless; it’s assumed that grown human
beings can handle a given range of tasks and situations without assistance. Yet,
when not just the language but the whole way of life of a country and its
people are new to you, there is going to be a lot that you don’t know and have
to learn. You are in the weird situation of trying to act like a knowledgeable,
responsible, socially-adept adult, even though in many situations you know less
than a 7 year old. For instance:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* In Helsinki, if you are traveling on a bus with a
baby in a stroller, you are permitted to enter via the back door, without
paying. However (as I now know) this is not so if you’re traveling with a baby
who is not in a stroller, or if it’s winter and the baby is in a sled. In my
experience, if you try to enter via the back door in one of the latter
situations, the bus driver comes and yells at you in front of your children, or
simply drives off and leaves you standing in the snow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* Some swimming pools have specific days on which bathing
suits are not obligatory. If you use the pool at such times, you will find
yourself doing 50m laps alongside (or worse - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">behind</i>) people who are completely in the buff. You have been
warned.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* When my daughter started Finnish daycare, in accordance
with their guidelines I stayed there with her for several days. My daughter
couldn’t speak Finnish, and the teachers expected me to guide her through the
various routines. Talk about the blind leading the blind. At the time, I barely
understood words like “eat” or “nap”. I half-guessed at what the teachers were
saying. I couldn’t communicate with the other children. My kid cried a lot,
confused and overwhelmed. I felt like doing the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">* I come from a city where (to my knowledge) it has
never snowed, and where we drive on the left-hand side of the road. When we
left our Helsinki home this morning, it was 15 below zero with snow everywhere. Imagine
you are me, and then try to (a) liberate your car from a cocoon of snow and ice
with sufficient competence to enable you to drive the damn thing out of its parking
spot; (b) on your return home, do a reverse (parallel) park on the “wrong” side
of the road into a space bearing a car-shaped imprint bordered all around with
half a metre of banked-up snow. With your two children whining in the back seat
and your neighbour laughing at you from the side of the road. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong – I’m up for this, really. I want
to make this Helsinki adventure work. Most days I see my cluelessness as a
challenge – my chance to extend myself. Most days I can even laugh at myself if
these things – which, in the end, are just minutiae after all - don’t work out
perfectly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On days of lower optimism, though, I just feel
humiliated in my cluelessness. I wonder if this steep learning curve will ever
taper off. Some days I long to feel <em>capable</em>; confident I can tackle daily life with some degree of basic competence.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I have spent 36 years learning to be an adult, only to find myself, constantly, in situations which make me feel like a child. Some
days I just want to be a grown up again. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-40230201949402967912012-01-13T17:34:00.000+02:002016-03-05T23:09:09.711+02:00A Wee Voice<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><i>I first wrote this post some 4 years ago, but found myself giggling over it tonight :)</i></span><br />
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</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A friend once admitted that since becoming a parent, she has found herself saying extraordinary things, like “Please keep your bottom to yourself” and “No, I don’t want to smell your fart.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I thought fondly of this friend the other day when I found myself
pretending to be my daughter’s urine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Recently, Little Sister (almost 3) suddenly got possessive about her
pee. After going at bath time, she would then hold it all night, through the
next day’s morning routine, and sometimes even until after we’d arrived at
daycare--some 14 hours after she’d last relieved herself. She must have needed
to go (surely??) but she valiantly resisted doing the deed. She would hold out
to the very limits of her strong will, not to mention her bladder of iron, notwithstanding
gentle suggestions, heartfelt pleas, bribery, or threats. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On our recent overseas holiday, I started to get more anxious than usual
about this little quirk of hers. I needed to know that the crucial moment would
not come in the middle of a two-hour bus ride, or in a crowded check-in queue.
I needed, somehow, to achieve pee on demand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was at that point that I remembered the words of Big Sister’s
amazing daycare teacher: “They love it when you animate
ordinary objects. If they don’t want to put on their shoes, give their shoes a sweet
little voice: ‘Hey! Please put us on! We want to be on your feet! Pleeeeease!’
