white apples . a blog

Luebeck, Germany, here and now

Even though it's been over a year, it seems I'm not quite ready to give up this space. Often I compose little posts in my head, but then they slip away in the flurry of our days. After everyone has had their stories and snuggles and final glasses of water for the night, I sink into the couch with nothing much to say about the craziness and exhaustion and gratitude and wonder that fills my life.

But in this moment, I find myself in the unusual position of sitting on a cold, rooftop patio of a hotel in Luebeck, Germany, with only a laptop and a fiddly knitting project to keep me company. And since that knitting project has been knit and un-knit and re-knit far too many times to count, I've thrown down the needles and am passing these lazy hours by looking through old photographs and wondering at how quickly it all passes by.

The littlest is not so little. He's big in every way. He's loud and full of energy, with wide open smiles and a huge appetite for all that life has to offer an 18-month-old - which is mainly food and hugs and getting muddy while chasing after his brother and sister. I spend the whole day chasing this tornado and when I catch him, he throws his arms around me and nuzzles his head into my neck and yells mama. Life with a toddler is big. Certainly. Big love, big messes, big lessons, big frustrations, big changes - such beautiful will.

But life with a seven-year-old. Now that's big living. First grade is full of big firsts and she is soaking it up like a sponge - reading and math, music and languages and handwork, art in everything and joy in everything. But first grade is also full of big feelings and the complexity of it all takes my breath away sometimes. Simple interactions with friends can become complicated and fraught with emotions one moment and then calm and playful the next. Her brothers too can frustrate then delight. But most of all, her emotions crash into me and we dance this complicated mama-daughter dance of frustration and boundaries, disagreements and demands, nurturing and letting go. And sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing at all, and sometimes I wonder if I'm too hard on her, and sometimes words fail me completely and I don't know what to say. And then there are these moments when she curls up into my lap, all long arms and legs and wild girl-child hair, and I rock her back and forth and love her endlessly and remember that seven is big, but still so little.

And then there is the middle one. He is the stillness between the two fiery siblings. He is complicated, sure. He is a mystery. He is deep waters, this boy. He is my heart twin; my heart has known his since the moment he was born. Sensitive, thoughtful, focused.  He loves home and quiet, purposeful work. He is the champion of all things small. He lives in details. But he, too, is on the brink of that big six-year-old change and what it will look like is another mystery.

My hope with all of them is that I meet them where they are and that I know them for who they are. And that is a big task. That is the real work of parenting. And to know them is to learn more about myself in the process - my limits and failings, my own baggage - and to grow, sometimes painfully, in the process. That is the real gift of parenting. And where it all collides into this messy, crazy, loud, imperfect thing that is our life... well, there's real grace there. And for that, I am grateful every single day.

Which brings me back to this rooftop patio and this unfamiliar silence and the strange but welcome feeling of having nothing at all to do. This is supposed to be my little vacation, a few days to breathe and relax. And sometimes that's all it takes to see things clearly. And to know where you belong.

jack frost is about

Just when we had resigned ourselves to a mild, snow-less winter, a frigid little storm showed up to delight the kids with snow flurries and icicles and long, icy tromps through the neighborhood. They even got to skate around on top of the garden beds on one particularly bright and cold afternoon, while Baby Jem and I looked on from a window seat in a warm back room. Not used to single digit temperatures, we bundled up in layers of woollies and drank big mugs of hot chocolate and enjoyed our little bit of Winter.

