tollipop

new nest

I'm not sure anyone is following this news with bated breath, but last night we moved into our new home.

Not completely, mind you.  Because a complete move would be so common, so banal, so humdrum.

No, when it comes to moving, we prefer to think outside the box.  Or is it inside the box?  Whatever is completely opposite to the way most people do it--that's us.

At the moment we are inhabiting the upstairs quarter of this establishment.  It's more fun this way, it builds suspense, it draws out the excitement of a full and complete takeover. 

And I really do mean it's fun.  At least, it's fun when everyone's in the mood to consider it fun.  Teenagers who can't locate flat irons are not super fun.  Neither are sisters who accuse one another of stealing bedding.  Mothers who have zero patience for such gratuituous derailments are possibly the least fun of all.

But I am telling you, this is a once in a lifetime adventure: we are camped in the midst of a fortress of boxes like kids with a secret hideaway, like a perpetual pajama party, like a treasure hunt wherein every discovery is something good and useful, though perhaps not exactly what you were hoping to find.  

If you want to come over, you can.  Just bring jammies and a flashlight.  

Downstairs it's still something of a construction zone.  Workers come and go.  Saws whine.  Nail guns punch and hiss.  Izzy's violin soars through it all.  It's a particular atmosphere that has perpetuated itself long enough to evince its own brand of coziness.

Not surprisingly, life goes on.  Sophie's team won all their games at a tournament in Arizona over the weekend.  It was pretty exciting stuff.

 

The suspense was made bearable only by the world's largest wad of bubblegum.

And an early morning run.  

There is something about going for a run in a new place, about one's feet touching ground for the very first time.  It's an original piece of the planet.  It's discovery on a personal level.  Do I overthink things?  Maybe.  Probably.  But running somewhere new fills my heart with the spirit of the frontier.  

Running is, for me, a way to maintain continuity through change.  

So is writing.  

Sometimes I sit down to write even when I have nothing compelling to say, simply because I long for the beautiful logic of words, for the way I can hold them up and watch them catch the light, for their rhythm and cadence which soothe my cluttered mind.  

Thank you for taking a moment to visit me here, for the kind and encouraging comments you share.  I always appreciate them, I am always touched and amused by them, but lately they've held an extra degree of clarity for me.  Lately they've helped things seem a little more in balance.

odyssey

One of my favorite moments each week is taking Izzy to her music lesson.  We arrive with time to spare and sometimes we walk to Starbucks for a quick after school snack.

She still likes to hold hands, my twelve year old girl, and this simple gesture takes me back through all the days of her life: remembering her as an infant, a toddler, a three year old clutching her tiny violin.  How did her hand get so big and strong?  How is it she chatters away about John Wilkes Booth while I am still trying to recall kissing her pumpkin cheeks and breathing her baby soft scent?

We walk and we talk.  There are homeless people along the way.  It is a helpless feeling to pass by such unfathomable sorrow.  How did so much go so wrong?  How?  Sometimes I look into their faces, sometimes I don't.  But either way I have them fixed in my mind, either way I wish I could go back through their lives and find the moment that would have made the difference, either way I wrestle with walking past fellow beings in irretrievable despair.  

And then we are here, five minutes and eons away from the people on the street. We find a table and listen to two businessmen, emboldened by caffeine, assert what they wish they would've said in a meeting earlier that day.  Izzy looks at me, wide eyed, as they are breaking emergency swear vials right and left.  We smirk with the secret understanding emergency swear vials are to be reserved for the extinction of chocolate, holiday lines at the post office, and kids getting stung by scorpions: these guys don't know anything.

Lessons are starting.  It's time to go. 

Not everyone can pull off such an exit.

You need yellow boots.

And a dose of moxy.

We retrace our steps, ten feet from the people sitting, staring, a million miles away. It is a beautiful day: the elixir of life is in the air, the sky is soaring blue, the sun casts long shadows.  

The journey is over.  Izzy goes to her lesson; I go on my way. But these things stay with me--lovely, bemusing, and deeply troubling.  I wonder if I can ever make enough of a difference someday.

car talk

This morning as I dropped Caroline off at school she turned to me and said, "Mum, I just want you to know I feel so lucky to have you as a mother.  It seems you understand everything about me and you are practically the smartest person I know."  

