tollipop

over the weekend

Sophie spent her entire life decorating her school for homecoming.

 
Isabella got her green thumb on.

Caroline did this...

31 times times in a row!

And I overdressed for the season.

Boots: just sling them on, zip them up.  Is the sun beating down with the fury of a thousand bottles of hot sauce?  Not in your head, it isn't.

Channel your inner farmgirl, darling!  You never know when there's chores to be done--barns to muck, pigs to slop.  It never hurts to keep up appearances.

And brace me up with some more of that marvelous fizzy lemonade while you're at it. 

i'm doing that thing again...overdressing for the season

It's called seasonal denialitis, dear reader, an obscure malady wherein you dress for the weather you want and not for the weather that is.  It's a legit diagnosis, also known as high hopes pox. It generally affects Canadians living in desert climates and possibly vice versa, though I cannot imagine anyone stepping out in a Canadian winter sporting daisy dukes no matter how much she wishes it were warmer.

I have a sneaking suspicion all these sweaters, cardigans, and button up shirts did very little to help me kick last week's fever, by the way.  

Seasonal denialitis is a strain of a larger subset, common denial, wherein just about everything you do and the way you proceed through life in general glosses over what's actually happening in favor of the reality inside your head.  

The cure?  Why, darling (cue glittering, coloratura laughter), who said anything about a cure?!  Just ignore my flushed cheeks and brace me up with some more of that marvelous fizzy lemonade.  

It's the perfect yellow cardigan, darling.  

And you would not believe the glorious fall day I have while wearing it.  

facing the wind

Okay, after this I'll stop talking about my convalescence because everyone knows it's boorish to talk about one's health ad nauseum.  And at the Tollipop Finishing School for Moderately Well-Behaved Young Ladies, we aim for prettier manners than that.  But in case you were wondering, I'm on the mend.  Not quite fit as a fiddle, mind you.  But at least able to talk without having everyone think there's a 90 year old chain smoking man in the room.  

Still, I'm tired.  And when I went for a run yesterday, it didn't help matters that a wind was blowing which made me feel like an indentured servant pushing blocks of limestone up a pyramid.  Seriously, it was so arduous.  It was like having one foot in the grave, which wouldn't have been so bad had I felt more chipper and could have charged Death down like Mel Gibson did in that movie where he had blue paint on his face. But the thought of putting blue paint on my face was, like, exhausting.  

And I was counting on my snappy red running skirt to come through in the clutch, but for the most part it failed to rally my spirits because I was too busy thinking there was an aging English bulldog on my tail and then realizing, oh.

 

That was me breathing like that.

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Anyway.  This week stretches ahead of me and I am grateful for it.  I'm grateful for every moment I have on this earth which radiates with the vibrancy of life, change, and renewal. Yesterday I had the chance to cross paths with a homeless man and it left me deeply impressed with the worth of the human soul.  How it brands my senses to see one in such dismal condition and makes me, in some small way, a bearer of godly sorrow.  

 

Afterward, as I drove away with Izzy, she softly observed: Once he was someone's baby.

Yes. The truth of it stung my eyes.  How simple is the answer to what ails the troubles of this world: love.

I wish I had arms wide enough to stretch around the universe, to bind up every broken heart and downcast soul.  I wish I could heal, protect, and soothe.  I am reconciled to the idea life must, by design, harbor a certain degree of suffering.  But I wish I could ride in like Mel Gibson and wreak havoc upon anything that interferes with one's sense of worth.  And I hope, as a mother, I use the greater power of nurturing to raise up more than my own three girls.  

over the weekend

The most curious creature scuttled across a page of music as I was accompanying Caroline's cello sonata.

Where did he come from?  I cannot imagine.  He moved like he was walking underwater, like a land roving shrimp, and when I tried to relocate him using a pencil tip, he reared up and challenged me to a duel.  

We had friends over for dinner, lots of them, and Izzy decorated the tables with as many pretty things as she could find.  

She's a girl after my own heart.

I looked out the window and saw this familiar sight and I think it made me time travel a little.

I hid in the trees and no one could find me.

It took reading five chapters aloud for Izzy to finish rolling Caroline's hair into sponge curlers.

The next morning, Caroline could not have been more pleased with the results.

tollipop original giveaway: lucy at the party

It was that time again.  Time to set down the works of Camus and muster the gaiety demanded of a glittering socialite.  Lucy Sparrow could hardly bear it. The thought of attending Bunny Mittens' party was enough to make her want to cash in her trust fund and go off the grid.

Bunny Mittens was, by all accounts, insufferable.  She was a line cutter, a pencil borrower, and a copycat. Why, only yesterday Lucy had caught Bunny staring at her spelling test. The little sneak raised her hand first to say how Constantinople was spelled, when everyone knew Bunny Mittens could not have spelled a word like Constantinople if her life depended on it.  

Everyone, that is, but the teacher, who awarded Bunny Mittens a gold star!

The disappointment, the sense of injustice, was unbearable.  Lucy went home and carved an exact likeness of Bunny out of a block of cheese and set it in her hamster cage.

