tollipop

now she knows what languishing means

Dear reader, I just had a funny idea for a contest: leave the excuse you really feel like making for yourself in the comments section and I'll draw a winner and create a note with his/her words written upon it...like the one I made for Caroline's teacher above. 

For example:

Please excuse Lucy from her regular duties today.  She felt compelled to hide at the library.

Charlotte opted for a nice hot bath over the ennui of another meeting.

The thought of more laundry made Jane vomit.  So she could not fold it.  

Imagine saying exactly what's on your mind rather than having to make up some diplomatic excuse.  So deliciously liberating and wicked!

Plus, it would make a lovely bookmark.

Shall we do it?  If you want to play along, simply leave a comment with your excuse and I'll draw a winner someday soon.

think tank

Yesterday I came into the kitchen as Izzy was finishing her after-school snack. She lingered at the table, reading a magazine.  We don't generally have magazines in our house, so at first I thought she was browsing a catalogue from the mail. 

It turns out she was reading Wired.  

Yes, Wired.  My husband gets it.  He's the techie around here.  

So then I did her the further disservice of asssuming she was merely flipping through, looking at pictures, grazing snippets.

But no, it turns out she was actually reading it.

She told me about a sailboat which was designed using princples of physics to achieve maximum use of the wind force with the sail facing parallel to the keel, making it speed like a race car. And how the boat was built from carbon fiber instead of wood, with a hard wing sail instead of a fabric sail, making it tough enough to withstand the battering of wind and waves on the high seas.

I listened to her go on, a bit in shock.

Then she described for me the article she was presently reading, about new interrogation technology being implemented at border crossings.  She was fascinated by the indicators of dishonesty, such as raised eyebrows, delayed answers, tonal rise at the end of a response, and dilated pupils.

Which is so unfair!  I can't help it if I end every phrase on a tonal rise.  I feel so profiled.

At any rate, there I was listening to my 13 year old tell me how the infrared camera on this machine records eye movement and pupil dilation at up to 250 frames per second, so they can monitor the stress of lying on one's eyes.  I told her a typical movie records action at 24 frames per second, to try and put into perspective for her the degree of detail this machine would capture.

But it turns out she already knew that, the 24 fps thing.   I guess it's yesterday's news.

Anyway, a few observations:

Since when did Izzy start taking over the world?  I thought she and I were just hanging out: going to music lessons, listening to Korean pop, eating ramen noodles, and having the occasional deep philosophical discussion.

I don't recall signing the permission slip allowing her to get smarter than me.

Furthermore, I'm down in the dumps because I can never go to Canada again.  

Why?  

I have this certain paranoia, this tendency to assume guilt whether I deserve it or not.  Like, when I was a little girl walking around with my violin case after music lessons, I used to worry people would think I was carrying a machine gun. And that led me to think maybe I was carrying a machine gun. And then I would start looking shady and plot about robbing banks.  

So you can imagine what's going to happen the next time I cross the border and they ask if I have any illegal drugs in the car...

Watch my eyebrows reach for the sky.  Watch my pupils turn into pools of ink. Watch me take ten minutes to answer their question as I fidget, scratch, and shrug.  Then watch me say no like I'm the one asking the question, ending on a tonal rise which makes the dogs in the neighborhood howl for mercy.

Because thanks to Izzy, I now know all the tell-tale signs of lying.  

So the government just wasted a ton of money inventing a machine which can track the nuances of dishonesty, because when I roll through their border anyone will be able to spot this shady bank robber and her 8 octave tonal rise from a million miles away. 

No doodads necessary.

over a gloomy weekend

Instant little sisters!  

We find them in the garden when it rains, beneath the mushrooms.

Other discoveries, though delightful, must stay outside.

The girls persist in making sugar cookies.

So I am stuck eating those.

This time, however, I supervised the concoction of the icing.  I like my icing to be prim, modest, and demure.  

But just my icing.  Nothing else.

The application of sprinkles, as it happened, went unchecked.  

So much for modesty.

A spooky run.  The Dementors were breeding and one tried to kiss me so I conjured up my Patronus, which is a tiny talking turtle.  

They gobbled him like he was a brussel sprout.

Note to self:  next time, conjure a bigger Patronus.

A blue girl, perfect for this weather.

A frail invalid, also perfect for this weather, though I wish she felt better.

We are reading Varjak Paw, by the way...someone here recommended this book and Caroline is exceedingly grateful!