”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And so it was that, in absolute desperation, last week I took a shot at being the soft,
high-pitched, lovable Voice of Wee Wee.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Hel-lo? Can
anyone hear me? Little Sister, are you there? It’s your wee wee! Hey, I really want to come out for a lovely swim in the toilet. Please
would you let me out? Oh, pretty please?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I felt like a prize idiot. No one except my daughter could hear me, but
that didn’t change the fact that I was a 36-year-old woman pretending to be
piss trapped in a toddler’s bladder. I pondered my 18+ years of formal
education and wondered where it had all gone wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That was, until I heard an unfamiliar hissing noise, and realised in
amazement that my cringe-making efforts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had
actually bloody-well worked</i>! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never
before had the sound of another person peeing been such a balm to my frayed
nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I was caught off-guard, though, at Little Sister’s effusive reaction. In
a giggly, high-pitched voice (how else would a front bottom speak, after all?)
she replied grandly: “There you go, Wee Wee! You’re welcome!” Front Bottom went on to express the sincere wish that Wee Wee have fun swimming in
the toilet, and to point out a few exciting possibilities, e.g., availability of
used toilet paper for floating games, not to mention more friends potentially dropping
by after Big Sister’s turn on the toilet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I couldn’t have predicted the overwhelming popularity of The Voice of
Wee Wee. As you can imagine, he/she/it did not manage to get away with a
one-time performance. On the contrary, Little Sister has generously stepped up
her efforts in the toilet department in order to give Wee Wee more air time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And on top of that, it turns out that Wee Wee has a deep-voiced friend
called Poo Poo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2668756162872571497.post-2214308590515365422012-01-09T23:41:00.001+02:002015-10-30T22:20:45.253+02:00Tower of Power<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I just got back from a week-long family trip to Tenerife. Apart from the necessity of 6-hour flights to and from our chosen destination (seriously, when oh when will the brilliance of science give us teleporting?) it was a blissful and uplifting oasis of sunshine in the middle of a dark northern winter.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Maybe it was the sudden burst of wonderful, warming sun, maybe it was the holiday atmosphere, or very possibly it was the effect of one or ten too many sangrias, but I felt an internal shift during our week in Tenerife. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As a result, I </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">recaptured some of the I Am Fantastic And Invincible inner power I thought I’d lost irretrievably somewhere in my childless and self-focused 20s. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the past 6 years, holidays have been about looking after my children – fretting gently but constantly about their food, sleeping arrangements, safety, jet-lag, sunburn, bodily functions, and all those countless other things that are thrown into mild disarray when we are away from home (and don’t get me started on those years of family holidays when, on top of everything else, I was tethered tightly to my Blackberry and rarely able to escape the work-related knot in my stomach; those years when getting the kids to sleep in strange beds took on added importance, because of the feverish hours on my laptop that loomed into the night ahead of me…) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">During this trip, however, I realised that family travel had suddenly become a whole lot easier. The kids’ performance on planes and in unfamiliar places has improved over time, and Little Sister has finally reached that first milestone of basic independence and resilience that seems to come around the age of 3. There were times last week when I was actually able to lie on a sun-lounger and watch my two children happily together, not to mention this memorable moment of contented colouring in Helsinki airport baggage claim: </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHc09Xos7dwTL5Y-5ywUNXhewIg83D65ADQUDZJTeX746Mb30RU0PssS0nri3EpXYJKeeNqT-yWcRoZxmEatwnWSXV5fvXYvLNtcKz5WJXmbJ_4-IyNO5nGadAxd6r5qM1ak5psXv-t6T/s1600/DSC04486+%2528640x480%2529+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHc09Xos7dwTL5Y-5ywUNXhewIg83D65ADQUDZJTeX746Mb30RU0PssS0nri3EpXYJKeeNqT-yWcRoZxmEatwnWSXV5fvXYvLNtcKz5WJXmbJ_4-IyNO5nGadAxd6r5qM1ak5psXv-t6T/s320/DSC04486+%2528640x480%2529+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This was the first trip where my husband felt confident he could watch both the girls without major trauma of some kind being suffered by anyone concerned. And (happily or sadly, depending on your viewpoint) following my recent resignation from Biglaw, this was also our first overseas holiday as a family where I was truly free to be on holiday 24/7.