Grown up girl (the story of a store bearing her name and the hello kitty earrings of destiny)

I took yesterday off of work. By 10am, I remembered again why I would make the world's worst stay at home mom. The house had been screaming clean (meaning I would talk myself into being cool with the ever increasing level of mess building around me for about 30 minutes, then freak out and scream at everyone to help me clean) and then destroyed again about 3 times and I had served breakfast no less than 5 times. We decided that we needed to get out. Someone, I'm not sure who (it might have been me, or maybe Grace?), suggested that maybe Claire should get her ears pierced. I asked my bubbly little 4 year old and, with her usual easy cheer she replied, "Sure!" "It's going to hurt," I reminded her. (We've had this conversation before). "I know," she shrugged.

I've documented Claire's tremendous pain tolerance here before. The girl is phenomenally tough (I can't wait til she's ready for sports). So, while I don't make a habit of recreationally putting holes in my children for entertainment, I decided that it was as good an errand as any to bust us all loose from our oppressive house in the long hours between breakfast (one of the five) and naptime.

2 hours later, we had finally found socks for everyone, served one last snack to a few hungry stragglers, gone potty, loaded up the stroller and the diaper bag and headed for the mall. I sort of thought we would spend an hour or so strolling casually around, maybe grab a bite to eat (someone was sure to get hungry), stop and see Santa, pick up a gift or two for fun if something struck our fancy, of course pierce Claire's ears, and be home in time for the queen's nap. Right. With 4 kids under 8, at the mall, 3 days before Christmas. We headed straight for Claire's (the store), and Claire's date with destiny. We were all remarkably cool about the whole thing. My Claireabelle is just not prone to much regret, nor am I. We always knew we'd pierce Claire's ears someday, and since Carrie pierced her ears at 3, I was 5, and Grace was 5, we were right in the age range of what I deemed acceptable. And she was interested and unafraid. And we were bored.

And so, commenced what was ultimately a very uneventful momentous event in my little girl's life. She climbed up on the chair, I signed my name 14 times, she chose the absolute last earrings I would have picked (dozens of sparkly flowers and colored balls, simple gold and silver studs--and she picks hello kitty. I have some vague recollection of a connection between Paris Hilton and hello kitty--which alone is enough to make me sort of despise the character, but, if my eldest fashionista has taught me anything about mothers and daughters and fashion choices, it is LET IT GO.) So the skinny, chipper little lady marked little spot on each of my baby's perfect, plump little ears with a purple felt tip marker, handed me an alcohol soaked cotton ball, and clicked her little staple-gun thingy and voila! Claire made a tiny, annoyed little face (not even a grimace) with each little click, and it was over. No crying. No drama. So completely Claire.

Claire is now a proud, pierced ear owner and other then the lingering annoyance of the 3 times a day cotton ball routine, the rest, as they say, is history.

I'm ba-ack

No, really. This time I swear. My neglect of this blog, while just one more thing to add to the list of the many, many things I fail to give an adequate amount of time, energy and attention to, has been particularly haunting to me of late since I mailed nearly 100 Christmas cards last week and included a letter encouraging people to check out this blog. What a sad and disappointing thing to find my last post was in October! Some family chronicler I am.

But I do have two excuses for my long absence. Both are somewhat life changing events that drew my time and mental focus far from this whimsical little blog for the last few months.

The first is I took a new job. Sort of. Or rather, I took the same job, only for a bigger, more profitable product line that is exponentially more demanding than the one I had before. Not that I ever blogged at work (okay, I sometimes blogged at work), but I did get to leave by 3 every day and had room in my brain to think of things to write about and time in my longer evenings to capture them. Since taking the new job, I've been working 10-11 hour days and some evenings and weekends just to stay afloat. It has really cramped my blogging style.

The second is that I found out I was expecting child number 5 (and, yeah, I know I may need to rename my site if I ever take the time to figure it out). So even though this has been the breeziest, most symptom free pregnancy in my long, storied history of pregnancies, it still sort of knocked me flat for awhile. All of my limited, remaining brain capacity was more or less devoted to adjusting my lifelong plan as mother of 4 little ducks to mother of 5 little ducks. It was a little, what's the word? disconcerting, to say the least.

Nevertheless, I swear, I promise, I assure you I really am back. I've also recently declared my freedom from scrapbooks and the unspoken mama obligation of family photographer. I love writing about my ducks. I hate trying to photograph their every move, and I hate even worse trying to keep track of 8 bajillion photos of each child in any sort of organized or coherent manner. I'm done. Which makes me even more determined to keep some documentation of these months and years that are flying by at a dizzying pace. I really am back.

Which reminds me, here are a few of the future posts I'm stewing over:
1. Congratulations, you're crazy
2. Happy
3. Grown up girl (the story of a store bearing her name and the hello kitty earrings of destiny)
4. My declaration of independence (from scrapbooks)

See? Come back often. I'm back.

Just to give you the flavor

Grace's schedule this week.
Monday: blessedly, blissfully open
Tuesday: Choir practice--7:30a, Art Club--3p
Wednesday: Early Release/School service project--1p, Swim Team--6:30p
Thursday: Choir practice--7:30a, Girl Scouts--3p, Swim Team 6:30p
Friday: Halloween hoedown--5p, sleepover at Rachel's--8p

Keep in mind, please, that she of course also attends school full time (and her spelling word list this week includes tomorrow, Wednesday, and February--to name a few). And she is 8. And she is little duck number 1.

At this rate, what will her life look like at 16? (Or mine when the rest of them are 8 or older?) Who sets this pace, anyway?

Let the good times roll

Last Thursday night I went back in time.

The kids had one of their monthly "skate parties" at an establishment that has been entertaining the gradeschool set for generations (well, at least 2): Skate Country.

Chad typically draws this particular parental duty, but this week he told me, "I am not in the mood to make small talk with the other moms." I agreed to take my long overdue turn, in the back of my head thinking I could take a book and after an obligatory chat with the other parents, I imagined I could just slink off to a corner booth somewhere and read for a couple hours, interrupted only by the odd request for money for popcorn and slushies.

That, my dear readers, was not in the cards. First of all, Claire, never one to be left behind, insisted on joining us. She is an athletic little thing, and if ever a 4 year old could pull off rollerskating it would be Claire. But I began to sense my quiet night rolling off into the sunset.

So we arrived and I paid for skates and entry for the 3 kids, still hoping against hope I could avoid any skating. No such luck. It took all of about 7 seconds after lacing everyone up to realize that someone a bit steadier on wheels (which I dearly hoped I was) would be a required assistant. I went out to the window, paid for my skates, and realized anew why bowling and roller skating are not preferred activities for the giant footed among us. Must they really blaze the shoe size on the back heel of the ugliest footwear imagineable? Does that not seem excessive?

At any rate, I also quickly learned that the hazards of giant feet were to be the inherited inconvenience of my second daughter. I also learned that sometime in the last 3 months, Claire's feet have indeed reached the exact same size as her big brother's. This has been our most compelling "eat your vegetables" threat to little Sam for the past 3 years or so. Poor Claire, being just 4 years old, required the kiddy version of skates which strap around your tennis shoes. These skates didn't extend far enough for her, so they had to rig her up in a hybrid version involving cardboard and velcro. Poor thing. Remarkably, however, she figured things out very quickly and made her way to the concrete skating circle smiling and willing. You can't help but love this little girl in situations like this--she is so cheery and uncomplaining, merrily picking herself up after each of her numerous wipe outs and watching the bigger kids zip around her without the merest hint of wistfulness. She is just happy to be included and is never more content than when she is engaged in some sort of physical activity alongside the big kids. Very quickly, my friend Jenny's daughter Ava found her, and to Jenny and my delight, the two girls spent the rest of the evening hand in hand, carefully making their way around the innermost circle. They were quickly joined by Jenny's other daughter, Madeline, who took Claire's other hand, and the three girls were so adorable Jenny and I both wished we had our cameras, though neither of us are the kind of mom who regularly remember that sort of thing.

