It's Double Dutch

On Monday, I took the little man for his two-year check at the local health centre. It was an occasion worthy of getting up extra early to wash and dry hair, and to wear something other than ski pants. That was me; little man got to keep the ski pants and bedhead.
After waiting 15 minutes at the girls' bus stop where it was -16 degrees celsius, I had a tingling feeling on the tip of my nose which I swear was pre-frostbite. It's no wonder the girls have been asking why we can't wear balaclavas. Mmm, good question. It's not as if aesthetics have affected Norwegian winter clothing design up until now. Why stop at sheepskin hats with ear flaps?
I digress. The health visit was hardly worthy of my extra grooming. After 10 minutes of talking to the health nurse and claiming little man's bilingualism while he sucked his thumb and played mute, we were were done. Half the inhabitants of western Oslo were still sitting on the E18 motorway, and we were done for the day.
This meant we were home in time to receive my lovely Irish friend who was out for a walk. OK, my slightly crazy friend from Cork who thinks that it is reasonable behaviour to voluntarily walk outside in temperatures below -10. The little man didn't take long to warm up to her, and even managed to extract the thumb from his mouth long enough to speak.
I guess though, one mother's version of bilingualism can be another's gobbledegook. 'Is that English or Norwegian he's speaking?' she asked. Hmph. At least my hair looked nice.