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.

---

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.

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. 

---

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.

The dreams of a 4.5-year-old boy

There was once a little boy, of a generally sunny but also pensive disposition, who often struggled with bad dreams. Sometimes it was them darn zombies. His mama told him there's no such thing but, what do mamas know about these things anyway? And sometimes he dreamed his mama herself would leave, which was altogether worse. No amount of night lights or cuddly toys or dolly friends would make those dreams go away.

His mama said, I won't leave, I'll always be here for you one way or another. But she knew that words are sometimes not enough. So they put their heads together, and both agreed: a dreamcatcher. Because both knew, deep down, that the best way to soothe another person's soul is to give them something your own hands have made. 

Two old embroidery hoops, leftover cotton yarn, some feathers pilfered from the Easter decorations box. New beads though, because, well... Shiny things. Irresistible. 

And here is the result.

If you want to make a similar dreamcatcher, I was inspired by this one.

Two

"Don't wake up your brother!"

Said the Husband to the Bean.  "Your brother "?!

Crap, I thought. There's two of them.

Four years suddenly seems like a long time to get used to being a family of three. A good while since we did the newborn thing. An eternity to be the sole focus of your parents' attention. 

The jump from one to two children is, indeed, a big one.

A big but delightful jump, in many ways. Much of the Bug's personally is still unknown to us, but it somehow already feels like he was only ever here, making us a Four. This is unexpected, but reassuring.

It's also wonderful to see our two boys together. The little one still jerky and googly-eyed, but so obviously enthralled with the big one that he reserved his first quivering smiles for him. The result is far more than twice the joy.

For the big one the novelty of having a baby in the house didn't last long (like, all of three seconds), but he still likes to help by fetching the nappy or the dummy, and to prove to everyone that "he REALLY likes me the BEST, mum". The implication being, not you mum, of course.

Two boys. 

Two arms, one of me, just not enough when the little one needs feeding (again) and the big one decides he needs me to build him a(nother) paper aeroplane that very moment. But perfectly adequate in the middle of the night, when I am everything for both of them. Even if it means I'm often the only one who's not asleep.

Two o'clock, the time I now pick up the big one. Two hours earlier than I used to, because of Sweden's funny rules on parental leave and daycare entitlement. Two hours extra to spend at the park, for now, but goodness knows what we'll do in winter.  

Two boys, one day at a time. Sometimes an hour.

All the cuddles, big smiles and many, many tearful outbursts. 

Two little hands in mine. 

Two shrieks of laughter when the little one empties his bowels with the most spectacular sound effects. Usually when Daddy's back and I'm just trying to take five, and always when a fresh napy's been on for all of two minutes.  

Two bewildered parents whose paths occasionally cross to share battle stories, pretending-to-know looks and mini-win high fives. Although I think, admittedly, also two parents who are struggling to identify with one another, because it is easy to feel like you're circling entirely different orbits when one of you just watches the world go by with her boobs out all day every day and the other just feels like that world is speeding up underneath them, all day every day. Even Sweden's famously egalitarian parental system hasn't found a way around that one.

One row of crochet here and there: the bare minimum to stay sane.

One bag of laundry parked permanently in the hallway, although at least it is usually filled with clean things. 

Way more stuff than you'd think reasonably possible with only two children, especially when one is so tiny.

Two brothers who will hopefully share many more giggles and support each other through the tears. My two. 

The best laid plans

... don't involve babies. Or maybe they do, in a roundabout way; When I set out to MAKE ALL THE THINGS before Bug's arrival I assumed I'd only get a fraction done. Turns out that this baby is indeed snug as a bug. 

The Bean was nine days overdue, and back then the waiting drove me nuts. This time around I feel quite stoic about it, really. Yes, I'm aching and tired, I'm excited about meeting this little person, and I don't want to be clucking about for too much longer. But at the same time, when will I next get another chance to just potter, make stuff, snooze, snack to my heart's content? In about 2 years??

So I've been knitting/crocheting/sewing/sowing/nibbling all the things. 

I finished the Bean's Popcorn Vest and made a tiny Harem Romper. I made a Divided Basket for Bug's nappies.

I finally got around to sowing for this year's balcony garden. I started, and to my complete surprise, have almost finished a scrappy baby blanket. I've also started on a Benedetta Cardigan for myself but as it's in sock yarn (AM I MAD??) it is not almost finished. But fun. 

Then there's this one and his Daddy. We've been making the most of our last days as a Three, even managed to get out for our first beach trip last Sunday. It happened to be the day before my birthday too, and the perfect opportunity to celebrate. Sunshine, burgers, ice cream. It was a lovely day, and everyone was happy. 