"Lucy, are you coming?  It's almost time to go." 

Mrs. Sparrow's voice was as cultured as the strand of pearls around her neck, belying the fact she grew up on a small farm in the middle of nowhere and spent half her life hidden in trees.  

"I don't see the point of it.  I don't see the point of anything," said Lucy through clenched teeth.

"There now, darling, I think that's enough existentialism for you today," said Mrs. Sparrow, her eyes shining with a look that made her seem both present and far away all at once.  

"Bunny Mittens is a dirty cheat!" cried Lucy, stamping her foot.  

"No one can take from you what is truly yours, my dear girl," said her mother. She bent down and gave Lucy a kiss, and where her lips touched Lucy's cheek, a tiny golden star shimmered for the rest of the afternoon.

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Dear reader, would you like a chance to win little Miss Lucy Sparrow?  By leaving a comment at the bottom of this post, your name will be entered in the drawing. If you mention the giveaway to a friend or promote it using any means of social media, please feel free to enter your name again with each mention.

I hope you have a beautiful weekend.  I am convalescing, I suppose, whatever that means.  Can a run be considered part of convalescing?  How about a walk? Would anyone like to come read me a story?  I must say I've received the loveliest offers of homemade soup from friends both near and far...such kindnesses are deeply felt.  

I'll return to announce a winner sometime next week.  xo

delerium

Dear reader, I've been under the weather lately.  It always takes me a few days to figure this out: am I sick or am I just tired?  Am I sick or in a bad mood? Am I sick or do I really want to dig a hole and crawl inside it?  Am I sick or is the entire world conspiring against me?  

It turns out the answer is D: all of the above.  I am sick plus slightly paranoid to boot. 

Since I am sick, please don't expect these photos to correlate with anything I happen to say.  That's raising the bar too high.

Although the piece of gum?  Sums up perfectly how I'm feeling at the moment.

I noticed it one day while picking up Sophie from school and yes, I crouched down to take a picture (chewed gum bearing pristine tracks is a rare find) and yes, she was horrified when I told her what I did.  

Being sick did not stop me from going on a run, however.  A sore throat and disappearing voice do not factor into the experience either way. No, it was a crochety hamstring and the fine sheen of a fever on my brow which fueled my sojourn into the wilderness.

To be fair, today's run didn't qualify as a run so much as it was a wandering off course while looking for meteorites and bees, not registering the fact I was far from civilization until it suddenly hit me and the thought of building a fort and living there sounded more appealing than making the effort to return home.  
But I did return home, especially once I remembered there was a lemon Starburst hidden in the car.

Sophie has a volleyball game today.  This is how she looked at 5:00 this morning as I made her breakfast, packed a lunch, and sent her on her way. 

Out of pity for my condition, she let me take this picture.

Izzy has a violin lesson today.  It lasts an hour and a half, and she thinks it is over before it even begins.

When Caroline heard Izzy mention this, she exclaimed: You are so lucky!  I wish my lesson could be an hour and a half!

None of which helped allay my fear that the world is conspiring against me and everyone, Caroline included, is a robot and maybe that run wasn't such a good idea after all and my head weighs a zillion pounds and I wish I could just dig a hole and crawl inside it.   

over the weekend

The vast majority of this weekend was spent cheering on Sophie and her high school volleyball team at a local national tournament.  Now it hurts to talk.

I love these events...mainly to watch the girls play, but also because I adore their parents, which makes the day all the more enjoyable.

If, for whatever reason, you're thinking: hey, it doesn't look like Sophie posed for, sanctioned, or was even aware this photograph was being taken...

YOU try locating a 10th grader willing to humor her mother's wish to take her picture in the presence of her peers.

Trust me--you'll have better luck tracking a gigantic, midnight blue bee.

Izzy continues to fill the house with her beautiful music...all the while resembling a great, great, great, great, great grandmother who no doubt skipped across the fjords and hopefully had no hand in pillaging or reigning down terror upon the coasts of jolly Old England.  

Caroline continues to dabble in everything, which is as it should be.

On Sunday, this beautiful day of rest, we sat in church borrowing babies, toddlers, and five year olds until it seemed our pew would burst with happiness. How I adore going to church and the people I see there, especially the kids.

And afterward: few things make me happier than being close to my girls, feeling them rest against me, trying to answer their questions, rubbing their sore shoulders, listening to them tell me about their day, what they're reading, their music.

I could close my eyes and stay in this moment forever. 

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eta: Because we all know such moments don't last forever, right?  No, there is quite the range, like the gem later that night when Caroline informed my husband (strategically omitting her antics) all the girls were giving her mean looks, including Mum.  

I guess annoyed is the new mean.

43 is the new 90, according to my hamstring

Dear reader, how are you doing?  How was your week?  Mine was, in a word, blurry.  I am trying to be the anchor that steadies this family but more often I feel like the dinghy which capsizes in the storm.  