She sat there, eyes shining, as I blinked, completely at a loss.

We'd been having a conversation about one of her recent concerns--robbers--in which I'd fleshed out the subject to include a vast, overarching discussion about God, the meaning of life, how we can remain steady through challenges, and anything else I could think to fit into our ten minute commute.

A word of warning: don't ask me a question about robbers and not expect me to distill the mysteries of the universe, because I am going there.

still holding

One of the best things about staying with my inlaws (I don't like that word; it seems distant) is the little boy cousins who make frequent visits to this place.  They descend upon us like a tiny tribe: some shy, others rapid fire with questions, all easily bribed with candy.

They are so totally awesome, amusing, and novel.  The world of little boys is not especially familiar territory, though I adore it to pieces.  For one thing, it is very energetic.  Also, I've had to dust off my knowledge of space/action genre movies, which was never that stellar in the first place.  I find myself immersed in deep and probing conversations about good guys and bad guys, in which I sense my nephew hopes I will be both reckless yet reassuring.  He likes to blur the line between fantasy and reality to an extent, but ultimately he's counting on me to confirm it still exists.  

You know?  

It's fun to talk like bad guys are real, but not really real.

During this hiccup from our daily schedule, I think my girls have been lulled by the indulgence of grandparents to assume all regular duties would be placed on hiatus.

Unfortunately for them, the indulgence of grandparents is nothing compared to the meanness of mothers.

Anyway, it's all working out.  I've stopped thinking in terms of space, which now means my brain truly has no frame of reference, since time was never my strong suit, either. 

Mainly, I just float.  I pick up kids.  I take them here and there. I stop by our new house and admire it like a tourist.  I see my husband from time to time and smile at him.  He gives me the nicest hugs.  I think I've been wearing the same jeans and t-shirt for about a decade now.  I sort of miss my mom.  I miss my sisters.  I am so grateful to my husband's parents.  Yesterday my mother-in-law put Izzy's hair in pincurls and taught Caroline how to sew a purse.  A purse!  And last night my father-in-law took Sophie to volleyball practice and went shopping with Izzy for the ingredients for monkey bread, just because she said it would be lovely to have for breakfast.

And it would have been, except we ate the entire thing the minute she took it from the oven.

I'm not kidding when I say a part of me will be sad to leave.  

just thinking

Dear reader, how are you doing?  How are things?  What do you turn to for steadiness in your life, especially when your world is in a state of flux?

Recently many people have kindly expressed concern over the difficulty of our staggered move--the confusion of not knowing where things are, the disruption of schedules, the general stress which is created by not being settled in one's place.  

I smile in response, not knowing how to explain this is what it's like to live inside my head on even the best of days.

i wore this outfit three days running and no one even batted an eye

That's because we moved a few days ago.  The day before Valentine's, to be exact. And to be even more exact (that word makes my eyeballs throb), we moved out of our old home but not exactly into our new one.

The past few weeks have been busy, disorienting, surreal...sort of like a cross between living in rush hour traffic and a Salvador Dali painting.  Sort of like my brain escaped and took over the world.  

Just kidding: my brain wouldn't have the faintest clue how to take over anything.

But I don't mean to imply things are grim.  Heavens, no!  For one thing, the cat ears are packed.  For another, we are staying with my inlaws...which I know sounds like the punchline to a very cliché joke, but I assure you, it's been a lovely way to hang in limbo.

I don't think they read my blog but I want to say this: I love my inlaws.  Every day I feel grateful for their influence, but lately I have been plain overwhelmed by their help.  Some day I'll have to give you the rundown on my mother-in-law because you will seriously think I'm making it up.  She is that freakishly amazing.

At any rate, we are out of the home where we brought Sophie as a baby and these two girls were born (via the hospital, but you catch my sentimental drift).  The sweetest family is living there now with a little boy who reminds me of Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes, a tiny sister, and another baby on the way.  

And no matter how topsy turvy life gets, no matter how crazy, how happy or bleak--the blossoms are in bloom.  

And the sky...

The sky is constant, changing, and beautiful.

itzhak perlman

Last weekend Izzy and I attended a performance by Itzhak Perlman.  

Can you find her in the picture?

