It’s fall break next week and we’ll be off to Madeira, so we’ve spent much of this weekend packing.

Freshly baked bread.

A la carte at the Bergheden-Toomik residence:

Adrian had a white dinner: pasta, a slice of white bread, and cauliflower, each on a separate plate.
I had the same pasta but with prawns, peppers and tomatoes in a creamy saffron sauce.
Ingrid made it into a three-course meal: first the pasta with ketchup, then some raw carrots, and finally the prawns on their own.

Jumping on the sofa instead of going to bed.

Ingrid’s preparations for an afternoon snack of yoghurt. Apricot, strawberry, banana.

Ingrid’s toothbrush.

For some reason, this toothbrush came with a loop of string and a knob that you’re supposed to attach by suction to some surface in the bathroom. I’m not sure what surface they had in mind – mirror? wall? bathtub? – but Ingrid’s toothbrush now hangs from the sink. Because if you have a knob and a string then of course you have to use them.

And my brain just cannot get used to this. Every time I look for Ingrid’s toothbrush (which I don’t do very often, and that’s of course why my brain doesn’t learn it) I look for it in the cup with all the other toothbrushes. Then I think, it’s not there, how can we have misplaced a toothbrush? before I finally find it.

For a long time Ingrid used an electric toothbrush but now for some reason she’s gone back to old school brushing. She does a decent job but is too impatient to keep it up for as long as she should, so I try to remember to do some supplemental brushing once in a while, which is why I occasionally look for her toothbrush.

Ingrid was bored and came up with the idea of baking a cake. She didn’t want to follow a recipe, though, because then baking would have become work instead of play. Instead she made what she called a hittepå-kaka, a made-up cake.

She has a reasonably good idea of what goes into a cake batter, and roughly what the result should look like. Eggs, sugar, flour, some milk. And she wanted chocolate in it, and some coconut, too. And then Adrian tasted the batter and said it was “too sour”, meaning it didn’t have enough sugar, so she added some more. And then the finished cake needed some icing sugar on top.

The result was surprisingly good, given the amount of thought that went into it.

Adrian has done a lot of growing up recently. There’s little left of the anger we saw so much of last month.

Actually… I wonder how much is due to him growing up and out of it, and how much is us providing him with better preconditions. We might simply be more adept at parrying his moods, because otherwise his anger wears us all down.

Also, we pay more attention to his sleep. We’re stricter about getting him into bed earlier, and we let him sleep longer in the mornings. Everybody else gets up together at 7, and Adrian sleeps another 20-30 minutes.

He still thinks that he can order people around and they should do as he wants. “Mummy, you will read for me now, because I want it!” And yet at the same time when we tell him he as to do something, he can argue that “you don’t have to do things that you don’t want”, man behöver inte göra det om man inte vill.

He talks a lot; at times almost constantly. The level of his talking varies, of course: sometimes it’s just his mouth moving because it has nothing better to do; other times he is actually talking to us.

Mostly it is about the here and now. Quite often at breakfast he talks about shapes he sees in his half-eaten slice of toast.

Sometimes he talks about strange scenarios that come into his mind. What if the house was hungry, too? What if it was raining stones instead of water? What if we went out at night?

He is also learning the art of conversation. (Interestingly, this is something Ingrid has never done as far as I can remember.) He asks us how our day was and what we did at work. When the extended family was here to celebrate the kids’ birthday, he spoke to his grandfather and wanted to hear what he had done when he was a kid.

He plays with words and rhymes. He makes up nonsense words, and twists existing words into new shapes. Language play must really occupy a large chunk of his brain: he comes up with impressively creative rhymes sometimes. A few weeks ago we had just read a cartoon adaptation of Treasure Island by Mauri Kunnas, and he rhymed “åt det hållet” with “Captain Smollett”. I was pretty impressed.

He’s trying to figure out reading. He’s known his letters for a long time already, and recognised his own name. Now he sometimes tries to follow along when I read for him, and figure out where that word is that I just said.

Adrian wants to be a big kid. He wants to be as big as Ingrid, he says. Anything that Ingrid can do, he also wants. He wants to have a rucksack for his things when he goes to preschool, like Ingrid does. He wants to sit on a big kitchen chair, not a kids’ chair.

Sometimes he still wants to be a baby, too. Mostly he asks if we can play mummy daddy baby, and I can be the mummy and he can be the baby, and it’s time for the baby to go to sleep. Which means he wants me to carry him to the bathroom and then upstairs, like I did when he was a baby.

He isn’t entirely happy about going to preschool and often asks if he can stay at home instead. I’ve thought about taking a day off now and again to spend the day with him, but it’s not going to happen, because he would take that as the new normal and demand it all the time. He is completely unable to handle rules with exceptions.

We used to have slightly sweeter “weekend cereal” at home – not honey-coated sugar bombs but sweeter than what I think is suitable for everyday breakfasts. We had to stop that because he wouldn’t accept that he couldn’t get them every day.

He gets a Numbert book every Saturday, and he complains bitterly about the waiting almost every day, and cries that he wants it now.

Random fact: Adrian likes soft, plush, warm fabrics like fleece and velour. His dream garment would be a fleece one-piece or zip-up pyjamas. I found one on Tradera that was almost what he wanted but it has feet, and while he likes it for its soft fleecy warmth, it’s not quite what he wished for.

Random fact #2: He really likes to eat with his hands. If we insist, he can use his fork and knife passably well, but given a choice, he’d rather use his fingers. He doesn’t eat messy food like casseroles and mashed potatoes, anyway – and for the kinds of food he likes, such as pasta, boiled potatoes, fish fingers, broccoli, or corn fritters, hands work as well as cutlery.

We saw a ballet evening titled Bill at the Stockholm Royal Opera.

The first piece, Artifact Suite by William Forsythe, consisted of two parts. The first part, with violin music by Bach, has a focus on solo performances with the rest of the dancers more in the background. Nice but not particularly exciting.

The second part of this piece, with piano music described as “baroque fantasies”, is more of an ensemble performance. The dancers move in geometrical patterns. They follow, imitate and echo each other. Both the music and the dancers’ movements have a very rhythmic quality. It reminded me of Gurdjieff Movements, both in the geometrical, pattern-based movements of the group as a whole, and the minimalist, somewhat angular movements of the dancers, with an emphasis on arms. Mesmerizing – not just figuratively but also literally. I got so entranced by the movement and the music that I found myself drifting off into a dream several times, without even feeling sleepy.

The second piece, The Other You, I found less interesting. A man and his shadow/mirror image/doppelgänger, struggling. Too little dance, too much “concept” and mime show.

The third piece was more interesting again. Bill (which was also the name of the ballet evening as a whole) was set to rave music, performed by dancers in skin-tight colourless bodysuits, on a smoke-filled blue scene. The choreography felt organic, forceful and wild, but also rather chaotic.

There was one dancer who really excelled during this performance. Jérôme Marchand was easy to pick out from the ensemble not only because he was taller than the others and had a shaved head. He also moved as if the piece had been written with him in mind: fluidly, softly, almost seeming non-human at times. He made me think of Dr. Manhattan from the Watchmen comics.

The opera house have a short video clip, but no good photos unfortunately, so the photos here are from Pennsylvania Ballet’s performance of Artifact Suite.