True. I see that Mary and John haven’t finished their meals, but have set down their knives and forks on their plates. I should know better, but I have to ask. “You two didn’t care for dinner?”
“I’m sorry, Kari,” Mary says. “I wanted to be polite and I tried, but I can’t make myself eat animal organs. I keep thinking about their functions.”
“Me too,” John says. “I did okay with the liver the other night, but I have to draw the line at kidneys. Especially after you told the story about drinking reindeer piss.”
Fair enough. They’re entitled to their likes and dislikes. I clear the table, bring vanilla ice cream with cloudberry jam for dessert. Hannu and Martti are excited. They’re good kids, have sat quiet while the grown-ups spoke in a language they don’t understand.
Jari says, “Kate, did you get the aitiyspakkaus…” he looks at me.
I translate. “Maternity package.”
He finishes the question. “Did you get the maternity package from the government?” For John’s and Mary’s benefit, he explains: “Every mother in Finland has the option of either taking the maternity package from the government or four hundred euros to buy things for the baby herself.”
Kate beams. “I did and it’s wonderful. Such a great tradition. Kari, would you get the box? I want to show it to John and Mary.”
I fetch it from the closet, lay it on the table and open it. John, Mary and Kate stand and rifle through the box. Kate shows off a nice selection of pretty much everything you need to embark on parenthood. A snowsuit and sleeping bag. Hats, mittens and socks. Bodysuits and rompers. Leggings and overalls. A mattress and sheets. Bibs and diapers. A picture book and rattle. Nail scissors. Hairbrush. Toothbrush. Bath thermometer. Cream. If we had to buy all this stuff, it would cost a hell of a lot of money.
“Look,” Kate says. “There’s even condoms and lubricant for Mom and Dad. And the neatest part is that the box itself is designed to be used as a crib.”
“You would keep your infant in a cardboard box?” Mary asks.
“Actually,” Kate says, “Kari and I thought it would be practical while you and John are here, because it doesn’t take up much space. We’ll get a proper crib after you leave.”
“I see. What are you going to name your baby?”
“We usually don’t choose a baby’s name until a few weeks after it’s born,” I say. “There’s no need before the christening.”
“You don’t name your children for weeks?” Mary asks.
“Sometimes.”
She rolls her eyes.
John rifles through the box. “This stuff is cool. They must go to a lot of work to choose different clothes for so many newborns.”
“No,” I say. “Everybody gets the same package. They change the clothing styles every year or three.”
“So every kid in Finland wears the same clothes for their first year?” he asks.
“I don’t think they much care what they wear.”
“That sounds like something Chairman Mao would have thought of,” John says.
Mary nods agreement.
“It was only a few decades ago,” I say, “that this nation was impoverished. This kind of help saved people a lot of hardship.”
Mary sits back down, spoons ice cream, looks thoughtful. “Speaking of poverty and history, do you know that after the war, the United States gave Finland a great deal of aid under the Marshall Plan? I find it odd that Finland accepted U.S. aid but kept such close ties with the Soviet Union, our enemy.”
Kate smacks the table with the flat of her hand. “Now, wait just a minute,” she says.