And now we wait. 

When a Bean asks for Bobbles...

There's this (bought) knitted cardigan I've had for years. It's nothing fancy, but it's warm, soft, and has the right greyish blue colour that goes perfectly with the army of stripey t-shirts my wardrobe seems to consist of these days. I wear it so often it lives on the back of my desk chair for a good six months of the year. Nothing fancy, just a really good work horse cardie. 

Except this year, somebody noticed it. Somebody with, I am increasingly inclined to think, as much of a love for all things textured and woolly and patterned and coloured as me. 

This cardigan has bobbles going down each of the front panels.

"Mummyyyy?... I want a bobbly jumper too. Can you make me one?"

I'm getting this more and more frequently now. He looks at something - socks, jumpers, hats, bags - thinks for a second, then turns to me and asks, "can you make me one?". He used to ask me to crochet rockets or trucks and things, but now he knows. Mama has a gigantic stash of soft wool that can be turned into soft wearable things. 

And I, of course, cannot say no. For the pleasure of the making, the giving, the delighted look on his face, I absolutely cannot say no even if I still have ten other unfinished things. 

So I scoured Pinterest and Ravelry for bobbly knitting patterns that would work with a DK wool, thinking anything heavier wouldn't get worn anymore this year and anything lighter would just take too long to make. The Popcorn Vest by Studio Misha & Puff jumped out at me and stuck. I showed it to the Bean and he approved, then we picked a lovely emerald green DK in a wool/nettle blend by Onion at my local yarn store, and it seemed we were good to go. 

Unfortunately the pattern only covers ages 0-24 months. However, you don't number crunch for your own patterns on a regular basis for nothing, and so after a bit of swatching, head scratching, tape measuring and guess work I decided to give it a try. 

I've put the details on altered stitch counts, dimensions and so on my Ravelry project page, in case you're interested, but basically it turned out to be quite doable to size up. It's a bottom-up vest that is split for the arm holes and then seamed only at the shoulders, so the only things to really watch out for are chest circumference and armhole depth. I cast on, thoroughly loved all the popcorns, and gleefully cast off some two weeks later. It's a joy of a little pattern, it really is. 

I think I could have done with slightly more generous sizing, but I swear he's had a huge growth spurt in the time it's taken me to knit this. Because I started with the intention of leaving a wee bit of growing room, I really did, but now it fits perfectly. Which, when you're four, means it's already too small. Bother. 

Still, he is very happy. We swapped the i-cord tie for a toggle, and he is thrilled he can do it up (and undo it and do it up and undo it and...) by himself. I love the colour on him. He loves the bobbles. It's perfect for this time of year, when it's too warm for a full-on wool jumper but too chilly to wear cotton hoodies. 

As it's a really fun, fast pattern to knit, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to think about working out the next size up. Or the next five, just to be sure. 

The Little Swede

During a Skype call with some Milanese friends last weekend, it became abundantly clear: The little boy who was weaned on Grana Padano and tortellini, who preferred olives over baked beans and didn't try soft play until he was three, had forgotten every word of Italian he ever knew. 

It was inevitable, of course. The Bean was only 2.5 years old when we left Italy. Children forget as quickly as they learn at that age, and when we got here he needed to learn Swedish fast. He has, astonishingly so. He has changed in so many other ways too. Partly of course due to now being a Whole Four Years Old (which comes with special superpowers, don't you know, like running faster and jumping higher. Not being afraid of the dark may need to wait until Five though). But with so many changes to our environment and lifestyle too, it really was inevitable. 

Our Little Italian has, slowly but surely, turned into a Little Swede. 

Messy Hair, Don't Care

Gone are the severe crew cuts, sensible navy blue shoes and crisp shirts favoured by the Italians. Swedes strongly believe in a child's right to express themselves based on who they are, rather than on how society expects them to behave. Adulthood, on the other hand, is very much about conformity, but for now at least the Bean is free as bird.  Nobody would bad an eyelid if he went in to preschool wearing a tutu, and like many Swedish boys his hair is almost never cut. Rather convenient, this openmindedness, because he's decided he wants to grow a pony tail. 

Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes

I now struggle to believe it, but there was a time the Bean did not like potatoes. For 2 years he lived on pasta which had the sauce mixed into it (can you imagine!!!), big chunks of oily focaccia, platters of roast or cured meats, juicy peaches handed to him at our local market. Now? Meatballs. The blandest of cooked hams. The odd cucumber stick. Mountains of potatoes. Can you tell I struggle with this particular change? I have to remind myself: fresh, interesting produce is hard to come by in a country where nothing grows for six months of the year, and anyway the summers do make up for it. In Milan he would never have been able to go foraging for blackberries or go on a school trip to pick and barbeque corn. He now knows not only what elderflower looks like when it's ready to pick but also what to do with it. And in any case: he still appreciates a good olive oil and a chunk of Grana, but won't touch pickled herring. Thank goodness.