Sam was another story. He refused the "baby skates" (which of course his sister had proven would not have fit him anyway) and doggedly attempted to find his legs on the normal "quad skates". He couldn't quite catch his balance, and spent most of the evening in the most spectacular attempts--legs and arms flailing, windmilling, face scowling and determined. He spent the first half hour or so pouting on the sidelines, irritated at his clumsiness and (in some unfair but universal logic) blaming his mother for his lack of capabilities. After awhile, however, he realized that all the first graders were picking their way around the walls at the outer circle, and he eventually joined them. I tried a few times to skate near him, but I was alternately too terrified to watch (really, his flailing was dazzlingly grandiose) and consumed with giggles (when I wasn't envisioning broken wrists and concussions it was actually quite hilarious).

Grace is actually a great success story. 2 years ago at her first skate party, Chad came home shaking his head when she turned her back. She was not exactly a roller queen. But Thursday she was excellent—on roller blades, no less. For the sake of this story, there just isn’t much to tell with regards to Gracie. In keeping with her usual self, she does not take to athletic endeavors completely effortlessly, but with a few practice runs, she finds her (ahem) grace and confidence and independence and away she goes. My big, big girl.

But back to my novices. Sam & Claire taught me a very important lesson I would have never had cause to learn before--roller skating is infinitely more difficult when you are flanked by writhing, swinging, twirling little people whose skates dart in and out of your skate path and whose full weight might suddenly and unexpectedly drag you down on one side or another. I was once a fairly accomplished skater. Really. But I was somewhat shorter then, more physically fit, and never dragged down by the weight of one or more little people.

Which brings us to the question of the day. Did Mama Duck survive the trip down memory lane on wheels unscathed? The answer, alas, is no. I wiped out. With all of Sam's flourish and none of his grace all 6 feet something of me tumbled ass over apple carts to my substantially padded backside bringing my own children, my friend Jenny, the skate country employees, and several friends of my children and me skating over in alarm. I imagine it was quite terrifying to behold as it was quite horrifying to live. But, other than my pride, I was completely unharmed.

And, quite honestly, I think many of the kids felt a certain solidarity with me after that. But, for the record, Chad is up for the next 4-5 skate parties. I’m just not sure I’m up to it.

Incentive

I have attended somewhere north of 150 all employee meetings in the course of my career. The topics, no matter the company, are typically the same--company performance, sales forecasts, safety overviews, new product launches, major projects and initiatives etc. etc. At the end of every one of these there never fails to be a question and answer period. In many cases, some sort of incentive is offered to generate additional discussions and questions. While not particularly timid nor uncomfortable speaking in front of groups, I can say with complete confidence that, in all of my dozens and dozens of meetings and regardless of the topic, I have never asked a question. Not once. And sometimes the incentives are quite appealing--tickets to a play, for instance. Or one time season passes to Eagle Point Park. Never has the incentive managed to generate any burning query in my mind.

Until today.

Can you guess the incentive today? Today it was Betty Jane's caramel apples. Do you think I managed to overcome more than a decade of all employee meeting silence?

Darn right. And it was worth every bite! (And if you ever hear me give Sammy a hard time about his sweet tooth, feel free to remind me of the caramel apple episode of 2010).

Candy corn nachos

I actually enjoy cooking for my family, for the most part. Sure, part of it is pure drudgery and I long to get a break from it, but, in general, it isn't the hardest part of my day. I do get a little tired of my tried and true menu (and curse the frequent return of the dreaded sloppy joe fatigue syndrome. I've also found myself falling prey to the loathed tuna casserole surprise addiction of late).
Tonight, however, I was reminded that my kids have very different ideas of the term "gourmet". My planned dinner was chicken nachos--a typical family favorite (any meal based around tortilla chips is bound to be a winner). Midway through the dinner, Claire declared we needed to play our frequently required dinner time "quiet game".
"1-2-3 BE QUIET" she commanded.
"No," her daddy reprimanded. "We're not playing tonight."
"Yeah, Claire," Sam declared.
"Can I have some more milk?" Grace asked.
"BAAAAA! Ma-na, moke," Lucy added.
"You can have more milk, honey," I told Lucy.
"Claire wins!" Chad pronounced. "You get candy!" (Can you see how he messes with us?) He then proceeded to produce a handful of candy corns from his shirt pocket. What?
Before the protests could reach a fever pitch, we assured all other children of an allotment of candy corns once their plates were clean.
"I'll share," Claire promised grandly.
Dinner proceeded remarkably calmly, considering. A few minutes later, I looked up to find Claire ever so carefully balancing a candy corn on the melted cheese on her taco chip. She slowly raised it to her lips and took a dainty bite, her blue eyes meeting mine over her chip.
I got Chad's attention and he burst out laughing.
"Is that good?" he asked her.
"Uh-huh!" she enthused.
Clearly I needn't stress too much about menu planning and cooking for the little ducks. At least for any meal with which I'm willing to serve a side of candy corn!

Neglect

Tonight I was asked I ever intended to blog again. As this is not the first time I've been asked in the last several weeks, I feel compelled to dust off the old keyboard and reconnect.

The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, I miss my Mama Duck musings, yes I'll get back to it. Sometime. I was reminded of one of my favorite posts ever from a friend whose blog I used to follow religiously. She wrote a post outlining all the things in her life that she neglected--the top of the list being her blog. Not long after that (to my everlasting dismay) she stopped blogging altogether. So, at the risk of following in her footsteps, I am shamelessly going to snag her idea. Because my list of things I neglect is every bit as long (likely longer).

So, the top of the list, of course, is this blog. I enjoy it, it connects me to the duck I used to be, and I am glad to have some documentation of our lives for my little ducks. But, when push comes to shove and the lice come to a head (so to speak), it has to give.

Scrapbooks. I'm still holding onto the stickers and fancy borders for my wedding book. Chad and I will celebrate 10 years in February.

My eyebrows (this, I admit, I stole directly from my friend--but please, werewolf queen that I am--it is completely appropriate). If not for the date with my tweezers last weekend (made by the tweezers, which finally said, "Lady, seriously. We either do this or I'm hiding again for 6 months") I might seriously have achieved a unibrow.


Most housework. Okay, all housework. If it weren't for my sweet cleaning lady, Darlene, and her courageous return week after week, as well as my sporadic, but remarkably thorough cleaning husband we would seriously be living in a filth I shudder to imagine. I live by the motto "A clean house is a wasted life," and stick to the old management axiom "staff (or outsource) your weaknesses."


Physical fitness. Although I did make it to the gym for the first time in several weeks this morning. In keeping with my sporadic attendance, however, I forgot a towel, a comb, and hairspray. It was a creative hair day in the locker room today, I assure you.


My children. Okay, not really, but sometimes. A little bit. Take for example tonight--we came home from swimming lessons and Claire refused to change. Or even put on a sweatshirt. Please note the date and our latitude. It was a bit of a chilly evening to be running around in only a swimsuit. But I'm just not the kind of mom who insists on warm clothes. I figure if its not cold enough to bother you, its not cold enough to bother me. I was a wee bit abashed to find her playing with her little neighborhood friend whose mom I once heard described as "over protective." The little friend, of course, was wearing sneakers, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt. And her mom was hovering nearby, having promised to walk her daughter around the block. Her daughter is 2 years older than Claire. Claire has walked around the block (barefoot. in a swimsuit. In late September) by herself for going on two summers now. See? Neglect.