I love live musical performances...there is something about the experience which goes beyond plain listening.  There is something intimate, energetic, and unpredictable about the moment.  There is something magical.  At some point in the evening I usually look at the people sitting behind or down the row from me (not in a weird, conspicuous way...only in a weird, inconspicuous way).  Their faces glow, they lean forward.  They appear to be spellbound, like children on Christmas Eve--younger, open, believing.

When I saw the program, however, I will admit my shoulders slumped.  

What I'm about to say next should be put into proper context: if we were to compare the world of music to the ecosystem of a pond, for example, then my knowledge of that subject demotes me to the status of tadpole.

But franchement, dear reader: the sonata...?  

It has to be one of the most cerebral (and I don't mean that in a good way) forms in all of music.  With few exceptions, there is little about the sonata which endears itself to the common listener.  Rather, it over-intellectualizes, it wrinkles its nose as if it smells something less brilliant.  There is no heart to the piece, and where there is no heart, there is only poorly guided logic.

Because as any musical peon will tell you, a cerebral composition left to its own devices, abundant in genius yet lacking in heart, is going to end up sounding like some self-important boor rehashing the minutae of his weekend, fascinating only to himself, while you sit there having no interest or place in the conversation.

But don't tell Itzhak Perlman I said that!

Because he was amazing.  He was warm and accessible.  He played the violin like you didn't even know he had a violin.  The instrument seemed like an appendage, so familiar to him you practically forgot it was there.

And the audience loved him.

Here's what it's like to be Itzhak Perlman, here's what it's like to have world renowned, musical prodigy cachet: whatever you do, everyone's going to think it's hilarious.  You know?   Be careful if you lick your finger to turn a page of music--you just might bring the house down.

At the end of the concert, Mr. Perlman played several encores and told the following joke, which got more laughs than all the episodes of Seinfeld put together, plus all its reruns:

Tchaikovsky had a friend in Russia who was convicted of a minor crime and given a very harsh sentence.

(At this point people were already laughing, as if crime and punishment is a running gag in Russia, as if the punchline was superfluous...)

They hoped the punishment would be reduced, but he was forced to serve the duration of the time.  In condolence, Tchaikovsky composed a song for his friend and called it "Chanson sans Paroles."

C'mon.  You have to admit.  That is pure comedy gold.  

Although I've been telling the joke for days now and all I get is a blank stare. 

:::::::::::::

p.s. Sorry if I offended anyone with my indictment of sonatas.  Remember what I said about tadpoles and the pond...

handmade valentine tutorial

Ok, after this I will stop talking about Valentine's Day, because too much talk about love gets revolting.  Even I get revolted.

But I still believe in it.

I just wanted to say one tradition I have is to make a small and simple token for my girls to wear throughout the day as a reminder of my love for them.  And when I say small and simple, I mean it.  I don't try to outdo myself from year to year.  Next Valentine's I will probably just cover them in heart stickers.  

This year I was feeling a bit bleak from all the boxes in the house, so when I saw these electrifying pink pom poms at a local craft store, I bought them on impulse.  And since that flew in the face of my recently renewed determination not to accumulate so much stuff, I determined to use them for my annual tradition.

Here's what I did:

1. Wrap a length of sewing elastic around the ring-wearing area of your finger so it feels comfortable, and cut the length just a bit longer than that.

2. Thinly coat the entire outer side of the elastic in craft glue (there's probably a better glue, but I just used what was handy) and cover it with pink glitter.  Yay!  It's only step 2 and already you are ridiculously happy.

3.  Let the glue dry...for like, at least 20-30 minutes.  Otherwise the glitter will cake off on your fingers when you touch it.  

4.  Plug in your glue gun.  Warning: this project is not optimal for those with an aversion to burning flesh.  Place a bead of heated glue on one end of the glitter sided elastic.  Attach the other end on top of the glue.  Press together, gritting teeth against the inevitable sensation of molten lava which will ensue.  

5.  Break emergency swear vial if necessary, but so much cooler to pretend like it didn't hurt.

6.  Take one, two, or three pom poms.  Really, you could use as many as you want, especially if you stacked them.  Using the glue gun, I attached mine together first. Then I placed glue on the base of the pom poms and stuck them on my ring...while I was wearing it, no less (cue understudy emergency swear vial or, if you're like me, save it for something really good, like your kid getting stung by a scorpion or those endless holiday lines at the post office).  