A visit with a favorite auntie who radiates goodness and love.

And a coat I rarely have the nerve to pull off in public.  But I wear it around the house and ask the girls to call me Miss Havisham.  

No one does, though.

No one ever does.

sophie girl

Once, when I was pregnant with Sophie, I was sitting in the car with my husband and felt her make a dramatic shift.  So I looked down and...there was a tiny foot sticking out of my stomach!

Not through my stomach, mind you, but pushing against it with such force that it made a perfect imprint of a foot against my skin.

Holy cow, I nearly fell out of the car.

Why was I so shocked?  Well, and I get this is nutty, but I think I still wasn't sure I was having a baby at that point.  At least, I hadn't grasped what was inside me had clearly been through the conveyer belt, all parts attached, and was ready to get shipped.  This was perhaps 4 weeks prior to birth and I'm telling you, there was some sort of disconnect going on in my head.  Even though I'd seen the diagrams of fetal development throughout gestation, I somehow didn't process there was an actual miniature human inside me.  What was I thinking, then? Did I assume she was an unformed blob until three minutes before delivery, a hasty assembly, and then...presto?

I don't know.  Don't make me account for my crazy mind.  But I am telling you. That foot shocked me.

I pulled up my shirt, reached down and touched it, this little foot sticking out of me.  It didn't budge. So I pushed on it a little.  And it pushed back. 

That is my Sophie.  Just a girl on the go.  She is the coolest person to be around, if you can keep up with her.  She reaches for the things which interest her, she goes after them with a sense of possibility that is awesome to behold. It's not that she's overly confident.  She has her doubts and struggles...but she still reaches.  She still goes.

 
I don't want to turn this into something corny and maybe it's too late for that, but as I rush around trying to keep up with my beautiful amazon I often think of that foot, her tiny calling card putting me on notice, letting me know how this was going to play out, how it was all going to be.

sugar cookies

The other day I finally relented and let Caroline bake some cookies. 

The reason for the stall?  I was holding out for the kind I wanted, thumbprint, while she was stonewalling for the kind which requires rolling pins, cookie cutters, and icing...steps which for me merely translate to: having to wait longer before I can eat a cookie. 

Guess who got her way?

At any rate, I pretty much let her handle the entire operation.  I supervised, of course, imparting the extent of my culinary wisdom which took roughly half a minute. The main thing she didn't know was how NOT to follow a recipe.  And believe me, I had a dickens of a time explaining how this is done:  

"Caroline, trust me.  It doesn't matter how much vanilla goes into that batter. It's a conspiracy anyway, measuring spoons."

Needless to say, she didn't trust me.   

So I had to stand there while she cracked precisely two eggs, went molecular with the baking powder, and dipped the measuring cup into the flour tin, scraping it off evenly with the edge of a butter knife.

Franchement, but Mummy could have used a darkened room and a little aqua vitae after that!

Later that day, Caroline and Izzy assured me they could handle making the icing all by themselves, which is code for you will harsh our buzz in the kitchen, Mum.  Like a fool, I consented, forgetting to lay down the one and only ultimatum I insist upon when it comes to the concoction of icing: namely, that it not exceed the depth and intensity of the watermelon colors. 

Wouldn't you know it?  Just my luck.

Good thing I despise vivid icing so much I only ate four.  

lately

Ramen noodles with a dear friend.  That's not even the large size.  The large size you can dive into from a height of twenty feet and still not touch the bottom.  Don't ask me how I know that. 

My suddenly grown up Sophie, leaving with a friend (who calls me mom whenever she comes over and who looks so much like Izzy, I feel like I got a fourth girl) for a volleyball tournament in Phoenix. 

My husband went along the second his schedule freed up.

 
Leaving us with an empty house.  Just me, Caroline, Izzy, and her guitar.

Warming up for a Saturday morning high school orchestra audition.  

High school!  Izzy is growing up, too.

She went in there all by herself and played her little heart out.  

Caroline, who came along as support, fortified herself with two library books just in case, making her a girl after my own heart.

That night we had a movie party and our pick was a unanimous hit.  Afterward, Izzy tried to articulate what she loved about the animation, how it was sort of bizarre and creepy, but in a...

"Delicious way?," I suggested.

"Yes! Deliciously creepy!," she said, satisfied. 

"That's my favorite kind of creepy," I said.

"Mine, too," she replied, and we smiled at each other.