My mail. It can typically be found in piles, all over my kitchen and Chad's office, overflowing the tidy "in boxes" I have stashed here and there in sporadic attempts at better organization.

The newspaper. I WANT to read it. I swear I do. But it just keeps coming and coming. It never lets up, never lets me catch up, and, avid reader that I am, I always struggle to just breeze through it, skimming an article here and there. I have this need to try and read every dang word. It does not lend itself to a very consistent reading. Instead--more neglect.

Most of my friends. Sad, but true. Were it not for facebook, texting, and lunchtime at work I would likely lose all contact with anyone I hadn't either given birth to, was paying to educate or babysit for someone I had given birth to, or was depending upon for my monthly salary.

Flossing. All mouths in my care. Please see earlier post on this subject.

Spa days. A tragic thing to have to neglect, but, sadly--it is always the first thing to go. So much the first that I don't think I've ever even had a single one. *Sigh*

My toenails (at least from October to June).

This list, of course, could go on and on and on, but as I type, I am neglecting my dinner making responsibilities and since I took the pizza option on Monday (stupid stupid stupid--you don't play the pizza card on the first day of the week!!), I must get to it.

But, I assure you, devoted readers who've waited so patiently. I'm back. My little duck stories are starting to stack up and between that and the newspapers, if I ever hope to dig back out, I better get cracking.

Every once in awhile

Every once in awhile, my kids do something that makes me think I just may be doing okay at this whole motherhood thing.

Yesterday around 2pm, Polly Popular--oops--I mean Gracie called me on my cell phone.

"Mooommmyyyy...?" (I don't know why when my kids call me on their own they always draw my name out to about 6 syllables).

"Hi, Honey," I smiled.

"Can I go to Rachel's house? And we, well, maybe we might do a sleepover or else we might just do a playdate?" (8 year olds, even the most articulate and brilliant like my daughter, are still a little twitchy in their communications).

"Is her mom going to pick you up?"

"Yeah."

"Well, okay then. I'll call Rachel's mom later. Are you bringing all your sleepover stuff?"

"Yeah, but, Mo-om?" Her voice rose slightly. "It makes me feel kind of nervous in my stomach not to see you today, so can you come over to Rachel's and visit me?"

Warmth flooded me, with a guilt chaser. I leave for work before the ducks wake up in the morning. If they leave the house before I return, they really don't see me for the day. It stinks, but that's our life.

"I kissed you goodbye this morning, sweetheart," I told her.

"I know, but I will miss you," she said. Sweetest. Girl. Ever.

Eventually, we made arrangements for me to drive her to Rachel's after I got home, so she could see me before heading off to her sleepover. When I walked in, she met me at the door with a hug. "Can we go, now?" she asked.

Staycation

It is 4:14 in the afternoon, and I am sitting on my deck drinking a glass of wine (hey, it's 5 o'clock somewhere--and I'm on vacation!) and reading. It is a beautiful, sunny Thursday and 2 of my kids are watching a movie, one is playing at a neighbor's and one is fast asleep (I may pay for that later).

And I am doing... whatever the hell I want. And I have been all week.

Of course, it isn't quite so simple. Of course I still have 4 little ducks who still need meals and mothering, and a daddy duck who is not a big fan of my idleness and keeps coming up with "ideas" for what I can do. But in general, I have been very obstinately attached to my little stay at home retreat this week.

My company "shuts down" for 2 weeks every summer. When I first started, the notion that I save 10 cherished days of vacation to spend when the business told me to was completely irritating to me. Who were THEY to tell ME when to use my time off? I have since converted and, more, have completely fallen in love with this lazy two week stretch of summer.

In my real life, I am truly trying to slow down. I know that my general circumstances (4 kids, full time job) do not lend themselves to a gentle pace, but I truly want to try. I'm really tired of racing from event to event and activity to activity, always slightly behind schedule, always screeching at little people, never slowing down to smell the roses (which is actually okay since I never had time to plant any and never remembered to water the ones I did). But you catch my drift. I don't think it is good for my kids to see me so stressed out and hysterically checking things off of my bajillion lists all the time.

But in fairness to my life choices and my big wonderful family, part of this is just who I am. I once had to make a resume in gradeschool and listed over 30 families that I babysat for. In college I played 2 sports, worked 3 jobs, served as student body vice president, and ran about 5 or 6 other clubs. I mean, I am pretty high capacity. I've worn a wrist watch since I was 9.

But things have started to feel a bit frantic, and that's not good. I'm not trying to articulate some kind of mundane "I need ME time" here, because my career gives me a place to flex my brain and my bossiness, as well as providing a place where I can go to the bathroom alone and be reasonably certain that no one will try to put their fingers in my drink. My family is my heart and my soul. Home is my place to love and be loved--and with so many little ducks I am never lacking for affection or attention. My husband really is my soul mate and still makes me laugh and tingle. I have enough of what I've always wanted to never forget how very blessed I am...and I lack enough of what I've always wanted to get up every morning and continue to dream. I'm in a good place.

But I'm BUSY. And for all that I LIKE busyness, I also am longing to open up some cracks into which some spotanaeity and, I don't know how to put it--some dreaminess, more prayer and spirituality, more thinking. Something. Just some minutes in my day that are open to... whatever.

And I'm also trying to be less of a spastic multi-tasker. I mean, certainly the dishes and laundry are enough to bring the combined offspring of Martha Stewart and Hulk Hogan to her knees. But the kids are growing up and can certainly take some of that load (one of these days), and their rapid growing makes me realize that they won't be here, in my home, in my arms, forever. And for that, I owe them more of my full attention. Claire has taken to saying, "Mommy, listen. Mommy look. Mommy--LOOK IN MY EYES" to ensure that she has my full attention. I don't want them to look back on these growing up years and remember a mama who was always racing from sone thing to the next, and who was always the first to pull away from their hugs.

So, this last week or so, I have very deliberately done nothing. I have not worn my watch. I have not set an agenda. I have slept in. I have not scheduled a thousand fun "activities" which generally required shopping, planning, scheduling, and screeching. I have not watched what I'm eating and have not exercised except when the whim struck me. I have planned supper around 4 o'clock each afternoon (as opposed to my usual week and a half in advance). Instead, I've just let the days come and go with the easy, thoughtless rhythm of the tides. One morning, we sat outside under my pergola and put together a puzzle. Yesterday afternoon, Gracie and I played monopoly with a neighbor while I drank a glass of wine just because I could. Today I went out to lunch with Chad and then I took a nap with Claire on the couch. This morning I took Sammy to Target with the only planned purchase being those weird "crazy bands" that are all the rage in the gradeschool set right now. It has been lovely.

I'll be ready next week to go back to my routine and my job. Part of me wishes this lazy life could go on and on, but I know that this is no one's reality, and, if it somehow happened to be mine, I would quickly grow bored (or at least fat and poor). And I have to admit that it has been a bit of an inner struggle to keep myself from trying to cram stuff in ("I can do all the kid's doctor's appointments for the next year! I can clean the basement! I can write a novel! I can solve world hunger!") and just to chill.

I've never been a huge fan of the "staycation". From my perspective, if you are going to burn your precious vacation, you should be out DOING something, SEEING something, TRAVELING somewhere. But instead I stayed here, with the 5 people I love best in the world, in a home I adore. It's been one of my favorite weeks ever.

Grateful

Last night, I had the most horrible and vivid nightmare.

Before going to bed, I gave Lucy her customary bedtime bath and pulled a comb through her wispy brown curls. And, guess what? Horror of all horrors, I started combing (you guessed it) those dreaded little bugs off of her perfect little head. I did not burst into tears, though I felt like it. Instead, I screeched for Chad and set to work combing them out. I did not scream. I did not throw anything. But I felt an uncharacteristic despair fill me. I mean, really? Really? I had just started sleeping without imagining bugs crawling all over me and all of my babies. I had finally stopped my psychosomatic scratching. My laundry machine was just now beginning to look me in the eye again. And yet, here we go again.