7.  Note: for a tidier look, affix the pom poms over the place where you attached the elastic band ends together.

8.  Voila!  Super cute, sparkly, fuzzy, pink rings--custom sized and expandable for all the darling little girls in your life (I made one for myself and my mother-in-law as well and we were equally delighted).

My daughters go out the door at separate times for school, so on Valentine's morning I packed them a special lunch and spent a few minutes with each one--giving her the ring, enjoying her delight, and painting her fingernails sparkly pink.  

A practically perfect start to the day.

happy valentine's day

Dear reader, I hope your day is filled with love.  

I hope someone makes you laugh.

I hope someone makes a gesture...

That brings a smile to your face.

Somewhere in the bustle of your day, I hope there is a moment...

That is very, very sweet.

I hope you are finding a way to put love out there, for that is the true magic of Valentine's Day.  It allows you to see the world differently, it wraps you up in the ancient hum and glow that makes everything seem new.

Putting love out there steadies, elevates, and illuminates. It is neither flimsy nor marked by frilly expressions. It is simple and steady. It is warm and generous. It is a way to proceed independent of any other condition.  It stays the distance after all the rocky roads. It has its own way of filling you, its own way of making you feel things are going to be all right.

Love doesn't always come in the way you wish it would.  

I wish it would.

I don't mean this in a fanciful, mystical way.  I mean it in a plain and practical way: 

look for ways to put love out there in the way you wish it would come to you.  

But it is Valentine's Day, after all, so I suppose I mean it plainly and fancifully alike. 

I hope you have a lovely day, dear reader.  I hope it is filled with very good things.  

I wish you everything tender, sweet, and thrilling on this magical of all magical days.

xo x infinity

valentine's day is coming: put love out there

Dear reader, I know: I'm supposed to be moving.  I'm supposed to be wrapping crystal goblets in feathery sheets of tissue and they are not supposed to shatter.  I'm supposed to be closing boxes and summing up their contents in one measly word, a limit which has thus far confounded me.  I'm supposed to be waiting for a plumber to come diagnose a mysterious sound emanating from within the walls of our home (it's a ghost...why would anyone believe otherwise?).  I'm supposed to be lighting candles, listening to Bach, stop-starting projects all over the house, and secretly sampling the Valentine's chocolate.  

Wait--that last task has been definitively accomplished, but don't check it off the list yet.

Don't ever check it off the list.

It's just...scheduling a move during the season of love?!!

Voyons donc, il est vraiment malheureux!

Don't worry, though.  I have plans.  Not big plans, perhaps, but plans.

You know what I think would be very old-school lovely?  To fold a piece of paper in half, cut out a half-heart shape, unfold it, write something sweet, and leave it for someone special. 

Such as: I like you 10/10.  Or: You're dreamy.  Or: You deserve a puppy.  Or: You run like the wind.  Or: You're swell.  Or: I like you better than freshly baked bread. 

Or the ultimate: If I would've known you in high school, I would've asked you to prom.

Write it in pencil, no less, and if you make a spelling mistake, just scribble it out.

Another idea: Tollipop valentines.  Every year I mean to create new ones, but you are still welcome to print as many of these as you'd like (just click on the link).

I don't know exactly where I'll be on Valentine's Day.  But I do know I'll be looking for love.  I'll be watching and waiting and believing in it...all day and every day, but especially on this day. 

I'll be smiling at everyone I see. I'll be hugging everyone I can.  I'll be saying Happy Valentine's Day like a broken record, only I'll mean it.  I'll be handing out lollipops and chocolate hearts.  

I hope I see lots of puppies and babies on that day, because you are allowed to make a ton of fuss over them.

I'd love to know what you are doing, dear reader.  I'd love to know your simple, random Valentine's Day plans.  Not so much the rose petals strewn across the threshold and candle lit dinners stuff, but more the sweet and less obvious gestures you intend to make.

Put love out there.  

No matter what else is going on in your life, no matter how good, bad, chaotic, how disappointing or fulfilling--send something lovely out into the universe on that day of all days.  

And possibly the next day, too.