A subtle shift

If I were to mention the dropping temperatures or the dwindling harvest in my part of the world, how many of you would gleefully think of gorgeous woolly sweaters and deliciously melancholic evenings? Would there also be a fair few who, as a new friend lovingly reminded me at the weekend, would want to punch me in the head because EVERYTHING IS DYING? I have to admit that I'm personally ambivalent about the coming of Autumn - I love me some handknitted socks, but I don't relish the November weeks sat desperately staring into my SAD lamp.

What I do love about the shifting seasons though, whether early or late, is the opportunity to take stock. Funnily enough, this is not something I ever feel like doing on the 1st of January. Show me a budding leaf or an emerging mushroom, however, and I suddenly notice what else has shifted. This year, I think it's the kids.

After almost 8 and 3/4 years of parenting, I should know that change comes slowly. Sure, sometimes they make leaps that stop you in your tracks, in a mixture of pride (in the child in question) and shock (at your own inevitable ageing alongside them). The trouser legs that suddenly flap halfway up the calves, vocabulary far richer than it was a mere week ago, a clap-back delivered with a completely straight face. 

Most of the time though, I don't know something has changed until I realise I struggle to remember a time it wasn't so. At some point, I stopped needing to rock them to sleep. "Mornings" no longer start in what is clearly the middle of the night. Somehow I don't just have a little more time to put into the garden rather than into keeping small humans from self-destructing, there is also a kid correctly identifying plants alongside me. 

The current shift is a step in the journey to adulthood (for them) and a life post-tiny-dependents (for us) that feels simultaneously miniscule and seismic. As of this term, I only have one child to collect from school. The older one cycles home by himself now, all of 7 minutes along mostly cycle paths. This new rout‌ine means I add a good 20 minutes to my work day, depending on levels of faffery and general cooperation in the small one. In the grand scheme of things it's such a small amount of time it's almost irrelevant - just enough for an extra cup of tea.

And yet. It hit me yesterday that I have two, maybe three years left of doing any school runs at all. Will there soon come a time when I simply wait for the click of their key in the door, and realise with a start that it was once different? Will I know when they've flung themselves into my arms and tell me they've missed for the last time, and remember to hold on extra tight before they inevitably spread their wings even wider? Probably not. Better have that extra cup of tea. 

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UPCOMING RELEASES

There's a lot of stock-taking going on at work, too. After half a year spent focusing entirely on magazine commissions, and therefore not being able to show anyone anything for months, so much is being released. More kids flying the nest! Last month marked the release of one of my favourite patterns to date, I think, and happily the response on social media was fantastic as well. 

Kishie Vest

The end of September sees the release of a new garment pattern as well as the start of what I hope will be a long and brilliant adventure for all involved; The first issue of new crochet magazine Moorit, brainchild of the amazing Alyson Chu, will go on sale (and if you're in the UK, you can still pre-order a copy now). I poured my heart & soul into every stitch and every line of this highly-textured, versatile vest (do have a look at how Moorit styled it), so I hope you all fall madly in love with it! 

A summer's work

School summer break 2021 turned, inescapably, into another staycation. [There is a Swedish word for this, too: "hemester", an amalgamation of "hem" (home) and "semester" (vacation).]

With the border to the UK still closed, our second vaccinations not scheduled until the very end of the kids' time off, and being kind of unable to keep up with changing travel regulations in Belgium & France anyway... There is no doubt that, with every month that goes by, the heartache of not seeing family and friends abroad only grows. I don't know what to do with that loss - none of us do.

But if all that sounds very down and pessimistic, in reality our summer was filled with abundance too. A different kind, not one of a carroussel of places, faces, and suitcases bulging with things-we-must-bring-back. We've had to work a little harder to find joy close to home. Another thing I guess many of us have had in common, throughout this pandemic {I saw someone call it The Motherf*cking Panny, which I think is thrillingly accurate}.

We found it, of course we did. Maybe most of all me: As someone who instantly wilts like a sad flower in heat, nowhere is more perfect than Sweden in summer. I've dragged everyone else along, up the trees laden with tiny cherries, into freezing cold lakes, and through forests heaving with both mosquitoes and blueberries. The garden has given us handfuls of sweet peas, French beans and all sorts of tomatoes. The heavy clay sod I got Mr E+L and the neighbour to shift in June? That's now the beginnings of a community garden, a strip crammed with sunflowers and runner beans and insects. Soon we'll dig up the potatoes and foist apples onto anyone who passes.

I'm not always sure that everyone else shares my enthusiasm, equally reserved for fruit picking and the pulling on of knitted socks during an inevitable August (and July too, if I'm honest) cold spell. Although...