So I started into the all too familiar routine. The laundry. The hair by hair head checking. The vacuuming. Luckily, all of the other ducks look clean.

When I finally collapsed into my bed last night, smelling once again of that pleasant combination of dog shampoo and bug spray, I couldn't get to sleep. I considered reading. I considered heading downstairs with garbage bags and bleach water. I prayed. And, at last, I slept.

I woke up gasping!!

I had dreamed that my family had discovered that we could communicate with monkeys in the jungle (wait, that isn't the terrifying part--though if there are any theories on this random sequence of events I am all ears). I was trying to understand what a certain series of clicks and hisses was meaning to a family of intelligent what looked to be chimpanzees (though I'm not particularly astute at monkey genus identification) gazing down at us from some trees. The unfortunate part was that we were standing at the curve of a highway as we looked.

I happened to look a slight distance up the road to see that my dad had turned his back to Claire who began wandering onto the road, just as a little red car sped around the corner. What happened next still makes me cringe. I watched as that car clipped my tiny little princess and knocked her into the air and onto the concrete with a resounding "THWUMP". Chad and I stood side by side in mute horror. The last thing I remember was staring at the bottom of her little feet while she lay unconscious on the highway. Somebody was screeching "call 911" and I was trying to gather the courage to approach her. I cringe just to write it.

I woke sobbing with a singular prayer on my lips. Thank you. Thank you for the creepy inconvenience of the lice. Thank you for the healthy, beautiful (albeit slightly infested) heads of every one of my perfect little ducks. Thank you.

And I promise not to attempt communication with any seemingly intelligent monkeys, on the side of a highway or otherwise, anytime soon. Just in case.

Amazing Grace

Dear Gracie,

Today you are 8 years old plus one day.

I would have written yesterday, but you kept us very busy with your vision of the perfect birthday. First Mass (it was a Sunday, after all) where you sing so beautifully that people always stop us afterwards to comment on the voice of an angel, then Panera bagels at Eagle Point Park, then home to play with your cousins (Eli and Nico are still visiting), then the beach at Finley's Landing and finally supper at Grandma Ellie's complete with your selected menu--hamburgers on the grill, corn on the cob, guacamole and chips, fruit salad, french fries, and, of course, ice cream cake. After supper you opened presents (lots of art supplies, new clothes, and our version of your longed for "pet"--a live butterfly garden).

Oh Gracie, what to say about you? I've probably written the most about you, both here and in various journals and essays I've kept sporadically over the past, well, 8 or so years. You were my first baby--the one who introduced me to this wild, wonderful world of motherhood. It was only after you that I knew I wanted a lot of kids. Anyone who started with a child like you would want a whole houseful, too. Not only are you beautiful--and you are, stunning, perfect. You have the most sought after combination of features in the world--sparkly aquamarine eyes, shiny blonde hair (your aunt Carrie always tells you how lots of people pay good money to get that perfect color), unexpectedly tan skin, long, thin limbs--but you are so kind and generous. People are so drawn to your sweet spirit. I can't tell you how many times parents have pulled me aside to tell me how wonderful you are, and how happy they are when you spend time with their children. I really don't know where you get such a big, big, generous heart. Your dad and I are good people, in general, but the two of us combined don't have even a fraction of your sweetness. You are always thinking of others. (And, by the way, I know I am breaking all the rules about hyperbole for writing--you are supposed to use stories to illustrate character--not just rant and rave with adjectives and words like "always" and "most" so much. But with you it is impossible to avoid. The stories don't do you justice because there are a dozen or so every day--each one small and sweet, but unremarkable in and of itself. It is the combination of these daily acts of selflessness that make you who you are).

You are an amazing big sister. Sometimes I have to remind myself that you are still only a little girl. Your baby sister often turns to you for comforting--especially when I am frazzled or crabby. She knows she can count on you for a patient cuddle, a soothing lullaby, a gentle hug. The adoration in her brown eyes is sort of breathtaking. And the same goes for Sam and Claire. They all adore you, look up to you, try to imitate you. You are such a little mother, helping to ensure everyone is fed, cleaned, loaded up--whatever the grown up task we are attempting to complete, you are right there next to me, an extra set of hands and an added voice of authority. I know I am hard on you, at times, expecting more from you than I think most of your friends are required to do. Sometimes when I see your skinny little body bent almost sideways trying to hold the baby on your hip, I think how I need to give you a break. It's just that we truly depend on you to help us in the daily chaos of our lives. What would we do without you?

I always tell you that every mommy needs a Gracie. And it is true. Not only are you a big help around the house, you also love me so unconditionally and maturely that I find myself leaning on you emotionally, as well. Once when I was hugely pregnant with your sister Claire, I found myself slumped on the swing in the backyard. Never one to miss the chance at a snuggle, you had dashed to my side and crawled up beside me. I sighed over some ache and you climbed on my lap and took my face in your hands (you were just 3 years old). "Mommy," you said, "I know you are tired and this baby is making you sick. But I am going to love her and play with her and roll down the hill with her!" Your point, of course, was that this would all be worth it, and you were grateful that I was giving you a new baby to love. But you were only 3! How perceptive you were and have always been. Of course, it was just what I needed to hear. That was 5 years ago. You are still the child that sees when I have reached the limits of my limited patience and steps in to help before I lose it. You are the one who hugs me and tells me you love me just when I'm about to burst into tears. Gracie, daughter of my heart, what would I do without you?

Sometimes I worry that I am not a kind enough mother for you. I'm not gentle enough for your gentle spirit. I am hard on you. I don't slow down to cuddle you, my little lover of a daughter. You were often pushed off my lap when a younger sibling demanded my attention. You have always had to be patient while I cared for one baby after another--waiting for your drink, your story, your bath while the little ones were tended to. You always had to be more mature than your age, because I needed your help and because our lives were always full with another baby. You are the perfect oldest child, though, sweet and yielding--much better than bossy I ever was. You lead by love.

Your school friends all adore you, too. Every year, I feel the world pulling you away from me a little bit more--from Girl Scouts to swim team to slumber parties--you are becoming more and more independant and less and less my little peanut. You are away so much, it seems. Our house and our lives feel so off when you aren't with us. I miss you.

I know this is normal and good and I'm glad you are so confident and talented and popular. It's just there's a part of me that wants to throw my arms around you and declare "she's mine" while glaring over your head at all these well meaning opportunities and friendships. I'm not sure I'm willing to share you. I do, of course, but I still always feel more whole when you are back with me, back in our nest with all my little ducks.

Thank you, Gracie--for introducing me to the greatest blessing I've ever known--being a mom, your mom. I am eternally grateful for you and proud of the unbelievable young lady you are becoming. You inspire me, truly you do. Last night at dinner your dad said this: "In 10 years, this will be your last summer before college," and my heart skipped a beat. I know how fast time is flying, and I know that these years while you are still in our home will always be the greatest of my life. Don't grow up too quickly, little one. Give your old mom a break, huh?

I love you so much, sweet pea. Happy birthday.

Mommy

My cup overflows

Silence and solitude.



These are not the words I would use to describe the Markham family vacation to the North Woods of Wisconsin, but in this stolen moment, they are.



It is not quite 7a and I am completely alone. It is a delicious feeling, in this moment. The lake is glass, reflecting the pine trees that stand sentinel on the opposite shore, stretching for the sun just making its way over the hillside behind me. I can hear gulls and loons (actually, I don't know what birds I'm hearing, but it is lovely and peaceful). And just now I heard a crash from the kitchen of my parents' cabin, so I won't be alone for long. Still, it is beautiful and peaceful. And you don't come on vacation with 9 adults and 8 children under 7 and expect to meditate in solitude. Like I said. I won't be alone for long.