Then, of course, the real King Winter arrived. We got about eight inches of snow in one night. It came heavy and swift while the kids slept, my three sweet loves completely oblivious to the wonderland growing outside their window. I'm always struck by how silent snow storms are in the south. When I lived in Boston, life went on as the snow fell - cars and people and noise and haste. In North Carolina, cities shuts down,  people bundle up indoors, heavy snow knocks out power lines and states of emergency are declared. The only sounds are the crystalline swish of snowflakes and slow cracking of branches under an unfamiliar weight. It's a thick, puffy silence, all the world wrapped in a feather blanket

my caterpillar

This boy. I blinked and my baby boy turned into this quirky, loving, interesting, thoughtful kid. He is quick to understand, quick to hurt, quick to forgive. He loves puzzles and strategy games. His focus is singular and intense. He loves with that intensity too. Every single day, he tells me, "Mama, I love you googleplex much. No, actually, I love you googleplex plus googleplex much." He follows his sister wherever her whims may lead. He sings soft, sweet songs to his baby brother. He loves what is comfortable and familiar. He requested a watermelon costume for Halloween. He asked Santa for french fries. Earlier today, I asked him about his favorite thing in the whole world. Caterpillars, he said. He is my caterpillar. Small and careful and deliberate but also strong and knowing and full of potential. Every night at bedtime, he curls into my back, cold feet against warm skin, humming himself to sleep, just like he did when he was little, little.

January Stillness

January might just rival October for my favorite month of the year. October is crisp and bright and pumpkin-perfect, but in October too, there is still so much to come - birthdays and holidays and hosting - things that make me tense and flustered. January is that long exhale afterwards. The light is soft and the air is still and the kids have fallen back into the comfortable rhythm of our everyday after the giddy excitement of Christmas. They have rosy cheeks and muddy boots and far too much time on their hands. They dash outside in underwoolies and overcoats to soak up the fading light and run back inside to beg for hot chocolate or big bowls of popcorn. This is the month for slowing down and cozying up and looking forward to a whole new year. This is the simple beauty of beginnings.

It's been five months and we are still soaking up the beauty of our own little beginning. Jeremy Linden arrived just in time for sunrise on a long August day and has been our big sunbeam ever since. To say the days have gone by quickly is that old understatement that every parent knows. Baby Jem has grown and grown, already too big for the sweater that is still on my knitting needles. He rolls and stretches and inches forward. He has big, open-mouthed smiles for everyone. Giggles, too. He is brimming with sweetness and curiosity and sound.

This morning I watched Owen and Jem on the baby monitor - Owen all sleepy-eyed and bedheaded, whispering to his baby brother in the gentlest voice possible, stealing kisses and snuggles and baby smiles before calling mama and starting the day.

When Juni wishes, she wishes that we can keep him forever.

this girl. this boy.

It occurs to me that these are my last few days (or hours) with just this girl and this boy. And I wonder how things will change, how our new little one will shift the him and her, their push and pull and lockstep brother-sister-ness. They move through the day as a pair, playing and creating, arguing and collaborating. They learn and lecture and fight and hug and giggle uncontrollably. They are my two.

 

Looking at Them Asleep by Sharon Olds

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content—and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.

 

thirty eight weeks of baby-growing

I took this photo on my birthday a few days ago. It may be one of the very few photos I have taken of my belly during this third pregnancy. I had a slice of afternoon to myself. It was sunny and warm and quiet and baby deer were running back and forth around our garden. Everything felt settled. Still. Anticipating.

I've been knitting baby things and sewing baby dolls and washing stacks of baby diapers and baby blankets, all to fill the hours until we meet this new little one. Juni and Owen are very excited for the arrival of their baby brother and very serious about their snuggling responsibilities. They have helped me fold his little clothes and arrange his swaddling blankets. They talk about all the things they will teach him. The games they will play. The hugs and kisses they will give. Afternoons may be a little less settled and nights will surely be less still, but this will be one loved little boy.

years float by

Hilton Head, South Carolina. I've been going there off and on for the past fourteen years. It is strange and comforting to visit a place over and over again, especially in that time of your life when everything changes. When you go from being an anchorless and wayward college student with an independent streak to being a mother and wife and lover of all things quiet and cosy. When you see how timeless a place can be, with its beards of Spanish moss and gnarled trees and flat beachy expanses, when you see those things stand still, you realize how far you have travelled. And you can feel nothing but gratitude for that journey and for those who have travelled beside you those long years.

For the kids though, a new place is a new adventure. And this was a much needed adventure after all the long days of winter spent bundled up in woolies and boots.