tollipop

how to ensure your husband notices your new haircut: make him give it to you

Dear reader, several days a week I walk with Caroline to school and on those mornings we go early to participate in an exercise program sponsored by the PE department.  It consists of running around a field and keeping track of one's laps, ostensibly to collect an award at the end of the year.

It's fun, it's invigorating, it's a great moment to share with my daughter.  Although lately, and don't ask me how, it's also gotten competitive.

It all started when we ran past this one kid and accidentally startled him.  "Oh, sorry, dear!," I said.  Ten seconds later, he streaked past us with the retort, "Uh no, I think I'm the one who's sorry."  

Seriously, it was all I could do to laugh like a harmless suburban mom and let him go unscathed. 

And then I got sick of this other kid who kept passing us with a crazy burst of speed and stopping just twenty feet ahead.  What is that?  Some kind of challenge?  An insult?  What?  

And then a sweet little boy from our old neighborhood started taunting me.  And now it has escalated to the point where I'll be out on the field, trying to be all zen and maternal, and someone will exclaim: Mrs. Tollipop is here!  Hey, Mrs. Tollipop!  I bet you can't beat me!

For the most part I try to ignore it.  For the most part I try to be all forty-something with an exaggerated good nature, taking the high road, smiling like a benign, mature adult.

But let me tell you this: sometimes you can round forty-something down to a very small number.  Sometimes it's the low road that needs a bushwhacking. Sometimes the situation calls for maturity, sometimes that is too bad.  Sometimes your daughter needs you to run with her, and sometimes she needs to see her mother rain down the apocalypse on the playground.

And when that moment comes, I am telling you: those boys have better laced their shoes on tight. 

Because I am going full throttle.  I am laying it all out.  The soundtrack to Chariots of Fire envelops me like a cocoon and my lungs prepare themselves for spontaneous combustion. The PE teacher is only a speck on the horizon but I can tell he is dropping his clipboard, watching in horror, and the kids along the sidelines are cheering like Roman centurions, hungry for blood.

Let the record reflect: today was a proud day for suburban moms everywhere.  Today might have messed with the psyche of more than a few tender aged schoolboys.  

Is it poor form for an adult to beat a child in competition?  I am inclined to think so. But they don't call it the thrill of victory for nothing, dear reader.  Still, there's thrills and then there's cheap thrills, and running faster than a pack of nine-year-olds probably isn't the classiest accomplishment of my career.  

I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good.  But I also feel bad that it felt good.

Let the record reflect: Regardless of my personal misgivings, regardless of how this moment may fare in the annals of history, for Caroline there is no question.  It was a clear and conclusive, banner day.

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

p.s. With reference to the title of this post: yes, I did cut my hair the other day during a ten minute window between music lessons wherein I dashed into the house, caught sight of myself in the mirror and said, "I can't take this one second longer!"

And my entire family has been repairing the damage ever since.
 
I am not generally known for being dramatic, but in one rash moment I can eclipse years' worth of antics dealt by even the most highstrung among us.

window shade

Dear reader, did you have a nice weekend?  Did you find time to rest?  Did you eat something good?  Were you with people you love?

I hope so.

I think I may take a little break from Tollipop...just a few days, probably.  We are now inhabiting every room of the house but there is still a lot of settling in to accomplish.  I'm a little worn down, that's all, and oddly out of things to say.   

I'll return when I start missing words enough that I find a way to put them back together again.

You, of course, I miss already.  

little brother

This is my little brother, Jonny.  He works in Washington, D.C., doing super important stuff. He is one of the coolest guys I know.  He is smart, funny, interesting, and loves to read, write, cook, travel, and watch movies. 

When we were little he was my shadow.  We used to rescue tadpoles, explore the creek, talk our heads off, and walk for hours to the neighborhood store.  We took candy very seriously, me and him.  We still do.  Once I saved his life from a rampaging cow and once we saved each other from a mean old dog.  The times I spent with Jonny growing up are some of my happiest memories.

I have six siblings in all.  I could tell you something amazing about each one of them. In fact, if you had all day, I'd still be talking.

The other day Jonny sent me this picture.  I'm not exactly sure what he's doing because of course he accompanied it with a joke, but whatever it is I'd vote for him.

I can tell you this: nothing makes me happier, nothing reassures me more than knowing my brothers and sisters are doing well and that they're going to be all right.

lady tollipop

This morning my husband informed me I awoke in the middle of the night, babbling away in a British accent.

I, of course, have no memory of the incident but I'm quite sure it may be attributed both to Downton Abbey and the fact my perpetual inner monologue vaccilates wildly between that of chimney sweep and grand dowager duchess. 

the tale of one bad mouse

When breakfast was over and the children had gone to school, there was often a peculiar noise to be heard in the nursery.  It was a scritching, scratching sort of noise, and it could mean only one thing.