We are having a magnificent time. We are a noisy, messy bunch, but every activity is full of plain, old-fashioned, homemade family fun. We arrived on Friday evening after an arduous drive (5+ hours) that all my kids handled with suprising good humor. The little girls napped a bit, Grace and Sam watched movies and giggled, and other than the predictable "How much furthers" and "Are we there yets" it was altogether uneventful.



We pulled up to our cabins and it wasn't 5 minutes before my older 3 kids were in the lake. The Texas boys and Bridget were a bit more hesitant (it was COLD), but that didn't stop my little ducks. Chad joined them, of course--my big kid at heart. Lucy stood on the dock and barked orders and pointed until her Daddy finally pulled her (fully clothed) into the water with them. Her delighted smile warmed us all. She only protested again when we pulled her out. Baby Eli took a run at swimming, but crawled out quickly, his blue lips quivering.



The men prepared dinner (for the most part) and we got our first taste (no pun intended) of just how very much food would be needed to feed a crew this size. We were all up way too late, and my kids had a rare bout with the whinies as they learned to deal with these Wisconsin sized mosquitos (as big as sparrows). But the grandkids were also all treated to one of my Dad's campfire stories--the first night about One-Eyed-Jack). The little kids are a bit young to appreciate it (Bridget, Claire and Nico all interrupted frequently), but Grace, Sam and Eli listened with rapt attention and shining eyes.


One of my favorite poems by Sara Teasdale describes her favorite things. One line I've always loved reads, "And children's faces looking up / holding wonder like a cup". This is such an apt description for the unabashed joy I see in the faces of these little ones I love so much. I don't know how to describe this trip, this experience of seeing my little ducks, surrounded by so many people they love in a beautiful place designed by God for their enjoyment. Eventually I'll have the time to tell the story of Eli catching his first fish, Sam the favorite target of the skeeters, Lucy's lectures to all of us, my adventure with the rope swing (I survived--barely), all of it. It's the kind of weekend that will create the verbal shorthand happy families share. It won't be long now, before someone wanders out and climbs on my lap or joins me for coffee and quiet (mom just came out with coffee for me--seriously, who deserves this kind of life?). It may be a niece or a nephew or a daughter or a son, a brother, sister, or inlaw. See, the thing is on long weekends like this--it just doesn't matter.



I remember this feeling. This is exactly how I grew up. Surrounded by more kids than many people have in their classrooms (well, not quite) and a host of aunties and mommies and Grandmas always around for a hug, a drink, a treat, a kiss. I can remember dashing to clutch a pair of legs, only after I was hugged close, looking to see what mom was holding me (Marilyn? Grandma Sue Sue? Mom?) It is just the same here.



Last night, we all huddled in the tiny living room of the "big" cottage while Dad told us the Golden Belly Button. I sat in one recliner with Bridget and Claire snuggled under blankets on my lap. The queen was fast asleep in her pack and play. Sam and my Mom cuddled on the futon. Carrie, Nico, and Chad sat on the couch. Grace and Eli curled together on the other recliner. Craig perched on the arm of the couch. Laura bounced JohnPaul in the doorway, and Brad and Eli drifted in and out. And dad sat in the corner, sipping his Miller Lite and waving his hands as he described a story I remember so well. Just a heartbeat ago it was me cuddled under sleeping bags with my beloved cousins and siblings, listening to that same story. Claire turned to me in one of her frequent bursts of affection and sighed, "Mommy, I love you so much." "I love you, too!" Bridget chirped. "I love you, Bridget," Claire giggled. "I love you, Cway-er," she replied. A phrase from scripture filled my heart--my cup overflows.

Happy Birthday, Princess Claire!

Darling Claire,

Today you turn 4. With every year and with every subsequent child, time seems to race by at an ever increasing pace. Seems just yesterday I was dozing away my always too brief maternity leave with you on my chest and Grace and Sam on either side of me in my bed. And now you are a big, grown up girl of 4.

I think often of the world's reaction to your birth. To so many, we had our perfect family with our one daughter and our one son. Many people responded to my third pregnancy with a bit of bewilderment--why do you need a third child? I already had (as one person put it) the "million dollar family". Silly people, how could we ever have been complete without our Claire? What would our family be without you?

Clairabelle, you are easily my biggest child. Not by size or age, but by personality. Everything you do is full out, fast, no holds barred. You race headlong into the world, scooping every tiny bit of joy from every last second of every day. I hope you never lose this. I love your enthusiasm, your energy, your courage. You are exhausting but you are exhilerating. We can almost see how big your heart is--barely contained in that perfect little body of yours--it shines out of those forget-me-not blue eyes so much that we can almost see sparkles dancing right out into the air around you, like dust in a sunbeam.

And your unbridled affection! When you are united after being away from anyone or anything you love, you literally hurtle towards them, laughing, arms outstretched. You hold nothing back, to the point where many of us pull back just a bit from the impact, because you won't slow down until you have your strong little arms clutched around the neck of your beloved (me, your daddy, your grandparents, your cousin Bridget, your sisters) at which point you joyfully exclaim, "Mommy (Daddy, Papa, Gracie...) I love you!" and pepper us with a thousand kisses. We have to be careful with you and siblings and cousins who are smaller--your affection outweighs your caution most of the time. You are almost never malicious, just a little like a Labrador puppy. Your eagerness and strength outweigh your restraint. And you are so generous with compliments, spilling verbal cheer as you race by. "Mommy, I love you," you must say a dozen or so times a day. At our fourth of July picnic this year, you were snuggling and squirming on my lap during the fireworks and suddenly turned to me and said, "Mommy, I love it here. Thank you for bringing me here." And just yesterday after you went potty you looked up at me with those wonder-filled eyes and said, "Mommy, you are such a nice wiper." The only word for you is joyful.

And you are beautiful. I think sometimes you take people's breath away, when you slow down enough for them to see your face (and it isn't marked by some bruise or scratch from your many mis-adventures, and it isn't obscured by your big wild curls. You recently gave yourself a haircut--just the parts around the face--so now you have layers all around those round cheeks of yours. And we're trying to grow your bangs. When you wake up in the morning--especially if you go to sleep with your hair wet from your bath, your hair is a riot of sunstreaked curls tumbling into your face. I sometimes call you my lion--an apt metaphor for your commanding presence). You are completely confident in your perfect little body--loving all it can do and enchanted by your vision of yourself as the pretty princess you are. I've often wished for your utter contentment with your physical presence.

You decided this year that you were not "CC". We had called you by your initials (Claire Cecilia) for years, since the name "Claire" never seemed to fit you. I sort of had this image of a dreamy, mild little person with that name; CC seemed more rambunctious. But you made your choice this year and we respect that. You know nothing if it isn't your own mind. And I have grown to appreciate how right the name--the given one--is for you. Claire means "clear"--a perfect metaphor for you whose clarity of thought and purpose are as pure as water.