I don't really have a mantra to navigate the chaos...mainly I just try to keep my head above the current, create as many slow moments as possible, and hope there is enough understanding to go all the way around.  

The desert is glorious these days.  I got some new shoes and they run real fast. The first time I tried them out I came across the most amazing sight: an enormous, midnight blue bumblebee.  

Enormous.  Blue.  Bee.

I stood there, entranced, as it alighted on a blossom not three feet away.  Was I still on planet Earth?  Unable to help myself, I began to rack my brains for a way to catch the bee, the first being to take off my top and fashion a make-shift net.  

As you may expect, I struggled with the morality of such an action.

Not in taking off my top, mind you (cue glittering, coloratura laughter).  Dear me, no!  

Just in terms of curtailing the life of such a magnificent creature purely for my own desire.  

In the end, you'll be relieved to know I kept my top on and enjoyed watching the bee until it flew away...a decision I regret to this day.  All in all, though, I'd rather be saddled with the regret of not catching the bee than the regret of catching it, even if it spoiled a perfectly good chance to run naked through the wilderness.

At any rate, the pace around here is sort of like a foxhunt.  And I am sort of like the fox.  

Sometimes, when the hounds are relentless, you have to create a moment which stands in contrast to the rest of your day.  Maybe you concoct a cup of hot chocolate, maybe you go outside and gaze at the sky, maybe you sit down and think about every good thing.  

For me, lately, it's been to read bedtime stories to Caroline.  No one else has the time to listen.  I'm not even sure Caroline has the time to listen.  But late at night she rests against me as I relate the story of Mrs. Frisby and her poor little Timothy.  I read slowly, carefully, enjoying the beauty and magic of language, of syllables, consonants, and vowels, of rhythm and cadence, and the captivating, detailed world as seen through the eyes of a tiny field mouse.  

I hope you are hanging in there, dear reader, whatever your "there" may be.  I hope it is lovely, but more than likely it is also somewhat crazy.  Hopefully there is easy to balance out the rough, happy to soften the sad. No matter what, there is always beauty.  

Look up, look around, you will see it.  

caroline sings the blues

 
This girl loves her cello.  She loves the sound it makes.  She loves its size.  And she loves that it matches her hair.  

Caroline often tells me she's not sure if she wants to be a volleyball girl like Sophie, a musician like Izzy, or a writer like me.  

I tell her she can do all three.  

And she does.

making me happy, even though i'm sort of stressed

Caroline's pairing of socks this morning.  A bold move which for her is a no brainer.

Tagging the Gap.  Because no one gave me permission to do so.
 

This little honeybee, which I found on my way home from school.  It looks like he has a secret.

This unusual specimen which I discovered yesterday in the middle of the desert where I went for a run and depleted my electrolytes in about negative ten seconds, still failing to preempt that Canadian brain glitch which assumes weather cools with the advent of school.

It DOESN'T.  Not here, anyway.

What do you think it could be??

My guesses are as follows: calcified moon cheese, kryptonite (except my superpowers are still intact, so that's unlikely), or something AWESOME is about to hatch!   

Speaking of cheese, do you remember me telling you about a guy named Martin who could talk about food in a way that made you feel a wedge of chocolate held more fascination in its mere pinky than you could hope to muster in a lifetime?  Well, he finally answered my question about his top five blue cheeses because Martin is clearly the type of guy who doesn't say something unless he can back it up.  

If you have a moment, please check out his blog...I promise you'll never look at blue cheese the same way again. You'll never have a normal resting pulse when it enters the room.  You'll be the first to look away when it catches you staring.  
Don't ask me how I know.

Franchement, what do you expect?!  It's blue cheese, darling.  It's the alpha male of the cheese world. This guy isn't trying to groom. He's not trying to spritz, tan, or pluck.  He's not here for the book club, ladies. Don't ask if he'd prefer mineral water.  He doesn't drink water.  Don't expect him to write pretty poetry--he's more the type to grunt his approval when you walk into the room.  

And if that flusters you, trust me, you're not alone.  If you start talking too fast, laughing too much, smoothing your hair and wishing someone would open a window, you're in good company.

It's blue cheese, darling.  

Cheese doesn't come with any more horsepower than that.

And p.s. to the anglophone Canadians--do we say bleu or blue cheese?  I can't remember and it's making me sad.

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In other news...does anyone else feel like it's only the second week of school and already you're earning a failing grade?  I feel anxious and overwhelmed, with too many things to do and therefore perhaps I shouldn't be blogging...a thought which also makes me feel anxious and overwhelmed.  

Giving up writing when life gets too busy: that's like being in a sinking lifeboat and throwing one's bar of chocolate overboard to lighten the ballast.  Why throw out my bar of chocolate when things are grim?  I'd rather heave the laundry.

This may be my way of saying a hiatus is imminent, though I feel stubborn, like the kind of person who tags the Gap without permission.  I don't like when life crowds out my writing spells...I may have to inflict more bunny graffiti if this keeps up.

Well, maybe a little break, just wafer thin...

Here's hoping I stay on good behavior in the meantime. 

You, too.