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The combined force of all these realisations was sizeable. Suddenly, I saw the reality that this could actually be MY holiday, too, and I could spend some part of it doing something that was MY treat, something that didn’t have to be forfeited or watered down because of the kids, something I wouldn’t have even thought of doing since those All About Me days of my 20s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I knew what my big treat would be the minute I saw it (at Siam Park waterpark).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>The Tower of Power. </strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A fantastically, terrifyingly tall beast of a waterslide. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">28 metres high, with an almost vertical drop. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A four second rush of terror. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_H1Xq5k646SF1Lp48Xr3W9tL7K8daa7YegNSKMDYL5d4zbPmAPIjtPXF1ljzT9SIBnZkw9O59ULEyC-EU54TpdbO8Ke4imYxZ5Yxpj9DUYnPdxooPmeF3xKfoMYGsf8NYaaP5D0_UwJys/s1600/tower2200x141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_H1Xq5k646SF1Lp48Xr3W9tL7K8daa7YegNSKMDYL5d4zbPmAPIjtPXF1ljzT9SIBnZkw9O59ULEyC-EU54TpdbO8Ke4imYxZ5Yxpj9DUYnPdxooPmeF3xKfoMYGsf8NYaaP5D0_UwJys/s1600/tower2200x141.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Tower of Power in all its glory<br />(featuring Young Goddess in White Bikini <br />who looks as unlike me as it's possible to look) </span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I rushed at the stairs and climbed them at high speed (a reckless action resulting in humiliatingly wheezy breathing as I waited in line at the top, a red-faced Bridget Jones-esque figure surrounded by shredded and ripped Young Whippersnappers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">B</span>ut I digress.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I waved to the far-away specks of my spectating husband and kids as I climbed into the flume. I lay down carefully and assumed the cross-everything position. The lifeguard gave me a push-off and I fell, plunged, flew, the dazzling sky above and the roaring rush of water all around. It was terrifying and exhilarating and amazing. I thought about screaming but was rendered speechless by velocity and adrenalin. I shot like a bullet into the pool below, and burst up to the surface triumphant, pumping the air with both fists. I haven’t felt so truly alive in years. It was a rush that kept me on a high for the rest of the day, if not the whole week.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Just writing about it makes me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">long</i> to do it again. And again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was a huge experience which taught me something big. Strictly speaking, I didn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> the Tower of Power Experience. And yet, it gave me something that, honest-to-God, helped me be a better parent and wife, a better <em>person,</em> for hours and days afterwards. What was it exactly? A moment of challenging my own limits in the best possible way; a moment of pure freedom and head-space; an energizing rush of kickarse proportions. A moment when I recaptured and embraced my own power as me, an individual.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This went above and beyond self-preservation; it was much more than an <a href="http://theheadspaceblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/essential-nature-of-oxygen.html">Oxygen Mask Moment</a>. This was self-enhancement – suddenly realising, in an instant, the possibility of being a stronger and better and happier me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have made my New Year's resolution for 2012: this year will be the year I seek out and grab Tower of Power Moments, left, right and centre. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I will keep my arms open to the heady rush of life, and I will open my eyes to the colours of everyday life, in all their brightness. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I will push boundaries I’ve drawn unnecessarily for myself, and explore what lies beyond.</span></span><br />
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<br />Katriinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403719183047819222noreply@blogger.com8