Lettie Scribbles had come to make trouble.

Lettie Scribbles was a mouse, and not a highly regarded one at that.  She spoke like a chimney sweep, leered, and bragged of her short-lived career as a pickpocket, glorifying a life of crime while conveniently omitting the fact she was no longer in possession of a tail.

It would take a fortnight to recount the scurrilous deeds of Lettie's past, including the time she nearly shut down Parliament because of her penchant for the prime minister's personal stash of cheese.

But of the vast spectrum of shenanigans attributed to Miss Scribbles, there was none from which she derived greater pleasure than this: vexing the dollies of Tollipop Place.  

Oh, the capacity for mischief within one errant mouse!

For it was she who left droppings upon their fine china, she who nibbled their stockings, she who made crude gestures when the dollies speculated as to the affections of one Sir Timothy Hastings.

Sir Timothy Hastings was, of course, a bumblebee.  He was soft and furry, the color of sunflowers on a perfect summer day.  Maybe he did have just one wing and was, for the most part, generally acknowledged to be dead.  But he was the closest thing to a suitor the dolls had ever known and they were terribly fond of him.   

"Ooh, that Lettie Scribbles," fumed Quiet Bunny, "How she makes me want to give her a pinch!"

"Rawther," said Eleanor, the frosty twin,"I'm more inclined to favor strychnine."

"Don't mind if I do," smirked Lettie, flouncing into the nursery and flashing her bloomers for all to see.

"Have some respect, Miss Scribbles," breathed Lady Beatrice, "You are in the presence of a gentleman."

"Wot? That old thing?," cried the mouse, "And him, deader than a doornail?"

"Hold your tongue, you strumpet!," burst forth Quiet Bunny, the color rising in her cheeks, "Being past one's prime is not the same thing as irretrievably dead."

If her deep and abiding affection for the bee had been a secret, the cat was now out of the bag.

"I should say not," agreed the dolls, nodding one to another as Quiet Bunny's nostrils flared at an alarming rate.

But Lettie was off to the pantry and missed this concensus against her.  What did it matter, anyway?  What did she care for the opinion of some stuffy old dolls?  She had matters of greater concern, such as the possibility of cats and the fact she would be going home to an empty nest that night, lined only with the silk from Quiet Bunny's stockings.

silhouette ring

One of the very lovely things about having older children is that the creating you did together in the earlier years also grows up, squirrels itself away in bedrooms, talks on the phone, becomes mysterious and unfathomable, travels the world, gets lonely, and comes back with an exotic accent.

I never know what Sophie is going to make next, but without fail her creations cause me to gasp with delight.

This is a silhouette ring.

Or in other words, an "oh, I had a free moment so I thought I'd cut the profile of a woman's face, adhere it to a piece of cardstock, create a frame, and fashion a band using more cardstock and a pretty piece of ribbon" ring.

I mean, what do you do when you need something extra to go with your outfit??

imagination

Over the weekend I went for a run.  The weather was beautiful, spring was in the air. Birds twittered.  Lizards basked in the sun.

Was I being all zen and one with the universe?  

Typically, yes. 

Typically I am a forty-something mom doing a five-miler out in the middle of nowhere.

But on this day?  No.

On this day I was thinking about spies, prompted by a passage of scripture I'd read to the girls wherein two warring civilizations employed the use of spies to ascertain one another's plans.  The spies had to cross vast stretches of wilderness in order to convey information to their leaders, so I am guessing they did not exactly sojourn along the way.  I'm guessing they ran like the wind for hours on end.

You can imagine the appeal of this scenario to a forty-something mom doing a five-miler out in the middle of nowhere.  You appreciate, no doubt, the correlation.

Dear reader, you should see me run when I'm pretending to be a spy.  I am tough, stealthy, resilient.  I have eyes like a hawk.  Ears like a cat.  I leap over bushes, slashing my legs to ribbons, oblivious to the pain: there are greater concerns at hand.

At that particular moment, I was wondering what would happen if enemy spies were to cross paths while on a mission?  Would there be an altercation?  Would there be combat?  Would there be a dance-off?

Imagine my reaction when I heard voices.  Real ones.

I froze in my tracks.  I didn't breathe.  

Could I get a visual?  

Yes, they were coming toward me, three heads bobbing in and out of sight on the opposite side of a fork in the trail.

I wanted that fork.  I needed that fork.  It was my hall pass back to base camp.  And something told me as badly as I wanted it, those guys didn't want me to have it.

Dear reader, what do you do when you're a spy out in the middle of nowhere facing a ruthless enemy with no backup, no dance moves?  This is not a pop quiz.  This is not a simulated test.  