"Mine, too," said Caroline, piping into the conversation, "Deliciously creepy is my favorite kind of creepy, too."

Then we all smiled together and Izzy passed me a chocolate and this became a moment I will look back on when I'm trying to think of a time I was truly and completely happy.  

chanson triste

Tonight I went with Caroline to her cello recital.  On the way there, she was nervous.  She didn't really want to do it.  What if she messed up the middle section?  What if her fingers slipped on the shifts?

I tried to tell her: Caroline, you'll be amazing.  This will be fun.  You'll get up there and play with all the sadness in the universe and my heart will ache with the beauty of your music.

But she wasn't so sure.  What if she couldn't remember the music?

In my head I was thinking: let's cross that bridge if we come to it.  

 
But we didn't come to it.  Instead we came to the moment where my heart ached with the beauty of her music.  The beauty of my little girl who is so earnest and filled with joy, who is truly moved by the sound of her cello, just as she is hungry to get out on the volleyball court and leave a path of destruction in her wake.  

She puts her head on my lap every night as I read her a bedtime story, then dims the lights so I can tell her The Rock-a-Bye Lady, a poem about an old woman who creeps into your room at night, bringing poppies filled with dreams for your slumber.

Nothing odd about that, right?

 
Caroline loves it.  She loves the closeness of such moments.  She is my girl who can talk incessantly, telling me one story from three different angles.  The art of paraphasing is completely lost on her.  Why paraphrase when one can embellish?  Why distill the essence when words can be a feast?

On the way home I tried to tell her how her music had moved me.  She listened, beaming, renewed for another hundred years of music lessons.  She wants to play in more recitals.  She would like to enter more competitions. 

Some days you have to cross bridges.  You have to figure out what to do if your finger slips or you mess up the middle section.  

Some days surprise you with a rally in the final inning. 

It's not always apparent why either way is so, though with a certain degree of self awareness I can usually hazard a pretty good guess.

The main thing is to give it your best shot.  Or sometimes just a shot.  

I'm glad for Caroline it turned out to be a lovely final inning.  

lately

Sophie got glasses...

and keeps cutting the living daylights out of paper.  

As you may notice, she is deeply inspired by the work of Elsa Mora.  

Izzy played her violin at a school assembly.  Early.  Saturday morning.

Caroline played volleyball...

and mancala.  She actually plays against herself when no one else is up for the challenge, which is often the case unless I'm in the mood to get hustled.  

There was mischief,

mischief,

and more mischief.  

Enough mischief that a dismayed headmistress is beginning to worry the board of trustees will yank funding for this finishing school on the grounds it is a total sham.

Yet sweetness still abounds,  

Chivalry is not dead,

And there are places to visit, if not in reality, then just as magical in your mind.

and the winner is...

Melinda!  To be specific, the Melinda who said:

Oh! She does have a certain "searching" quality. I would love it if she came to my house.

Congratulations, dear Melinda!  We are thrilled for you!  Please let's exchange mailing addresses soon and I will send this lonely little girl and her blue dress your way.

To everyone else, thank you so much for playing along.  This is the crestfallen moment when I wish I had a girl in a blue dress to give every one of you.  Maybe, if I keep drawing and giving her away, someday that will actually happen.  

I can assure you, I'm not trying to branch out.  I'm not trying to expand my skills.  I am just drawing the same little girl, over and over again...

I feel a bit at a crossroads with Tollipop these days.  Not that I could ever give it up completely, but I am quite immersed in another writing project, one that means a lot to me.  It feels strange to visit here so rarely, to stop sharing my stories about little old men and things which happen on my runs and what my girls say to me...but I have to be realistic (that word makes me wince) about the free time I have and what dreams I am trying to accomplish.  

So...I hope the teapot doesn't gather too much dust around here...I will visit as often as I can.  

Wishing you a lovely weekend. x

tollipop original giveaway

Dear reader, do you remember when I held giveaways on my blog like it was no big deal?  As if I was sitting around like an elf in a toyshop with a mountain of pretty packages to go out the door?

I'm not quite sure what that phenomenon was...did the universe bend and give me a 25th hour?  Were there eight days in my week?

Or was that before I became a professional driving service for my girls?  

Today I have something to give away, very small and sweet.  A little girl in a blue dress.  She is lonely and looking for a friend.  

Please leave a comment to enter...I will return and announce the winner by the end of the week.