Clara turned 15! Theoretically, anyway, since we have continued the tradition of giving each twin a birthday that does not compete with the other’s or Jesus‘s cake day—so Clara’s birthday this year was on December 1.
With besties Georgette and Marley, we had some fine dining at the famous Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown, staying warm and dry on the patio with the help of heaters. There was discussion and speculation about JFK’s proposal to Jackie there a few decades ago. I also feel connected because Senator Kennedy had his own facto favorite spot in the restaurant.
She wanted to have her hair highlighted as her birthday gift, so she went to a salon—just like when she turned six!—and at first she loved it but then it turned into Angry Penguin, as displayed in her kitchen art. Overall, though was a joyful juvenile.
She is doing well in her classes but doesn’t like school very much. She has a shoulder injury that requires rehab, so she’s low key on her tennis and lacrosse practices these days. She asks a lot of questions—again, a lot of “why?” questions, just like when she was 6!—but with more gusto these days. Favorite clothes include slippers, pajamas, baggy jeans or sweatpants, hoodies (hood pulled up half the time to cover the despicable hair), and small earrings. Poppy always makes her laugh. She loves to create a vibe in her room with candles and essential oils and music, dislikes being in photos, and is very excited about going to France for Christmas. She probably mostly looks forward to being 16.
I haven’t posted in such a long time, and I’ve been trying to plumb my little spirit to figure out why. Perhaps the combination of adolescent outrage at uncurated photos and news about them shared; a sense that the inside of my mind is like a swirl cone from the rundown boardwalk ice cream shop and sometimes I can’t think straight; living back on plain old home territory rather than a novel overseas landscape; when I’m working, it’s impossible to find space in the day or night to think another thought, even one as small as a half paragraph; and having quick ways to share news and photos on my phone ensure I have a lifeline to my parents, daughter and loved ones already…these obstacles conspire to stop me from pausing to gather my thoughts and share them. I need to seat myself in a mindful-moment corner and stay put. However, sharing the inside of the melting swirl cone may be a reckless idea because I can no longer provide any quality assurance.
Regardless, the end of the year always provides a good nudge to pause, reflect and look foward. So in that spirit, I will try to take stock of this year in this and a few subsequent posts, sharing events and changes to our lives in no particular order. I’m reading “Junkshop Window,” a collection of essays by family friend James Patterson, and love the idea of pulling out the junk, dusting it off and seeing whether any of the rubble might be treasure–or might be considered treasure later. I see my kids pouring over our printed collection of old posts from when they were little to reconstruct disappearing memories and construct their identities. Maybe a sporadic review of the year through a rear view window will help them remember this transitional year.
A key transition for all three of our pigs, as their aunt and uncle presciently called Tatum, Finn and Clara, was the move to new schools. Naturally, they continue in three different schools just to vex their mother. Boutique school shopping…it’s appalling, but here we are. It’s like it’s as ordinary as deciding between cheese grits, heuvos rancheros or yogurt parfait for breakfast. I can’t believe we became one of those families. For the record, we never intended that, it just kind of unfolded that way.
It seems like two of three of the pigs are happy in their boutique mud, metaphorically speaking, and one less so. Tatum is in 11th grade at a boarding school a couple hours from home, close enough to have overnight or weekend stays and far enough to have all the independence and social time that boarding school provides, which is fabulous. There’s a high proportion of international students at the school, including a roommate from Gautemala, and that makes us all feel right at home. Tatum has a pretty serious courseload included pre-calc, physics and AP world history, and it seems to suit her well. She’s on the volleyball team and I’m grateful I’m not required to drive her to Connecticut or Calcutta for games, like some of my friends have to do.
Finn continues at his small private school but moved from the middle to the upper school, which brings new responsibilities and freedoms. New responsibilities include more demand for time management and self-advocacy skills; new freedoms include a more infrequent requirement to be in school uniform. Homecoming this weekend shines a light on the hilarious, painful awkwardness of uneven maturity levels at the start of high school. Some kids are not ready to go at all–why stand around in too-tight dress shoes when you could be watching a Marvel movie at home with popcorn at the ready?–some are going with a date, and some are going in the amorphous pack that provides the cover of anonymity. It’s good to see the kids don suits and dresses, usually reserved only for Bar Mitzvahs or Christmas Eve services.