Don't worry: these things are always scarier in theory.

In reality, years of training kicked in and instinct took over: I started running faster than before, like an arrowhead in the wind.  It was impossible to go undetected but that was not my intent, that was not my plan.  The second they stopped talking I knew I'd been seen.

Amateurs.

They were speaking Spanish which, regrettably, is not on my résumé, but any spy worth her Asics has a pretty good idea when someone is saying: let's take her out.

We ran pell mell toward each other, brazen in our objectives: me, with the intent to reach the fork; they, with the intent to neutralize the living daylights out of the situation.  

I was first, but with only seconds to spare.  An assassin in yellow shorts got so close I could see the whites of his eyes.  I gave him my I drive carpool in rush hour traffic look, which is another way of saying: it is on.

I spun, skidded, and was off: running for my country, running for my life. 

Dear reader, what a run.  What a run.  There is no run like the run of being chased. There is no run like the run for one's life.  My legs stretched ten times their length; I summoned horsepower beyond Seabiscuit's wildest dreams.  Did I touch the ground?  Hard to say.  Go back and check the trail for molten Asics.  I don't know what happened to my organs, whether they are intact or not.  I'm pretty sure some squirrel feasted on my liver that night.  

I ran so fast I actually had to stop to ascertain whether or not I was still being chased.

I was.  But somehow I don't think their hearts were quite as in it.

Like I said: amateurs. 

I let them catch up a little and took off again.  Twice.  Sometimes you have to make do with the materials at hand--don't worry, it's still worth the effort.

When I reached the finish line, I turned and watched my foes in the distance.  By the time they caught up I'd been debriefed, the war ended, and we were no longer enemies.

So I ended up making three new friends instead: Jose, Mario, and Luis.  They are training for a half marathon.  They come out here often.  They think I run fast.

I don't know, dear reader.  Reality can be beautiful, it can be bleak, it can be exciting, it can be not.  With few exceptions, you generally have to make do with the materials at hand.  You have to be patient and ride out the storms.  You take the good with the bad, you err on the side of gratitude, you give it your best shot.  Or your semi-best shot.  Maybe you shatter a few emergency swear vials and hopefully get a good night's sleep.

I'm not knocking reality, even though it's never been my strong suit.  For the most part, I'm endorsing it.

But there is this place.  This place where everything can be cozy, magical, thrilling, and lovely, just as you always wanted it.  And there you can be the hero, the spy, the resistance fighter, the poetess.  There is always an oversized chair by a fire, there is always a book, there is always a yellow cardigan, there is always a tiny talking turtle.

To go there you need only to cultivate your mind.

sounds like home

It's funny what makes me feel at home.  Without taking you on a panoramic tour of my thoughts, I'd say there's not a lot that delivers the feeling of safety and security for me.  An actual house does not deliver that feeling.  Our new house is lovely, but I suspect I will always admire it somewhat like a tourist.  I've seen too many things disappear from my life to make any material object the resting place of my heart.

But, music.  

Music makes me feel at home.  

Music lifts.  It beckons.  Music reaches deep inside me and tells me there is beauty that transcends every care and sorrow, there is a higher plane.

And lately there is music in our home again.  Pure.  Sweet. Achingly familiar.

Friends make me feel at home.  Yesterday a whole bunch of them came over to help us move furniture and lend their expertise as to the proper way to assemble a table.  In case you're worried there was an excess of brainpower for the task, I can assure you they tapped it completely.  

And I am grateful, if also unable to resist a little teasing.  

Cookies make me feel at home.  Or, to be more precise, the feeling there is something good to eat.  Something warm.  Made with love.

So do candles.  My little brother who lives in D.C. sent me this candle from Amish country.  It smells divine.  

He actually sent me two with the understanding I am to give the second to my sister-in-law. So...I guess will.

Our friends moved the piano into our home.  This is the first time in over a month I've had a chance to play it.  A piano is a luxury, so I would never say I rely on one in order to feel at home.  But knowing it's there makes the house feel warmer.

This morning my family joined me to sing some hymns--between the five of us there are sopranos, altos, and a bass.  The sound soars in this house.  It fills the air.  It is rich, full, and vibrant. 

This sounds like home.  This feels like home.

This is where I want to be.

home alone

The girls are at school.  My husband is at work.  No one else is here.  The house is quiet, empty, and I am supposed to be unpacking boxes, doing laundry, establishing a kitchen.

But I am home alone, dear reader.  For the first time in recent memory.

I can't divulge exactly what it is I'll be doing, but I can assure you I won't be wasting the opportunity.

I hope you have a wonderful day.  It's March, right?  I love that word.  

Happy, happy March.