Janne Drangsholt - The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter

A shock wave hit the room.

After that a debate broke out, which grew so heated that Peter and two other faculty members stormed out in anger. For her part, Ingvill leaned even farther over her notebook, jotting things down so violently it looked like her braids were having an epileptic seizure.

“I realize this isn’t easy, but if anyone has creative ideas for how we can accomplish this—in purely practical terms—that would be most welcome,” the chair encouraged.

I held up my hand.

“Yes?” she said with a hopeful expression.

“I have to go.”

“Now?”

“I have a… meeting at my daughter’s preschool.”

“You are aware that even in academia, we do have business hours, right? And that this meeting is rather important for the evolution of our department moving forward?”

“Yes, sorry, but I have to go.”

I stood up with an apologetic smile, searching for any hint of approval or acceptance, but had to leave before there was any. That was what happened when you hung up a sign that said “Testing in Progress” on a Thursday.

It had been pouring since early that morning, and even at this hour the highway was a Middle Earth serpent of slow-moving vehicles. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and cursed the spineless bicyclists for deciding to drive the second a little precipitation started dripping from the sky. A song about fields of gold was playing as I pulled up in front of the preschool and turned off the radio.

“Mommy!” cried Alva when I finally entered the room where they kept the children whose parents weren’t on time for the annual pancake fiesta. Alva threw the half-dressed, one-armed Barbie doll she had been holding aside and asked, “Do we get to eat, too?”

“We’re going to buy some pancakes,” I told her.

“But are we going to have food?”

“Yes, pancakes.”

“And food?”

“And food.”

I took hold of her soft miniature hand and we walked into the common room, where three large tables had been set up in front of one of the windows. The tables were covered in trolls the kids had made by hand. Alva picked one with yellow and black hair, pink button eyes, and a white nose, and I handed her a ten-kroner coin to slip into the empty plastic ice cream container meant for the payments.

Listening to the clank of that coin filled me with such an intense feeling that I had mastered this whole parenting thing that I let Alva stuff herself full of pancakes and juice. I even let her go back for seconds. And thirds. To think of all those years I had forgotten to bring change to the annual troll and pancake sale, so that Ebba and Jenny had had to spend hours sitting in the forgotten children’s room without a single pancake. But today I had ten ten-kroner coins in my pocket. Third-time parent for the win!

“Are the pancakes the food?” Alva asked, her face plastered in strawberry jam.

“Yes, the pancakes are the food.”

“Haven’t you ever had pancakes before?” her teacher asked. She was making the rounds selling raffle tickets. She got our second to last ten-kroner coin.

Alva shook her head.

“We make other things,” I said quickly. “Cakes and bread and stuff like that, just not pancakes very often. We don’t have a griddle at home.”

The teacher blinked at Alva and said, “Well, it’s a good thing you got a chance to taste pancakes here at preschool then.”

I laughed sheepishly and watched the teacher hold out the raffle basket to other families. Many had turned out in force, with mothers, fathers, and grandparents. The very idea of trying to coordinate a large family showing like that caused a rushing sound in my head.

“Alva, honey, we have to get going,” I mumbled, running my hand over her back.

“Why?”

“We have to pick up Jenny and Ebba from their after-school club. Oh, and then we can show them your troll.”

Alva nodded. She carefully picked up the last pancake from her paper plate and ate it in small bites on our way out, to savor the culinary marvel as long as possible.

The cloakroom was empty except for Titus and his new Filipino au pair, whom his parents had recently hired so they could trade “quantity time for quality time.”

“Up until now,” Titus’s father had explained, “I’ve been a servant in my own home. I do the preschool drop-off, I make dinner, I work out, I clean the house. That’s not the kind of life I want. I want to spend quality time with my children, not stress out about stuff. So we’re getting an au pair.”

“That’s super,” I’d said. “Really. Neato.”

Now Titus was standing there chanting, “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes, pancakes,” while the au pair slowly and patiently tried to put on his jacket, hat, and shoes.

My first instinct was to try to vacate the cloakroom as quickly as possible, but then I decided to be a mensch and contribute to the lives of others. It was Thursday after all.

“There’s a party today,” I explained to her, in Norwegian.

The au pair looked up, confused.

“What?” she said in English.

“There’s a party today. They’re collecting money for an orphanage in Colombia. The kids made trolls for us to buy. They cost ten kroner each. Do you know what trolls are?”

I made a troll face and said, “Waa ha ha!” but that just made the au pair jump and take a couple of steps back.

“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. But there’s also food. They have a little café today. They’re selling a kind of Norwegian pancake, too. They’re called lapper .”

“Oh, OK…”

The au pair continued dressing Titus, who was now chanting “café” instead of “pancakes” and tugging at the au pair’s thin hoodie.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Café. You should go, for his sake. Anything else would be selfish.”

She slowly turned around and stood there looking at me, in a way that felt almost accusatory. But I was just explaining how things worked, helping her be a good au pair. She should be thanking me, instead of giving me a look.

I made a point of sighing loudly, then picked Alva up and exited the cloakroom.

“I don’t like Titus,” Alva said as we walked outside. “He’s mean.”

“Maybe there’s a reason he’s mean,” I said.

By the time we parked at home, Alva was asleep and Ebba and Jenny were arguing. I had no idea what about. These spats usually started as statements and accusations but quickly descended into a kind of barking. Variations of sounds that grated on the bone structures in my cranium, continually weakening it and rendering it less impervious to diseases and madness.

The instant I released the child safety lock, they each immediately opened their doors and darted out because they both wanted to be the one to get the mail. I stayed in my seat and listened to Alva’s heavy breathing, staring at the wall of the carport until I eventually took a deep breath and turned to face the violins, sheet music, lunch boxes, wet swimsuits, gym bags, and the sleeping three-year-old.

I picked Alva up and pulled the pacifier out of her mouth. It was probably time for her to give it up, but I wasn’t up to starting that project.

“We’re home now, honey. You have to wake up.”

No reaction. Her head rested heavily against my shoulder and her breathing was deep and regular. Once we were inside I put her down on the floor and gently shook her.

“We’re home now, honey. You have to wake up.”

She opened her eyes a crack, but they immediately slid shut again. Her head lolled forward and her legs buckled under her. I shook her harder.

“Alva, you have to wake up. Otherwise you won’t be able to fall asleep at bedtime tonight. Alva!”