Clara and her friends tend to wear sweats and slippers to school, the opposite of getting dressed up. Yes, slippers. It seems that in the post-COVID era, many adults are just so surprised and happy to see teenagers standing upright and in public that all pretense of a dress code is being politely overlooked. It’s slightly disconcerting that Clara think that’s something more than pajama pants is getting “dressed up” for church. However, the public school system’s shrug at the pajama pants and slippers approach is better than the “you’re good as long as you’re genitals are covered” approach of Tatum’s previous private school. (For the record, by slippers, I mean extremely overpriced Uggs, which are the status symbol of choice in this high-end catchment area. We balance this with nothing by thrift shop clothes from ankle to head.) Clara is getting almost all As, math being a small exception, and has plenty of friends, but I have never once heard her be glad to go to school, alas. She would rather clean the bathrooms while dressed up than go to school, it seems.
Having three high schoolers is a new chapter indeed. I would take it over three middle schoolers any day of the week, even as a slightly embassed boutique school shopper.
You know that feeling you get right before you step onto an elephant’s back to go for a ride? You know, definitely intrigued and excited but tinged with trepidation? That’s how I felt at the beginning of Thanksgiving break. I was waiting to hop on the back of the break, which was to be myself and five teenagers riding through 10 days of possibly beautiful, possibly choppy waters.
In the end, Kevin was unexpectedly able to come home and then our household doubled in size overnight. Usually it’s just Clara and Finn and myself humming along through our days relatively quietly (unless Shaggy is playing loudly, which does happen, especially when we do dishes), but all of a sudden three people became seven. Kevin arrived from Delhi and Tatum arrived at Dulles via shuttle, with two friends in tow. Daniela and Roberto are exchange students from Guatemala enrolled at Tatum’s school.
We had a fun week. We tried to mix in various kinds of cultural events, which includes attending a bluegrass concert at the Kennedy Center, visiting George Washington’s Mount Vernon, a service at the National Cathedral, and going to the mall, as in, shopping mall – what is cultural all depends on your perspective. One distinctively cultural moment occurred on the highway by Tyson’s Corner, normally 15 minutes from our house, where we sat without moving for an hour as a result of Black Friday mania. We never did get to the mall but while trying to crawl back home, we picked up another friend from school and navigated a Free Palestine protest. There was a lot of time for bonding and comparing playlists.
As far as food, we dined out, ate home-cooked meals, dined at Poppy’s and Grams’, wait our turn at Comet Pizza, had brunches, and made pumpkin pecan pie and GOP bars. And, to our delight, we also had a home-cooked Guatemalan meal thanks to Daniela and Roberto, and with special thanks to Daniela‘s mother on the phone from Guatemala. (Is this a good time to share that I still call my mom for help with cooking?)
A big part of the blessing of any holiday is just having a break from normal life, and I think all the kids, Finn and Clara included, were happy to not be in class, to live in pajamas, stay up late, watch movies on TV, play ping-pong, and sleep in. We also trotted with the Hathways for the Turkey Trot. And despite all the educational efforts, like visiting monuments and bookshops, a highlight named by most of the kids was just hanging out with Bali the dog. Nothing like free fur therapy.
We had extra friends over for Thanksgiving dinner, Rochelle and her boys, and we all shared cooking opportunities. I made most of the sides like garlic mashed potatoes, my mother’s stuffing, green bean casserole, hot rolls, and so forth, and Tatum made a delicious, sweet potato soufflé. Kevin mastered the meat: turkey in the Traeger. His favorite and now well-used word is “spatchcocked.”
I was thankful to have all the Tomlinsons in one place, at one table. The metaphorical elephant in the river of Thanksgiving break gave us a pretty smooth ride, and a beautiful view of some very cool young people. And no one fell asleep on the elephant, not even Finn—just on the sofa after football, as we’d hope.
P.S. Speaking of rides, Tatum is getting in her driving hours in now that she has her learner’s permit. I would say, passengers beware, but she’s super cautious. So far so good!
Charleston offered a lot of great food and great views and we really loved getting time with Brooks. One of our favorite restaurants was Poe’s Tavern on Sullivan Island, an…unsullied beach, if I may say. We had the great fun of meeting up with Finn Sullivan on his 14th birthday at his dad’s restaurant, one of four, where the fried oysters were amazing. Charleston is a town for foodies, for sure. Tatum and Finn T. tried escargot at one nice French place. (Clara was a firm no on the snails.)