18 months ago we made you a big sister and in the same week you decided you were done with diapers for good. When we told the doctor at your annual physical he was speechless for a moment. "That never happens," he finally said. He doesn't know you very well. You are the baby who ran (never pausing to just walk) at 9 months. The one who decided one day that you were done with your binky, took it out, looked at it, tossed it to the floor, and refused it from then on. The one who learned to climb on the kitchen table at 10 months the first (and only) time your Papa agreed to take you and your big brother and sister to school. The one who almost never cried as an infant and the now sturdy pre-schooler whose tolerance for pain is astronomical. Two stories on this subject. Last fourth of July, I glanced over at you dancing with the other children. You were holding your dress above your waist, revealing your Dora panties to the world. I dashed over to you, intent on protecting your modesty, and only then noticed the blood dripping down your leg. You had scraped your knee and noticed the blood, but were unwilling to stop playing to take care of it, though you knew you didn't want blood on your dress. Another time you insisted on running barefoot (you usually insist on this) in the mulch around the swingset, and you ended up with several slivers. I immediately resorted to the best, most tried-and-true method of removal. Call Grandma. We went over there and you thrashed and cried and screeched (nothing more than what I have come to expect with splinter removal). Somehow we figured out, however, that you just wanted to observe the process. It wasn't the PAIN of a needle digging through your flesh that was upsetting you, it was your CURIOSITY being denied that really ticked you off.

But you can be a bit exhausting at times. We struggle to keep up with you, to keep you occupied and out of mischief, and to meet your demands which can be tremendously insistent at times. And you are so loud! You talk loud, you sing loud, and you cry even louder. When you are upset, people in 3 neighborhoods know it. You can be a bit destructive, whirling through our home like a tornado. When you were a toddler we called you the taz (as in the tasmanian devil. Though you were more angel than devil--just so very, very BUSY). Poor Gracie struggles sometimes with sharing a room with you. You aren't the greatest at boundaries and a have a habit of getting into, well, just about anything and everything. It can be hard on your perfectionist sister.

But people love you, Claire. How could they not? You are fearless, tireless, and have a heart completely free of malice or judgement. You are kind and you throw your whole self into everything you do. You are earnest and honest. The big kids in the neighborhood never hesitate to include you in their activities because you never slow them down, you never demand extra attention or act like a baby, and you are, when all is said and done, a whole heckuva lot of fun! Once when you were about 4 months old you were having a rare fitful day. You were restless, discontented. I tried everything, and finally set you on your boppy pillow near where the big kids were playing. You kicked and cooed and smiled and never asked for another thing until it was time for your next feeding. You are my little social butterfly (though not nearly so delicate and quiet). You are more like my little social, well, to stick to the earlier metaphor--labrador puppy. You are bouncy and cheerful and energetic--all in all a complete delight to be around. If you had your choice, you would say you are my princess dolphin. So maybe that's another good metaphor. Dolphins are all those things, too, right? And princess dolphins even moreso!

I love you so much, Claire. There's no one quite like you in the whole wide world. In fact, I'm pretty sure the world isn't big enough for two of you!

Last year, we celebrated your birthday with spiderman cake. This year, you insisted on princesses. You always seem to struggle between your image of yourself as a dashing super-hero and a beautiful princess. Your magic, of course, is that you are 100% both. I have no doubt you'll be the one saving the day some day. In a tiara and sparkly lipgloss.

Never forget that you are my special, darling, super-princess girl. I love you a million kabillion!

Mommy

Uncle

I'm ready to say it. Though, consequently, why do we use the phrase "uncle" to signify surrender? I have the world's best collection of uncles. From my uncle Kenny, who used to send us mail addressed to "munchkins" and "the smurfs" and for whom we always tried to wait up when he was coming home for a visit, to my uncle Charlie, who still loves to tell the story of when he and his then girlfriend (now wife of more than 3 decades) Linda pushed me around in the stroller and pretended I was their own and who gave me $50 for the dollar dance at my wedding (and then proceeded to give $50 to each of his 4 sons), to my uncle Dan, whose chuckle and Dubuque "accent" still put me in mind of Grandma Markham and who still just sounds like home to me, to uncle Jimmy, who used to play shark and chase us in Papa's pool and whose utter delight in each and every one of my babies never failed to fill my heart to the bursting. My brothers and brother in law are adored by all my kids. I mean, uncle has a happy connotation in my life.

But yesterday, Lucy woke up with one eye crusted shut and I feared pink-eye, until this morning, when she woke with BOTH eyes and both nostrils crusted shut. Claire's nose is dripping clumpy green, and what I thought was just a hangover a week ago has lingered as the most annoying almost flu for me for the last week. (And, just to confirm what some of you may may be suspecting--it is NOT another duck. I know morning sickness, believe me--it's a feeling you never forget--and this ain't it. Not to mention, well, nevermind. Just trust me, I'm 110% certain). To top it off, while shopping the farmer's market in the hot sun yesterday, I pulled a (you guessed it) BUG out of Lucy's wispy hair (at first I thought it was a booger, but it had legs). So I'm back to the laundry and head checking marathon I began two weeks ago. To top it off, my sister and her boys are coming home this week (a cause for great celebration, don't get me wrong it's just, well, I wish we were all healthy and not, you know, infested), Claire turns 4 on Tuesday, and we leave for a vacation in northern Wisconsin on Friday and it is no less than 10 bajillion degrees out right now (wait a minute--I take that one back. It could be snow. I'll take the sun and heat).

I'm beginning to think I just may not be up to this life of mine. And, since it is universally understood even though not necessarily completely appropriate in my world, I feel compelled to say it anyway. Uncle.

You had me at vermin infested

I know I have been notably absent from this blog lately. Believe me when I say—I have good reason! In a word—laundry. In a few more words—loads and loads and loads of laundry washed in HOT water and dried (at least 20 minutes) in a HOT dryer and many many hours spent with a fine tooth comb, 3 little heads, and gallons of vinegar. Guessed our latest adventure, yet? You got it. Lice.

Ugh. Ewww. Blegh.

The internet, the doctor, the pharmacists, family and neighbors all rushed to assure us that lice is not a sign of poor hygiene or filth (while simultaneously taking a step backwards and involuntarily reaching to scratch their own heads). It can happen to anyone. Lice crosses all social and economic boundaries. Uh huh. I don’t believe it is possible to completely avoid some feelings of guilt and revulsion when faced with this little crisis. The intellectual side of my brain understands, but there is a certain visceral reaction, a recoiling you just can't rationalize away. Those poor, perfect, beautiful little heads. My poor, hardworking, underappreciated washer and dryer. My poor, long-suffering husband. And (though I try to avoid self pity in most circumstances) poor, exhausted me. I feel like parenthood should come with sashes, like they give you in scouting where you earn badges for various accomplishments. The “hosting a huge family holiday” badge (got it—Christmas 2005, 30 adults, a half dozen children, untold cases of beer and bottles of wine, and all the while suffering secret morning sickness with Claire—and speaking of which), the “morning sickness” badge (got it--gold level 4), the “colicky baby” badge (aka, the queen badge), and now the “lice” badge (please, God—one level of this accomplishment is enough for the 30 years or so I have my offspring in my home).

So most people’s first two questions are “how did they get it?” and “how do you get rid of it?”. The answer to the first is we’ll probably never really know. My suspicion is the school, where Grace and Sam have been attending both literacy and immersion camp for the past several weeks. When I called the school to let them know that my kids wouldn’t be coming and why, I encouraged them to notify the other parents. “Oh, we don’t have to do that,” came the blithe response. Excuse me, WHAT? No wonder my poor itchy little ducks were infested with vermin. Some other unsuspecting mother sent her little buggy head to camp and may have inadvertently infected the whole group. Apparently there are no mandatory reporting requirements for schools/daycares and lice. The reason is that it really doesn’t constitute a health risk. Just a very, very big inconvenience. And it ranks pretty high on the creepy scale, too. But apparently that isn’t enough to make it a reporting requirement. So unquestionably my little bug heads probably passed our little problem around before we knew better.