Last weekend the 8yo came blackberry picking with me. Or rather, he held the box while I wrestled with the thorns. But at one point he looked around the thriving meadow and said gravely, "Mum, are we in the middle of nowhere?". I laughed and pointed out the noise of the nearby ring road and the 3-minute cycle ride home.

"But is feels like it, doesn't it Mum. All I can see is green and it's kind of magical."

My heart did a little leap.

You get it, I thought. Though I'm not sure whether I can take credit or whether you're just being your usual amazing You, though you might prefer to leave off from the juice-stained fingers and tuck straight into the finished crumble... You know how much this is all worth. And I hope, my lovely child, that it goes some way to making up for what you've lost as well as give you something to fight for.

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Over the coming two months I can finally reveal the patterns I’ve been working on this year, starting with this piece of bright & woolly bling:

Dawn to Dusk Shawl, out now in issue 139 of Inside Crochet Magazine. Photo taken by my 8.5yo!

Five

There are birthdays, and then there are BirthDays. Ones that need more than a cake and a candle, so to speak. Ones that
stop you in your tracks, forcing you to look back, take stock, evaluate how far you have travelled and put everything else
into perspective. Ones that make you realise that was you, then, not you, now, and so it will remain until the next big
milestone.  

For this once though, it wasn't a BirthDay of my own. No sweet 16 (aeons ago) or big 3-0 (which, as it happened, I
preferred to the decade before) or (God help me) 40 heralding the start of middle age.

Last week my biggest boy turned Five.

A gangly, skinny-Bean of a Five, all arms and legs but still that great big mop of hair. 
The last smudges of toddler chub have disappeared, sharpening the edges of both his body and his attitude.
There is an endless thirst for knowlege, paired an uncompromising refusal to have all but the last word.
Superhero powers, the fastest shoes and coolest toys, the wildest imagination, the snailiest of paces in the morning.

He stopped giving kisses at some point in the past year, I don't for the life of me remember when. Because you never know, when
that last time is really the last time, do you? 

But also a softness still, somewhere under the bravado and selective hearing. Big Questions prey on him for days,
disturbing his dreams. He will. not. sleep. alone and on the morning of his birthday he was bursting with cuddles as well
as excitement. There may no longer be smooshy kisses, but there are at least still clumsy, bony hugs. He loves colour and has an interest for materials that tickles me pink.

He cares more for his little brother than I could have hoped, and graciously accepts all the times I deploy him as Chief
Whinge Difuser. He has something nice, and different, and equally thoughtful, to say about every single one of his friends. 
He sort of whithers a bit without company, although his ability to concentrate on Making a Thing is kind of amazing. He's
all about the Lego, and God HELP you if you dare mix up the pieces. The guy who refuses to read the manual or ask for
directions? I don't think that will be him.

He didn't stop and think about any of this, of course; the only evaluating he did was of the number of presents piled next
to his plate at breakfeast. 

As for me, though?
Well,  five years ago I became a mother thanks to this one. 

The Bean + The Bug | November 2017

In August a friend of mine showed me one of those quotes, one of the many that pop up on facebook every day, but this one stuck. It was in Italian but it goes something along the lines of: There was once a calm and collected woman. Then she had two children. The end. 

They're certainly a whirlwind, these two, and I'm not going to lie: some days I feel it sweeps me up in an endless litany of wiping-soothing-cleaning-dashing-rocking-cajoling and I fear I may never land. We've had a lot to contend with lately, of course, a house move and a new school term that has gotten off to quite a rocky start for the big boy. That, combined with the small boy never sleeping more than a couple of hours at a time day or night, means it is often all too easy to look after, to go through the motions, but not to look at.

There is so much to observe though. More and more, I can stand back and watch them together. 5 minutes, maybe even 10, when they're just content to be in each other's company and forget I'm there. Mealtimes are a-okay with the Bug (who has such a love of food he's more of a big, fat beetle, really) as long as the Bean is providing entertainment. The Bean will get himself dressed in the morning, but only when he has the Bug's undivided attention. It's not hard. He always does. Oh to crawl, to crawl, small one; He's so frustratingly close-yet-far, but I've no doubt he will be the Bean's shadow soon. 

Sure, having a little brother has brought out a jealous streak in the big boy - one that we all have - but there a caring side too, a desire to protect, to make things alright, to just share the everyday. To show him life's small delights for the very first time. Loud toys, banging noise. Tickle attack, climbing frames (perhaps a little ambitious still!), the swings at the park. And yes look, observe: those giggles versus my sanity. It's not that hard a choice, really.

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I'm joining in with Lucy at Dear Beautiful, Donna at What the Redhead Said, Natalie at Little Jam Pot Life, Keri-Anne at GingerLily Tea, Amber at Meet the Wildes, Katie at Mummy Daddy Me and Carie at Space for the Butterflies for the Siblings Project.