Other highlights: Going to the beach with Bali on Sullivan’s Island; walking Bali with Uncle Brooks; getting bagels at Folly Beach; seeing Presley and eating at Waffle House; watching The Patriot (Tatum cried, like me) and eating Finn’s delivery birthday cakes; the carriage ride through Charleston and the ghost tour; seeing where the show Outer Banks was filmed (Clara); the amazing weather; Maison restaurant; getting ice cream; hearing Kevin say he could retire in South Carolina; Tatum having a scream in Prohibition restaurant to win $10 from Finn (a highlight for Finn), and watching The Grinch then taking a nap on the sofa with Clara.
It was also a treat to visit the Baughns in Taylor, SC, and meet their pets. Maybe we too need a barking gecko. Rock wall climbing was a big hit. Tatum’s hiking and packing experience paid off: She won a bet with Kevin that she could climb the hardest (inverted) wall and made $100 for it. One never knows how hard work will pay off.
So here we are, in the Merry Twixtmas, the time in-between, the pause between the whoosh before Christmas and the ramping up activities to reimagine and resume life in the new year. I love the pause. This year brings particular need for it because I need a minute to catch my breath and reflect on the last week, not to mention the last year. Let’s take food to describe the pace. In the last week, the following eating has taken place:
Homemade-by-Tatum, ash-covered cinnamon rolls in a pot previously scrubbed out by a dirt-covered broccoli scrub brush, cooked within an improvised oven of coal from a cooled fire that Tatum got up early to make using juniper branches she collected from the Utah wilderness specifically to make this breakfast for Kevin and me.
Pistachio-cherry macarons as big as a dollar coin and as delicate as a snow crystals, eaten underneath the original portrait of Abraham Lincoln that hangs in the State Dining Room of the White House–the same room from which Thomas Jefferson worked and Lady Diana and John Travolta dined before dancing.
Perfectly roasted prime rib covered in herbs and slow roasted in a smoker and three-hour potatoes prepared by Kevin; Mary Ellen’s pistachio and pomegranate salad; and our traditional long-simmered French onion soup for Christmas Eve dinner.
A greasy Eye Opener burger with bacon, cheddar and a fried egg (Finn), homemade potato chips (Heather) and a hazy IPA (Kevin) in Moe’s Crosstown Tavern in Charleston, sitting within a ring of tvs and video games, while discovering that tag is a professional sport that can be mesmerizing on tv.
Burgundy escargot in a parsley butter sauce, bucheron tart with carmelized onions, fois gras with apple butter and and brioche and steak frite in a peppercorn-cognac sauce in a French restaurant that advertises “comfort accompanied by transcendence” in foodie Charleston. Tatum liked the escargot, Finn ate it, and Clara’s plate remained unmarred.
Keeping up emotionally with these experiences was almost as challenging as keeping up physically. I was grateful for the “hip dip” Tatum dug out for me under the juniper tree before the ground froze solid, appreciative that Mary Ellen had sheer panty hose to loan me for the White House Christmas party and that Tatum knows how to create a smoky eye, and entertained by watching the children’s reaction to escargot. It has been a good week. And I didn’t even mention the Golden Grahams for breakfast.
Wishing you a chance to chew on life slowly this week, whatever’s on your menu.
I wish I could say it was the morning devotional or the jazzy Christmas playlist that slows me down, but it’s really just the fat cat sitting on my lap. Who wants to disturb the cat? So, finally, a moment of stillness on this sunny-cold early morning to pause. Why is it that Advent, the season of magical twinkly lights and kindness to strangers, so peaceful on paper, is also the season of overly stuffed to-do lists that lead to scurrying like the proverbial mouse running from that fat cat? There are two sides of the paper, I guess.
The to-do lists are like Finn’s ideally packed carry-on backpack. When Finn was about six, he wanted to pack his own bag for the plane. It looked…problematic. It held a stuffed animal, some snacks, large but high-quality headphones, a hardcover book, and–a basketball. And possibly a pair of watershoes. These are all useful items, they just don’t all fit. He is now, at age 13, practically a professional packer, but yesterday, when he packed for a trip to Florida with his friend F. Sullivan, he packed all of the same things, swapping only the stuffed animal for his iPhone. He literally asked if could take his basketball. And a pump.
So this is what my holiday to-do lists look like and you will see it is also overly stuffed and lacking cohesion. I have “send research questions for flooding data set (Pakistan),” “start application for Tatum,” “tip the mailman,” “prep for Board meeting,” “deliver Christmas cards to neighbors,” “find ribbon for wrapping,” “sign Clara up for spring tennis,” and “buy themal underwear” in the same column. Don’t even ask about the other column.