The second question “how do you get rid of it?” is much more involved (and overwhelming). The short answer involves loads and loads and loads of laundry (seriously, have I mentioned the laundry?), a steam mop, gallons of vinegar, and a fine tooth comb. The long answer is: you wash the sheets on every bed and pillow case every day for at minimum 3 days (that’s 5 beds x 4 nights—the minimum just wasn’t enough for us—so we are at 20 loads in 3 days BEFORE you even start on the clothes, hats, towels, and stuffed animals, we also threw away all our pillows and washed every sheet in the linen closet, just in case). Any toys that may have come into contact with the infected heads need to either be wiped with a vinegar/hot water solution or placed in plastic bags for a minimum of 2 weeks. Any stuffed animals that can’t be laundered, must be vacuumed and then bagged for 2 weeks. (My kids’ favorite toys by far are stuffed animals. We have, no lie, hundreds of stuffies per child. Correction, we have dozens of garbage bags full of stuffed animals tucked away in our basement). All carpets and furniture must be vacuumed and preferably steam cleaned every day for 3 days. And every head must be treated with a solution/shampoo that smells like wet dog and then be meticulously examined, hair by freaking hair, every day for 2 WEEKS. (I have gained a dramatic new interpretation of the Bible’s “Every hair on your head has been counted” believe me. That’s love).

So what I’m describing is probably the extreme most that needs done. Most of the websites and advice indicate that once the heads are clean, the little bugs themselves can’t survive long, so your furniture and toys are probably safe in a day or two. But I can’t imagine any parents going with the bare minimum. Especially when, that first night anyway, you are actually pulling tiny, wriggling BUGS out of the hair of your innocent babes. Oh, it is disgusting. It is devastating. It is exhausting. And, eventually, it is really, really annoying. (Sweet Claire, that first night, asked to see one of the bigger “bugs” left on the tiny comb as I raked it through her bouncy hair. “Mommy, s’alive?” she asked delightedly. “Yes,” I said disgustedly. “Ohhhh,” she cooed, staring at the comb in wonder. “It’s so cute!” Yeah, okay. I can think of some other words to describe it). We almost canceled our holiday weekend plans as we sorted through the laundry and every hair on every child’s head (Lucy, Chad and I seemed to escape it, though we each got the treatment as a precaution anyway. You haven't known intimacy with your mate until you've snuggled into his lap while he picks through your head hair by hair looking for bugs). But by day two we were finding dramatically fewer nits. By day 3 it was almost nothing. All the literature says you are fine once you’ve had a treatment and a day or two of the head checking. So we carried on (and trust me—those of you reading this who have spent time with us in the last few days—we would not have ventured out if we weren’t sure we were past contagion. I’d be willing to bet that our heads were safer than any others and I could prove it, hair by hair, if I had to).

Still, it is hard not to pull away from the hugs and cuddles and frequent head to head contact that is simply inevitable when caring for little children. I have gained a new appreciation for their little heads. I know every freckle and every curl. I know that those curly heads have an occasional, tiny wiry little spiral buried in with the bigger, loopier hairs. I know just how dazzling those shimmering gold strands are in the bright sunlight. I know that head massage puts Claire to sleep and makes Gracie cry. I know that dried milk only looks like lice at 20 paces on a racing toddler. I know that it is easier to study every hair under overcast skies than sunny ones which create shadows. I know that Claire’s hair dries very very quickly, and Grace’s takes forever. I know that a houseful of boys would have been a lot easier to check then my long haired girls (not TOO long, thank God). I know that my husband is a better cleaner than I am, but that I’m a much more patient head checker. I know so much more than I ever did.

Throughout this, I’ve been trying to be grateful that this little infestation, while inconvenient and creepy, was nothing more than a hassle at the end of the day. I always try to remind myself that it could be so much worse. My kids wiggled and complained under my hair by hair check, then darted off to play in the warm summer sun as soon as released. They are all healthy, happy, strong. This was a ginormous pain in the you know what, but really nothing more. Still—once in a lifetime is enough. Please, God, if it is this or something serious, I’ll certainly take this. But once in a lifetime is enough. Don’t you think? I just don't think my dryer is up to it.

Gracie's coming home today, home today, home today...

Three days ago, my friend Char and I drove through the wilderness (felt like) to drop our precious babies (my oldest, her youngest) at Camp Conestoga for the Arena Riders (that's right--horse camp!) program. In the pouring rain.


As you can see, it didn't dampen the girls' spirits in the least.

Grace is my first little duck to sleep away from me--first at friend's houses, now this. It tugs at my heart a little bit to see just how very big my little angel is getting. The house feels all wrong without her in it. Claire has ended up in our bed both nights that Grace has been gone, the queen has been all out of sorts, and Sam has been (gasp) nice to Claire! (Okay, so that part isn't all bad).


Camp Conestoga is a Girl Scout Camp, and I have the most fantastic memories of Girl Scout Camp growing up. The other emotion I felt most strongly when dropping Grace and Rachel off was longing. I want to go back to Little Cloud. Remember how much fun that was? I always went with my cousin Kristie. One year my sister Carrie and cousin Gina went in the same group as us, but my strongest memory was of me and Kristie. We had our battles (always) but I think we'd both go back if we could. I wish I had the picture that was taken of us this fourth of July. I'd post it along with these adorable kids--you could just imagine our two dark heads beside the two little blonde ones above. We'd have had fun with those two, Kiki, would that we were 7 years old again!


And speaking of cousin love, Claire seems to have found her beloved cousin/sister (in fact she calls her her "sister") in little Bridget Markham. I'm beginning to suspect that "ClaireandBridget" is the phrase for their generation that "DawnandKristie" was in ours. Look at them: aren't they cute?


Before I know it it will be these two heading blithely off to adventures that will never include me. I'm glad to be a grown up, truly I am. Most of the time. It just feels a little funny to be on the "did-you-remember-your-sunscreen-keep-track-of-your-flashlight-yes-you-have-to-wear-your-raincoat-I-have-her-health-form-right-here" side of the equation instead of the "Mo-om, I'll be fine!" side.

And Gracie's coming home today--hooray!! I wonder if she'll have learned the canoe song?

The price of beauty (Part 2: emergency room edition)

I have always had big feet. By the time I was through puberty, I was basically wearing a size 10 (though I still claimed a 9). In hindsight, this is a completely respectable shoe size for a girl nearly 6 feet tall. It is not as freakish as I thought then. 10 is perfect, right? 10 is tiny. And, most importantly, 10 is available at every major retailer in the country.

Then I had babies. Thankfully, I did not grow a shoe size with every pregnancy. Just every 2. So, there you have it. I now wear a delicate size 12. And I have a 36 inch inseam (which most stores don't even stock for men). So shopping is a nightmare for me. I've always hated it. I remember the nightmare that shopping for my first communion dress was. We went to every department store and every bridal shop in a 100 mile radius and spent a half dozen weekends to finally find a white dress speckled with purple flowers that both my mom and I agreed was perfectly acceptable. You know, as opposed to the alternative which would have probably been my school uniform skirt. When I shopped for my wedding dress one clerk helpfully informed me that wedding dresses were designed for women who were 5'9. This was very useful for me, though as I didn't get married in 6th grade I wasn't quite sure what to do with the information. I ended up having to add trim to the bottom of my dress so it would reach the floor as it was supposed to. Lucky for me, in that instance, it turned out okay as my mom's brilliant seamstress friend added fur for my February wedding, and people still talk about it (in a good way).

So finding cute, stylish clothes that fit is my constant Waterloo. I am infinitely grateful for the internet as it has opened the option of women's clothes to me for the first time in my life. I admit that I wore men's pants until I was about 30. What choice did I have? Many have suggested plus sizes as an option, but they really aren't. I'm certainly not fit nor especially skinny, but I have a tiny bust and long, skinny arms and (in the distant past) legs. I'm not plus size, I'm freakishly long. I'm not claiming it is any more attractive, just that they are different fit challenges (ask me sometime about my adventure in shopping in Madrid when my luggage had been lost).