All the cosy things

I am not going to mention the H-word (because heaven forbid we over-use it), but with two Scandinavian winters under his belt our Bean has the pursuit of creature comforts down to an art. Soft blankets, handknitted jumpers, long afternoons spent doing nothing but watch films and play trains. It surprises me how sloth-like a 4-year-old can be, but the little face tells me he likes nothing more. 
And on a related note...

Layer up

We fought and fought at first, about the overalls and the wellies and the hats, but now even he knows that if you are going to venture outdoors in Sweden, preparation is everything. Our array of outerwear, all with subtly different levels of fluffiness, warmth and waterproofness, has become vast. Children spend a portion of every school day playing outside, with the lower limit in temperature being about -15C, I think. We have not had to worry about an upper limit yet. 
All this layering, in combination with a more gender-neutral approach to children's clothes, has had a fun side-effect: the opportunity to go really funky.

He picks his own clothes and I love watching how his mind works. At the moment it goes something like: Stripes underneath for warmth. Loud leggings (handmade by a friend of mine) for pizzazz. Soft t-shirt with fun print (this one is by Frugi) because, why not. Appropriate head wear to avoid upsetting your mother. 

Then when you are finally ready to get out there...

Get mucky

Perhaps the biggest change of all has been the Bean's attitude to exploring the outdoors. He still isn't that keen on getting wet. But now, see above. He practically has an armour at his disposal, and with he it he comes home covered in mud from his head to his tippy toes. My vaccuum cleaner doesn't like it much, but after so long sheperding him around concrete, smoggy Milan it makes my heart sing. 

In a few years' time the Bean will start proper school. An ordinary Swedish one, most likely, so I'm quite sure we will have an even more Swedish Swedish boy. Lord help us - just this morning he pointed out: "Mum, you can't say Swedish words properly".  Perhaps he will even learn to eat that herring?

Colour crushing in Devon

Colour, especially of the eyeball-pleasing saturated kind, is a rare thing in Sweden at this time of year. As I've mentioned before, the diffuse light and stalking shadows do create their own particular beauty, but the predominant hue is brown. The camera mostly hibernates, just like its owner.

Imagine my delight, then, when our Christmas in Devon this year was surprisingly colourful. Look away from the glitter and baubles and oh! The green was still lush, a few flowers already in bloom, SO many pretty houses and boats. 

I'm not sure why I was surprised - although we also live by the coast in the very southern tip of Sweden, a difference in latitude of more than 10 degrees was always likely to leave a bit of a mark on the landscape. And until the post-New Year freeze kicked in, it had probably been a remarkably mild winter, too. Whatever the reason, there was plenty on offer to please the lens. 

Incidentally, one colour I can't get enough of at the moment is blush pink. I think it's just perfect for this time of year; soft enough for winter's mutedness but not so subtle you'd overlook it, pretty and uplifting without yet being too optimistically spring-like (we still have a loooong wait until spring...)

It started with a detail here and there, until I went full-on pink socks.

I finished them just before we saw out the year, and I can't stop twiddling my toes and staring at them. The pattern is Aussie Sunshine by Clare Devine, and I used one skein of Coop Knits Socks Yeah yarn in Ammolite as well as a tiny bit of Danburite. 

But that is by the by. Otherwise our Christmas was quiet and predictable and safe. We ate too much, played games, knitted. Well, I knitted. When the Bean started tripping on the excess attention, sugar and presents, we hauled him outside to look at the boats with (what I think is) his coolest gift: a pair of pocket binoculars. Proper ones, too, not toy ones. 

I also made him his own Lomma Hat, a two-tone version that he surprisingly wanted without a "pompy" on top and didn't take off once all Christmas day. If that red looks a bit lurid, that's because it is, but he marched into our local yarn store and picked it out his very self, so I wasn't going to argue. Foolishly, I argued over how many consecutive slices of M&S penguin-shaped sponge cake were acceptable instead. 

Moving to Sweden || nine months in

The end of April marked a momentous occasion: a year since we decided to take a leap of faith and move to Sweden. This only a month after the initial offer came through, and by the end July we'd packed up, squeezed our friends and left Milan for good. There wasn't really any time to think.

I think that time might have come now though. Nine months in and we've survived the physical move (barely), embraced the newness (giddily), tackled most of the bureaucratic palaver (grudgingly). We've emerged from the disorienting darkness that is the Swedish winter. Routines have become established, and then April came and the full force of our decision hit us like a bus. Bloody hell. We live in Sweden. 