The thermal underwear is for sleeping in 11 degree weather. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, 11 degrees. Kevin—happily back from Delhi last week for the holidays—tried to back out of it last night: “Hon, if Tatum’s done with the program, can’t we just pick her up and come home?”…even though the intent of this visit is to go see and live in her world, even if just for a day. And a night, a cold, very cold, night. She has been doing this for 8 weeks all day, all night, a foot and a half of snow notwithstanding, and she has talked not about the horrible freezing cold but about the stars. So I think we can be brave enough to do this for one night. And honestly, I’m so excited to see her night sky, to see her, to see the stars in her.
Tatum doesn’t need us to pick up any Christmas or bithday presents to give on her behalf because she is making them, she said. She missed Clara’s birthday celebration, which was a small dinner at the house with Poppy’s Pea Soup and take-out Indian food on the menu. Clara’s requested cake was chocolate with vanilla icing and Christmas decorations on top, and the Ben & Jerry’s Phish food ice cream was an added bonus. She got ice cube trays from Poppy & Grams, overpriced Ugg-brand house slippers (apparently to wear to school), her ears double pierced, and, with Tatum’s persuasive advocacy, her nose pierced. Ugg. She looks as gorgeous as always, she just now has a little extra…sparkle.
Clara can now say she’s older than Finn, becuase he hasn’t had his family birthday celebration yet, so he’s 13 and she’s 14 for a hot second. For most of his life, he has liked to say that he’s “a minute taller” than Clara, since he has generally ranged from a half inch (age 2) to about 5 inches (age 12) shorter than her. This year, the reversal began its journey. Finn is officially taller than Clara. But he is still 13.
The trip to Florida is Finn’s birthday present, way better than the do-it-yourself-robot box I would probably have gotten him, which would sit in the giveaway pile by spring break.
Thanksgiving break was extra special this year because it also included a birthday party, this one too big to squeeze into the dining room at home. Doug organized a party for Mom at the Lake Temescal Beach Chalet, with catered food, the Bobby Young Project band, pretty flowers, and enough wine to keep Sonoma’s wineries going through the next half year. So many of Mom’s friends came. I can share my little speech about her in another post, but the gist of it is that she has so many good friends because she is such a good friend. Rob organized a slide show of our beautiful, funny, accomplished, stylish, always-game mom and there was some epic dancing and conversation. It was my first chance to meet the newest Wallace, King Arthur, which was very exciting. Seeing my cousins was the best. Mom’s Thanksgiving stuffing was also the best.
A lot of bests to be thankful for as we deepen our walk into the Advent season. Here’s hoping that thermal underwear arrives in time for the walk.
I feel like a fat ghost has parked it’s rear end on our heads in Cabin John this morning, which seems kind of fair for the morning after Halloween. It’s as if Casper got into too much Halloween candy and is kind of worn out this morning. Clara had a hard time getting out of bed today—with all the mist and fog it’s so much nicer in bed—and got lucky with a ride to school for once.
She went trick or treating with Irene and Mary, and Finn biked around with F. Sullivan. Matthew was here too. Finn and Clara both said the neighborhood seemed quieter than last year, maybe because it was a rainy Monday night—and Poppy and Grams had no trick or treaters! That surprises me. Our corner of Tomlinson Terrace was rocking, probably because the Fishburns generously hosted the annual block party again.
They said this might be their last year trick or treating, which makes sense since they (a) had no final costume decisions by 4.30 pm and (b) towered over the little ones in their fireman/princess/dinosaur/Mario brothers costumes. Clara opted for cowgirl and Finn stole Bali’s prop to become a maimed lion.
I loved seeing the little ones on our porch last night but going through the costume box was definitely nostalgic. I need to give away the Princess Jasmine gown, taekwondo guy, baby lion outfit and, hold still my heart, the tiny lady bug costume. That’s okay, it will make room for the Joker costume, the homecoming suit or dress, and the snowboarding gear that could be in the closets by this time next year.
Two weeks ago today, October 15, I was on a train looking over cold water tumbling across rocks under the bridge somewhere between Montreal and Quebec City, about to debark into the 17th century village with cobblestone streets and flowers spilling over windowsill boxes. Mom and I would deliver our suitcases at the spacious, colorful, tasteful airbnb apartment around the corner from the old church, then wander past intriguing art galleries and find ourselves at the bar in a super hip Italian restaurant drinking merlot and sharing an arugula pizza. The next day we would have coffee with Marc, half the conversation either in French or about French philosophers (I nodded a lot); take a furnicular up a steep cliff overlooking the St. Lawrence River and bright yellow trees; and have lunch at the luxurious Le Chateau Frontenac at the top of the cliff while talking about our tangled American heritage and family heritage.
