Command

F isn't very well again, she's got some cold or other. Twin green streaks from her nostrils, mild fever, a bit shivery. Nothing serious. So she's been curled up on the sofa with me watching The Little Mermaid in Swedish. Den Lilla Sjöjungfrun - The Small Lake Maiden, according to Google Translate. No cigar.

At some point (around Triton's destruction of Ariel's collection, iirc. Not that I was watching avidly or anything), she got bored and wandered off. A few minutes later, she appeared again in front of the TV, holding a plastic matching shape from one of her toys, a green star with Donald Duck on it, and started waving it at me and then the TV.

This is a surrogate for the tv remote, which she grudgingly concedes she's not allowed. The Duck is her new favourite - waving it in front of my line of vision is an indication I should put Donald on. No alternatives are acceptable.

It's hard getting used to having a tiny person who understands what's going on and knows what she wants. We were out for a walk a few afternoons back, wondering what to do after eating lunch. "I bet she'd like some carrot cake somewhere," I said to V, on my way to suggesting fika somewhere later on.

"Car ca'?" said F immediately, perking up and then throwing a massive tantrum because we then walked past a cafe she knows sells it instead of taking her in.

Being raised bilingual has this disadvantage, that we won't have a secret language. My parents used French until we started secondary school. F doesn't speak French. Nor does V. And I'm not sure what I can do to that language counts as speech, exactly. We can spell things out, I guess, but that won't last forever. I mean, it took our old labrador Rocket about two weeks to work out what W-A-L-K meant, and he was thick as a post. Adorable too, but even so.

She still doesn't speak much, mostly using single words and pointing. Or clinging to whatever surface is available if she doesn't agree with whatever course of action you've just suggested. Trying to prise a 12.6 kg baby from your facial hair in an attempt to put her on the changing table is increasingly quite a feat. She can virtually pull a headstand in midair to avoid being put on the floor. It's like trying to push repelling magnets together.

Her newest control method for parents is to grab your finger and then put it on what she wants. Particularly on the iPad, where even though she knows how to do a jigsaw puzzle by dragging and dropping pieces, she knows it's faster if you do it for her.

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I dreamt of dusting last night. I fear for my mental health, the war on housework is taking a toll. And I would take lakes of burning fire and demonic hayforks over matching socks. In fact, a classical hell holds no sway with me. An infinite pile of near-identical once-black socks, that would get the old fear of death going. There's probably a pun about emperilling your mortal sole in it for those with a penchant for such things.

Ah well. You should always follow your dreams, I suppose. Back to work for me.

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More Recent Frejish: -

Murmur - put the The Little Mermaid on, Daddy
Pra' - I will now consume your expensive restaurant prawns, Mummy
Mor peeth - More please, although you only get the 'peeth' by prompting and witholding at the moment
Gum - Strawberries, hence, I like this food. Short for Jordgubbar, I think. Not to be confused with
Gom - Gollum

Walk On

This has been an exhausting month. Hence the lower than usual number of blog posts, I guess. Nobody is likely to read 'o god I'm so tired' over and over again.

F can walk. Also climb, run, and spin on the spot until she falls over whilst chanting 'go go go!' About two months ago, F would only walk if she could hold on to both my hands and use me as a giant walking machine. I'm convinced that the popularity of giant walking machines in sci-fi harks back to our childhood memories of being walked about by a seemingly omnipotent parental figure, as a passing note*. But back then, I'd have given my eyeteeth to get a reprise from perpetually zimmering her round the world.

She started walking properly around a month ago, roughly. And in a few short weeks, this is now how she gets everywhere. She can stand upright from prone unaided, occasionally with a bumped head and a sorrowful look. I'd never have thought this would be more tiring, more nerve-wracking and more trouble than being constantly called upon to ferry her about. Which I still am, of course - walking is all well and good for fifteen minutes or so, then you need a horsey ride. Or a lift over a wall, or up a slide, or something, and god help your dad if he doesn't deliver pronto.

But if all the backache is a bit better now, thanks, the mental torment of walking into a room to find her teetering upright on the edge of the sofa and clearly contemplating a stage dive on to the corner of the coffee table is much much worse. I know I can't fling myself four metres accurately in the split second it will take her to topple. I also know I will almost certainly try if she does. And almost certainly make things worse, of course.

There was one blissful afternoon a few weeks back, at a friend's outdoor birthday party, when F first exhibited the independence that comes with independent motive ability. Once we arrived, she instantly buggered off to play with her friend's toys and relatives and left me feeling a bit spare. It reminded me of the teenage parties I'd gone to with girlfriends who weren't all that keen to remain such. "Take my coat, see you in five hours," that kind of vibe.

Once I'd relaxed, it was great. F would swan past riding a toy car or clutching a ball from time to time. From the safety of a deckchair, I could monitor her whereabouts and rescue her if she was wandering too far off. In a nice safe enclosed garden area, this was fine. Somehow, in the comfines of our flat, it's not - she gets out of eyeshot all the time.

