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!

An Autumn {love} Story

The coming of Autumn always causes a feeling of melancholy in me, so profound I can almost taste it. It’s a kind of delicious flavour. There is something indulgent about savouring memories of long, warm summer days, feasting on the last bursts of colour, and not being able to help but feel a bit sad when the last of nature's bounty has gone. It is, after all, just so more-ish.

My recipe for for dealing with the sadness is warmth. Steaming soups, sourdough toast, melted butter for our bellies. Wool, wool and more wool over our shoulders, hands, heads. I unwrap all our jumpers with a sense of importance, and the kids just think it's funny to try on all of last year's hats at once.

Usually Autumn is brief here; King Winter comes swiftly and mercilessly, stifling everything for almost 6 months. But this year has been strangely warm, and so at the beginning of November, when I would not expect there to be a single leaf left anywhere, I found myself with the chance to photograph a new design outside.

Not inside, struggling with the lack of natural light and wracking my brains for appealing props, but out in the soft glow of the Autumn sun and marvelling at how much there still remained to enjoy.

Well, photograph the new design was the intention. I got distracted by the model.

With two small children and two jobs, life is full. Very often good-full but also challenging-full, and in either case there is very little time or space for us to just be. Ourselves, a couple.

Even this session was typically rushed; We wolfed down our lunch at a local cafe, spent just half an hour messing about with light and leaves and sleeves. Then it was straight back to work before the evening shift of dinner-bath-bed-COLLAPSE.

It was a nice half an hour though. Full of soft light. Of observing and connecting, however briefly. Of remembering a Before, with melancholy. For just a short while, all the drudgery, loneliness and friction that inevitably make up the darker side of an intense relationship sort of faded into the background.

I can't believe it's been 10 years since he wandered into my office 5 times a day, under the pretense of needing to use the photocopier. He's a good 'un, my husband (and he's hot, in my unbiased opinion). Although he wouldn't give me back my cardigan.

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. 

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.