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.

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.

spring in a nutshell

It seems much too unfair to recall our bright spring days now that we're slogging through the height of summer, with this heavy Carolina air and these wiltingly hot afternoons. These days just beg for cool swims and tall glasses of iced tea in the shade and gallons of bug spray. Juni and Owen spend all day smelling like citronella candles and pool water, their hair drenched in sweat and their forearms covered in popsicle residue. But spring, ah, that was the time for lovely little wanderings, for making and planting and exploring. We hugged baby goats and picked berries, we tromped through the woods and roasted marshmallows by the fire and wondered if summer would ever arrive.

home again

Ahh, finally back in this space after a long stretch without a laptop. We've had celebrations and trips and adventures, snippets of which I will share once I have sorted through my (digital) piles of photos.

But I had to pop in to post a few glimpses of this guy. Look at those lashes. And that little head full of thoughts about things.

He talks in long, half-song sentences these days, about trains and pirates and the color green, about pistons and boilers and off-on-adventures. He talks about caterpillars and fire fairies and little babies finding their mamas.

He says things like, "Well, actually..." and "That's right, of course." and "Talk to me, mama! I'm speaking to you!"

He's at the in-between place, where I can hold still him close in my arms - this sweet baby boy - but he is all arms and legs and motion, like the little kid he is just on verge of becoming.

You can also see a peak of his green Milo vest I knitted in January from Fleece Artist Blue Face Leceister DK yarn. He pretty much lived in this easy layering piece all throughout our unusually cool North Carolina spring. (See the Ravelry link for knitty details).

the things we make

visions of sugarplums

Magical Moments and Warm Wishes

Hope your holidays have been full of magic & warmth!

Two!

In the middle of October's hustle and bustle, this guy turned two! TWO! And what a giant bundle of joy and purpose and laughter he is. He hops, skips, tumbles through the world with a big, open heart, taking it all in. He loves to sing and dance and play baseball. He loves smoothies and jigsaw puzzles. His smiling kisses and big, wide-armed hugs melt this mama's heart every single time. He moves and moves, chattering and giggling and narrating his day at the top of his lungs. But then he has moments of such peaceful, quiet concentration - building a castle, listening to a story, assembling a puzzle piece by piece. 

He loves octagons and the color green. He loves trains and garbage trucks and the letter J. He adores his sister and will follow her unconditionally. They build forts and tell stories and jump off furniture into piles of pillows. She convinces him to fairy-dance and princess-twirl and he convinces her to play all-aboard-the-choo-choo-train and picking-up-the-garbage.

I can't believe he is only two.