Most days the hit-by-a-bus feeling is followed by positivity: Bloody hell we live in Sweden AND we like it here. There are so many things to like - I'll get to those in a minute. I can't lie though. There has also been a fair amount of anxiety. 
 
WORK
I think the anxiety is mainly down to our work situation. Mr E+M is on a two-year contract, which means we are nearly halfway through. That, dear people, is a scary thing. 
I freelance, which is always unpredictable, and it just so happens I have exactly zero projects lined up for after the summer holidays. First time in about 5 years that's happened. This is also a scary thing.
The combination of being a bit scared plus knowing you're on to A Good Thing that you want keep hold of is making it quite hard to live in the moment and say "we'll just see what turns up" in the way we always have done. Nevertheless, there is of course more to life than work, especially when all the non-work is good. 

LIFESTYLE
From the moment the sun - real sun with real light and real warmth - returned it was like the entire country came out of hibernation. Neighbours we didn't even realise we had dusted off barbeques and picnic tables (or, in the case of Swedish Super Dad across the green, built one), loaded up their coffee flasks and decamped to the Great Outdoors for the forseeable. On some days it's still bloody cold, but it matters not. The light is here, with it a riot of colour, and it all needs to be adored. I'm all up for adoring. 

Siberian Squills in early Spring

Fritillaries and other meadow flowers in May

So we've had alfresco lunches in our fleece-lined cagoules and taken our thermoses down to the beach. We went to see the cherry blossoms in Copenhagen in April. Next weekend we're off to explore Stockholm, our Midsummer Party invites have come through the letterbox, and we're even planning a camping trip for July (I am not a campy person).
The light is wonderful. It's making it really hard to sleep at night, but I guess before long we'll have six months of winter to do all the sleeping we like.

HOME
With all this light and outdoorsiness, it's impossible to resist trying to turn our flat, our lump of sixties' concrete, into some sort of airy summer cabin thing. Despite the short nighttime darkness I haven't bothered putting up black-out blinds. I spend as much time as humanly (i.e. 3yo human) possible in my crochet chair by the kitchen window.

Also: in with the plants, lots of plants. We have a postage stamp-sized balcony, but I'll be damned if I don't turn it into a model of urban sustainable living. There are all manner of herbs, carrots, cucumbers and strawberries, sunflowers, lavender, hanging tubs full of flowers. The aphids have already got to the lavender and I know we'll be lucky to get even 5 carrots, but I'm having a blast trying. 

THE BEAN
Now that our surroundings look more or less as green as they did when we first arrived here, I can see how much my Bean has changed in the last 9 months. The space, the little forest paths, the myriad opportunities to get properly dirty. He was so afraid and clingy when he arrived, but now he's a happy, confident little explorer. He has his found partners-in-crime at school and comes home telling me, in the same breath, how much he loves them and how one of them hit him on the head with a spade. He eats like a horse, fights sleep like a champ and never has clean finger nails.

He's forgotten every word of Italian he ever knew, too, and speaks way better Swedish than I do (which is, admittedly, not hard). He has days when he's so horrible I consider auctioning him off on eBay, but that has nothing to do with us having moved across Europe anymore, and everything to do with Being Three. The Bean is grand. 

SOCIAL LIFE
Talking of beans, my closest friend in Milan had another baby recently. The ache of missing her, and missing out on this huge experience in her life, is painfully acute. It was always going to be and I don't know how to solve it. One thing is certain though: yay for creativity. Having plucked up the courage to attend a couple of crafter's meetups, I can honestly say I've made real, meaningful connections despite having only been here for a short time. There is an openness, a willingness to just sit, chat and share among the makers in this area that I am truly grateful for. And they bring you wee plant friends when you invite them for coffee, which is always a bonus. 

For Mr E+L the social aspect has been trickier, mainly because making friends with your colleagues doesn't seem to be the done thing here. When your work (and the possibility of there being more) is 100% results-based it's of course difficult to step away from it for long enough to pursue a social hobby. I think we somehow will have to make that a priority soon though. That, and learning Swedish for me. If I really want to integrate into the creative community here (and say more than hej to my son's friends!) I need to swallow my pride and feel stupid in a classroom again for a while. Come September, if the work really does totally dry up, it might be the right time. 

September. Gosh. By that point we'll have been here for over a year, the Bean will have gone up an age group at school, and we'll have had a whole summer of wind-swept barbeques. There is so much to want to stick around for, and so little point in worrying about it.

I'm linking this post up with Chantelle at Seychelles Mama for #myexpatfamily