I need to get used to this. I can't. There's a razor's edge between concerned parenting and becoming a one-man Nanny State, and it's a razor I'm slowly sawing myself in half on.

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Bra adverts (bradverts?) irritate the hell out of me. They aren't marketing anything I'm likely to buy, and yet they're entirely designed to grab my poor, libidinous male attention. Manttention, if we're coining new words today. It's hardly difficult to get the lizard in my hindbrain to blink, so to speak, so it's inordinately aggravating to have that reflex manipulated by some lazy creative design nob lounging about in his relaxed penthouse office somewhere in Shoreditch.

Nothing about them really makes sense to me. If they want to sell to women, why have all the models got such provocative poses? If they want to sell to men, why are the models still wearing the bras? I 'm familiar with some of the theories touted about to explain this. That women apparently like to buy stuff they see on successful/attractive looking women and that men will basically buy rotting meat if you lean some on a partly-clad woman. But it all strikes me as the kind of reasoning put about by people, mostly men, who need to justify spending their client's budget by hanging out at underwear model shoots.

I am doubly annoyed that such ads work well enough that it annoys my wife when my hapless gaze falters on them. I'm trebly annoyed when they almost have my daughter's name printed over the pouting tresses of some artlessly posed harlot in a two-piece. Thanks very much, bra manufacterer Freya, for the awful dints you've delivered to my parental peace of mind with your recent carpet bombing of Gothenburg's tram stops. It's been the mental equivalent of a pogo stick to the balls every hundred yards on a daily basis for over a fortnight.

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We took F to Liseberg, the local Alton Towers Analogue, today. Today was Swedish Mothers' Day, and was lovely sunny weather. Sunny weather does to Swedes what a swift kick to the bike does to wasps - they come seething out in an agitated state, determined to get satisfaction.

Even if I hadn't had the mental equivalent of a pogo stick to the balls every hundred yards on a daily basis for over a fortnight, after a month of being slowly sawn in half by giant razor, taking your speed freak and strong-willed daughter to an amusement park for the first time in her life was going to be a shattering event. Not for the first time, I am reminded that parenthood is the brick wall that just keeps on hitting.

*In my current, depleted state, if I was a mech, I'd be an Urbanmech. Bonus nerd points if you understand why this is funny.

Feeding Time

F's Sausage 'n' Pasta

Ingredients

2-3 frankfurter-style sausages, chopped into bite-sized pieces
1 medium onion, chopped or sliced
Olive oil for frying
2 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
2 mushrooms, finely diced
1 carton of chopped tomatoes (390g or similar)
2 tbsp white wine (there's a kind in Sweden that's for cooking and has no alcohol in it, but whatever)
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp thyme
1 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
1 vegetable stock cube
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 dl hot water
1/2 can of sweetcorn (about 75g)
Pasta, as much as you like

Method

1. Put Peppa Pig on.
2. Take F back into the sitting room to watch Peppa Pig.
3. Fry the onions until soft in a large pan over a medium heat.
4. Repeat step 2.
5. Add the sausages (really any kind of sausage would do, I think) and continue to fry until they've gone good and brown. Or until you need to repeat step 2 again. Or until you need to explain to F why hot things mustn't be touched.
6. Add the garlic and mushrooms, fry a little longer whilst stirring.
7. Put the water in a little jug and mix in the stock cube. If you've just discovered the mushrooms in the fridge have sprouted white hair, as I did this morning, you can crumble in some dried mushrooms too. Chanterelles are good.
8. Remove the glass tumbler you left on your desk last night from F's possession and explain why crying isn't going to get it back.
9. To the pan, add the chopped tomatoes, white wine, vinegar, thyme, oregano and paprika. Once this is boiling, which won't take long, stir in the tomato paste and the stock.
10. Pick F up, show her what you're cooking, explain it isn't ready yet and repeat step 2.
11. While you're repeating step 2, change the channel, because PP's theme song is probably giving you what feels like a brain tumour by now.
12. Reduce the sauce for at least ten minutes, until it's got a nice syrupy gloss to it. You can cook the pasta at the same time, depending on how long your pasta takes. Fusili and penne work well. You can also change nappies or remember that there are no clean toddler tumblers to hand and do some washing up.
13. Just before serving, stir in the sweetcorn. F doesn't like it cooked, nor do I.
14. Be aware as you serve that there is now at least one stuffed toy placed somewhere near your feet.
15. Pour the sauce over the pasta, slice some fresh cucumber or salady stuff to go with it, em-bib F and lay the table. By the time you've done that, it'll be cool enough to eat.

Serves 2 with at least one portion for leftovers, probably more if I didn't eat such large helpings. So probably 4 overall. For the complete experience, F suggests holding a fork in one hand and taking 45 minutes to pick out and eat individual corn niblets with the other.

And you should of course be wearing your new white cotton dress, because tomatoes.