A week from yesterday, October 22, I had the opportunity for more “lived experience” with tangled heritage, picking up my daughter from one program to take her to another, across state lines. October 22, exactly two years to the day that she had her first night outside the home because of the need for treatment. That was the first night she was away for almost a year. Let’s hope that October 22, 2022, is the first night of the last program. That Saturday was probably one of the scariest, tensest days I’ve even spent. It involved TSA agents and police and missed flights and two-hour Uber rides. But, all’s well that ends well, as they say, and we made it to our final destination, St. George, Utah, on time for Tatum to join up with her group, as darkness, dust, relief and fear fell around my shoulders.
And, thank goodness for Lainie. We were on nine flights in three days, and all of it was planned only the day before we left, while I was working on a job application, a policy paper on refugee children in Uganda.
In the meantime, Kevin was en route to Afghanistan. Clara’s major focus was having him get a picture with the Taliban, but after explaining that ten of the World Bank contractors had just been released from three days in jail, I argued the other way, that perhaps a smiling selfie with a terrorist was not optimal. It is barely more than a year since the country fell and the situation is precarious, to put it mildly. He stayed in a United Nations compound and out of trouble. He has since returned safely to Delhi.
There is rarely a dull day around here. I wouldn’t mind one sometime. Lived experience is not all it’s cracked up to be. I didn’t get the job, thankfully. I don’t know when I would have time to go to an office between taxi service to lacrosse practice and the bus stop, coordinating travel plans, and problem solving the crisis du jour (there’s my French). When it all gets to be too much, I will mentally transport myself back to being in Quebec with my mom. I wonder if someday, I will be on a similar and similarly beautiful trip with my daughter. I hope so.
It’s official! Summer is over! The fall schedule is back on the calendar. It will be a quieter house next week, that’s for sure, since we’ll be down two family members with Tatum away and Kevin returning to Delhi on September 7th.
Clara is starting at a new old school, back to Thomas Pyle Middle School. She had a good first day yesterday and reconnected with some Bannockburn Elementary School friends. That’s one of the best reasons to live in a community-minded neighborhood. Now she’ll be able to walk to friends’ houses again and sit on the same yellow school bus 🚌. This feels like a good move.
Finn is back at McLean School, where he’s kind of a rock star. Mr. Spinner is happy to have Finn in his advisory group because he’s a “lead by example” kind of kid. His back-to-school haircut belies his cool-at-school factor. He’s meh about pre-algebra but very psyched to resume online jump roping classes today.
I was also excited to see Marley’s new room at UMD. Two windows! I don’t envy being on the third floor with no A/C, but she seemed non plussed. She was gracious and grateful for our help moving her in but pretty excited to see her friends once we skedaddled. Just as it should be.
I don’t have any recent photos to share of Tatum, but she’s taking a serious workload that includes chemistry and biology (two sciences!), Algebra 2, and U.S. history. And the fun stuff like art and PE (mmm, yeah, “fun” is my word, not hers). Does anyone else remember the book “Llama Llama is Mad at Mama”?
After three harrowing days and even more torturous nights, a 3:00 am knock on the door from Officer Edwards of the Montgomery County Police Department opened the hatch to begin the escape from la la land. Tatum had showed up at a friend’s house, and we had the delicate task of going to pick her up without instigating another flight. In less than 24 hours after the subsequent hospital admission, she was on her way to a treatment program.
Solving the case involved full-family (including extended family) calm, tenacity, resourcefulness and sleuthing. Finn even joined me in searching a large park in DC to find her suitcase, which had been stashed in bushes. Kevin started calling me Detective Tomlinson because I was laser focused on pursuing every hint of a possibility of a clue. We found the suitcase. As Liz reminded me, “Tatum is beautiful and resourceful, but so are you.” Tatum underestimates my doggedness perhaps.
Finn and Clara were absolutely stalwart participants, helping where they could–including by asking my mom to come take care of me—ignoring where they could, looking under bushes, and keeping it real: “This is so embarrassing.” In a series of rapid-fire decision making, we sent them to California for a week to hang out with family and create some distance from the weirdness and worry.
Tatum is now safe and getting help. As for us, we are still standing. I feel like we have been inside a boxing ring whooshing around a washing machine that was flying through a tornado, but we landed standing. Nancy Drew always sported a touch of lipstick and brushed her hair. How’s my hair?
@theterrace 