Oof

What, dear people of the Internet, do you think might be the least restful way to spend the summer? 4.5-year-old, newborn, no daycare, lots of guests, a house move, a piddling amount of money, and ALL the rain? Check, check and check.

By the end of it the newborn was suddenly very much a Proper Baby in the throes of the 4-month sleep regression (if anyone tells you this is not a thing, they lie). The 4.5yo had grown out of 90% of his clothes, thought up a whole new arsenal of smart-ass responses, and discovered the joy of Grandmas With Deep Pockets in the Lego Shop. Then as soon as he was back in school, we didn't rest, no we did not. We packed like the wind between the hours of 9 and 2, then spent the afternoons making the most of the late summer sun who'd finally decided to make an appearance. 

The end of the summer, and I'm tired to the bone. I try not to wince at the memory of the many days I was shouty, cross mummy rather than the kind person I want to be. Try, because I think it's okay to cut myself some slack.

Because, no sleep.

Because, despite my grumpiness and the excess of screen time, sugary cereal, and constanstly being told to BE QUIET OR YOU'LL WAKE UP THE BABY, we've somehow ended up with the coolest, funniest of Beans who simply sasses through life.  

Because all four of us managed to get to Copenhagen for a wedding on one sunny day at the end of August, looking vaguely presentable and with no one losing their sh*t.  

Because the comedown after months of flat-searching, penny-pinching, and CV-churning has been more of a crash landing than a slow and measured exhalation (who, pray tell, manages those with two small people anyway, even in the best of circumstances?)

I am waiting for that slow, bumbling sense of contentment, somewhere in the crannies of my chest. I'm waiting to feel roots start to furl out of the soles of my feet. I always do on the cusp of Autumn, but this year there's more to it. We decided to stay in Sweden after so many years of meandering, which has nothing whatsoever to do with a summer spent building Lego or pulling silly faces at the baby perched on my hip, but everything with the hours and hours we worked behind the scenes, all year. All the nights I lay awake worrying, well before the tiniest person in the house decided to add his two-gurgles' worth.

We have a garden now, for the first time in almost 7 years. Woolly sock weather is on its way. And that is about as complex a thought as I am able to hold in my head at the moment. Oof. 

The Bean + The Bug | July 2017

It's not easy, this baby appearing in your home and being so utterly useless yet still constantly drooled over by everyone and YET STILL you're expected to just LOVE HIM. 

Almost three months in to going from one child to two, and it hasn't been easy. There have been times, days and days on end even, where our funny, thoughtful and spirited 4.5yo Bean has been a shadow of himself. I wouldn't have expected anything else, but it hasn't been easy. 

Still, I think it is getting better. As the Bug learns to coo, gurgle and giggle, the Bean finds it easier to relate to him. Yesterday the two of them set each other off on their very first totally-for-no-reason fit of giggles. The little one with that unsure, "I have no idea what my body is doing" look on his face, the big one shrieking and hollering but still with one eye one me that said "he's not about to cry, is he Mum?". But there they were: both laughing, colluding, full of real joy in each other. 

Having a sibling is getting better. The Bug's eager little eyes follow his big brother everywhere, that doesn't surprise me, but the the Bean, the Bean, sometimes I poke my head around the door and there he is. Soothing his baby brother, or trying to make him laugh. Reading him a story or bringing him a toy, wanting to interact somehow. Just as long as noone is looking. 

Having secrets even at this early stage, the two of them. Having a sibling might not be that bad, after all. 

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I'm joining in with Lucy at Dear Beautiful, Donna at What the Redhead Said, Natalie at Little Jam Pot Life, Keri-Anne at GingerLily Tea, Amber at Meet the Wildes, Katie at Mummy Daddy Me and Carie at Space for the Butterflies for the Siblings Project.

Sanity walk

We hit the summer solstice yesterday, and I think the best thing about the abundance of light is that it makes short shrift of any urge to wallow. The Bug is two months, the Bean is impossible, and the nights... Let's just say that, had I had another winter baby, I would be spending these newborn weeks shuffling around like some kind of narcoleptic mole. 

But as it happens there is light, there is colour. There is a semblance of warmth. It is impossible not to feel buoyed by it, no matter how many times I've whispered furiously (and fruitlessly) "stop singing please, you'll wake the baby". 

With the Bug tucked up Snug in the sling, I set off. Up the hill, through the woods, past the fields. Sometimes armed with the big camera but usually not, for reasons of "feeling like a school-run pack horse already".  

A pilfered flower here and there, plenty of deeep breaths, and a silent thank you to a sympathetic stranger; To anyone else successfully keeping two small people fed, clothed and reasonably happy without completely losing the plot themselves, you do, indeed, ROCK.

PS If you want to see what the landscape in southern Sweden looks like in winter, have a look at my ode to Brown