Trollchella

Pink hair turned me into Queen Poppy. The power went straight to all our heads.

Dyed my hair pink, “Just like Queen Poppy.” Boom. Instant coronation. No voting, no ceremony—just a three-year-old pointing at my scalp like, “You’re in charge now.” I didn’t fight it. Why would I? The throne fits.

Sis dubbed herself Branch—moody, dramatic, emotionally unstable with a crown she keeps misplacing. And Bubs? Assigned the role of Tiny Diamond without consent, just vibing in the background like a one-man hype crew with no clue what he signed up for.

That was weeks ago.

Now? I am Pop. Not “Teetee.” Not “Queen Poppy.” Just Pop. She yells it across rooms like I’m her glam squad, road manager, and stage tech all in one. And I answer every time. Because this role? This role was made for me.

Trolls Band Together isn’t just background noise—it’s our full-time soundtrack. We know every lyric, every beat drop, every moment of drama. And then she found NSYNC. Now we’re riding this nostalgic boy band high like it's 2001, and honestly? I’ve never felt more seen.

But the bath-time concert? That’s when I knew I was in deep.

I’ve started letting her shower on her own—safe setup, door cracked, grown-up on standby. I turned on the soundtrack through a waterproof speaker and this girl turned that tub into an arena. I watched her behind those glass doors, giving it everything. Singing, dancing, acting out the entire movie plot with shampoo as a prop.

At one point, she slammed her palms on the glass, looked me dead in the eye, and screamed:

“I’M SHAKING MY LITTLE BLUE TROLL BUTT!!”

Then hit the floor like she was headlining a preschool rave.

And me? I grabbed a hairbrush, turned up the volume, and became the backup singer she never asked for but fully deserved. Hair soaked, heart full, voice gone. This wasn’t just bath time. This was Trollchella.

We don’t pretend anymore. We perform. We don’t daydream. We tour. This is our pop star era. Send a tour bus. And maybe some cough drops.

At this point, we’ve gone so far beyond obsession, it’s almost embarrassing—except we have zero shame. This isn’t just a movie soundtrack anymore. It’s a lifestyle. A movement. A multi-generational tribute act.

We’re deep in it. Weeks deep. Sis is Branch—moody, bold, emotionally unpredictable. Bubs is Tiny Diamond, obviously. He’s tiny. He shakes his ass without warning like the beat hit him spiritually. Their mom has become Bridgette, kind and chaotic and just trying to hold it together. Dad’s King Gristle, fully committed to the bit. And me? I’m Queen fuckin’ Poppy, sovereign of bath beats and royal toddler meltdowns.

We don’t just play the Trolls Band Together soundtrack. We live in it. Bathe in it. Breathe it like oxygen laced with synth-pop. It’s been on loop for weeks in every room, in every car, during every damn meal. And here’s the truly unhinged part: we all still play it by choice. Independently. Secretly. Happily.

Bubs walks around saying “Toll…” in that sweet little giggle voice, like he’s casually summoning the spirit of Justin Timberlake from the clouds. Sis performs the entire movie on command like she’s running a one-girl stage show. And me? I’m sweating through yet another dance session, hairbrush mic in hand, begging the universe for a slow ballad so I can breathe.

But it’s not just the kids anymore. It’s all of us. One night, it’s just me and my husband—John Dory, obviously, because duh—out on the porch. He’s grilling for us. We’re in our childless auntie and uncle glory. No chaos. No crusty yogurt hands. Just quiet. So what do I do?

I cue the Trolls soundtrack. Didn’t even tell him what it was. He starts giggling halfway through the first verse, vibing like the burger-flipping pop star he truly is. “Wait,” he says, “is this that Trolls thing?” And then keeps listening. Because it slaps. Because the songs are smart. Silly. Just naughty enough to keep the adults entertained, just safe enough that your toddler won’t start screaming “sex machine” at brunch. It’s a masterpiece of multigenerational marketing and we are eating it up.

And the fact that John Dory—the man who rarely giggles at anything kid-adjacent—found himself bopping along to “It Takes Two”? That’s when I knew. This soundtrack isn’t for kids. It’s for us.

For the overstimulated aunties and sleep-deprived moms, and dads trying to hold it together in the car while Branch belts out her trauma.

It’s joy. Pure, dance-until-you-sweat, laugh-until-you-cry joy. Just real. Something we all needed, whether we realized it or not.

This isn’t just our Troll era. It’s our emotional support mixtape. And we’re not letting go.