So, imagine my utter delight to discover Zappos. They don't just have cute shoes for us ski feet. They offer free overnight shipping--BOTH WAYS! Finally, finally, a retailer that doesn't grudgingly offer a few styles in the giant sizes (most of them looking best suited for nurses or nuns), but instead features a dazzling array of styles, colors, shapes. It is a dream. I think I missed the opportunity to be counted among the true shoe fanatics--what a life of frustration and misery that would have been for me--but it is nice to not have to settle for the one style that meets the color and occasion and size in every shoe buying opportunity.

So I bought these. I felt so fabulous in them. I love red. They are a bit pricey, especially for someone who has been marooned at Payless for the last 3 decades, but I didn't care. I wore them with a black and white outfit on Wednesday.

They were a little snug in the heel--I ended up with blisters on both heels. But it was nothing a couple of bandaids couldn't fix. So I thought.

On Thursday the blister on my left leg still hurt. A lot. I wore sandals to work and didn't worry too much about it. Ditto Friday. I briefly considered canceling my scheduled pedicure for that afternoon, but it was long overdue and nearly impossible to schedule (due to my availability, not the nail shop's). I hated to give up my time, so I went through with it.

I was delighted with the result. See? Big feet can be beautiful. (When I tell my girls the story of Cinderella, I tell them that the glass slipper was too BIG for everyone in the kingdom EXCEPT Cinderella. Take that, you big feet bigots!).

By Friday night, however, I realized there was a problem. My whole ankle around the blister was sore and turning hot and red. I was starting to feel achy and shivery. I called my mom who said I should probably get checked out. I called Ask-A-Nurse and she said it could wait until regular doctor's office hours. I asked my husband and he looked at me like I was utterly insane. I decided not to go. After supper Friday night, my Mom and Dad stopped by to check on me. Mom looked concerned, and she is not the overprotective-get-your-butt-to-the-doctor-every-time-you-sniffle type mom. To the contrary. When I needed emergency surgery in college, she made me wait to go to the hospital until she had picked the boys up from karate. I mean, she's no overprotective wimp.

So I went to the emergency room. And now I am on antibiotics and trapped in my house with my leg elevated. They diagnosed me with cellulitis and gave me a prescription for tylenol with codeine. The ER doctor gave me a note excusing me from work for the next two days (which, my luck, happen to be Saturday and Sunday--she couldn't give me an excuse to give up cooking, cleaning, and taking care of my kids).

This is what it looks like. The black ink is where they drew around the red, inflamed area, and by this morning, you can see that it had overrun those boundaries. I'm 3 doses into my antibiotics and hopeful that by tomorrow it will look better. I'm supposed to go back to my regular doctor on Monday. (But aren't my toes pretty?)

See what happens when we of the giant feet try to be cool? It puts us in the hospital.

I'm going back to my nun shoes.

The price of beauty

It has taken me three daughters, but I have finally surrendered to the overwhelming motherly instinct to dress up little girls like frilly little dolls. I never used to bother much with hair bows or flowers, especially since Grace didn’t have hair until well past age 1 and screamed bloody murder whenever I approached her head with a comb or brush. Claire always had lots of hair and has the highest pain tolerance I’ve ever witnessed on a child. She succumbed fairly readily to my attempts at primping, though her tomboy tendencies and high activity level made overalls my go to outfit of choice for her. But for some reason, on my third daughter, I have become enamored of the big hair flowers and bows. Part of my hesitation with Grace, was that I temporarily succumbed to all the popular wisdom that says children should be allowed to like what they like independent of their gender. I even went so far with Grace to insist that anytime someone called her pretty, they also call her smart (and she is, most certainly, both. But I don’t know about you, but, shallow as I am, I’d always rather be called pretty than smart. What was I thinking?) But, two very memorable trips through the princess phase (Grace would ONLY wear pink for an entire year) has completely won me over to its charms---girls will be girls, end of story. (And I once read that if the daughter is the princess, that makes the mom the queen! I can definitely handle that, although I doubt that writer ever met my baby queen for whom I will always be a lowly, occasionally annoying and usually incompetent, servant). When we were at Disneyworld in February I bought myself a coffee mug that said “Once a princess always a princess,” because I can be a girly girl deep down, too. (For Chad I bought a mug with the picture of “Grumpy” dwarf on it that said, “Beneath this grumpy exterior beats the heart of a dashing hero” I digress, but I still love that for him).

But, back to my story. True to her nature, ever since Lucy has figured out how her hands work, she has diligently pulled every hair bow and ponytail out within minutes of my wrestling it onto her adorable dark head. After her baths at night, when I comb her hair, she generally sits calmly while I comb it out, then looks right at me with a defiant twinkle in her eye, and deliberately rubs her hand across her head to muss it. Stinker. See, here’s another thing I’ve learned. The princess phase sets in much, much later. Tiny girls (say, the queen’s age) HATE dresses and frills and bows. There is a brief window after they are first born and before they turn mobile during which the queen mother might attempt to indulge her appetite for princess pink and lace. But at around 9 months until about 2 ½, girls have no interest in looking pretty or playing dress up. They want to be moving and, preferably, messy. Stuff on the head is just an annoyance and dresses slow a girl way, way down.

So, as happens in every little girl’s life (at least in every one of my little girls), it came time for bangs. Lucy’s hair had gotten long enough to interfere with her vision, and she absolutely refuses to leave a barrette or rubber band within 5 feet of her head. Enter Grandma Marilyn. Marilyn has done all of our haircuts from my first through the first of my firstborn, to now, the first of my last born. Some have been more memorable than others (Gracie cried so hard and refused to visit Grandma Marilyn afterward to the point where both Marilyn and I nearly gave up and let her grow shaggy and unkempt. But, like a true daughter of mine, ice cream was a great soother and negotiating strategy. Claire’s was uneventful except we all were a bit taken aback by just how BLUE her pretty eyes looked when we could see them again.)
I will let the pictures tell the queen’s story. She was not happy to be getting bangs, though she was distracted by perusing through a hair style magazine.

Eventually, she selected a style (midway through the haircut):

In general, she was not happy with us:

And I know the final picture is supposed to be an adorable, smiling, coiffed little princess. But this is the queen we are talking about (and, in fairness to her royal highness, she has been battling a bug for the last few days, so her general outlook on life has been especially sour the last few days). But you can see her cuteness in spite of her crabbiness, can't you?

Just call me Cathy

I just received what could possibly be the most generous, memorable compliment of my life. By someone I work with whom I would never say I have really "clicked." We have disagreed quite vehemently on a number of topics and, in general, though I think we both respect the other's abilities and intellect, we certainly don't see things in very similar ways. Except I can maybe make an exception (at least I WANT to) in this instance.

He told me he was watching the Tony awards the other night and as the camera panned the audience and skimmed past Catherine Zeta-Jones, he thought she looked "just like" me. What? Even in my vainest moments, I still think that is generous to the point of insanity. I mean, okay. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Big boobs (oops, the comparison fell apart there). But he was serious. And sincere. At least I think he was. And he's never, ever sucked up to me or been inclined to try and boost my ego before.

And here is the other irony (as if that weren't thick enough). When he told me this I had just returned from a lunchtime walk outside. Many of us sneak a few minutes away from our desks around noon every day to get a little fresh air and exercise. And, as my fellow Dubuquers know, that "fresh air" right now is more like warm water. So, as I'm being compared to an insanely beautiful movie star, I am also dripping with sweat with what little make-up I have left streaking under my eyes and down my neck. It was not my most glamorous moment, I can assure you.

Have I mentioned that I love this guy?

Things I never imagined I would say (Spring 2010)

1. "Claire, come here and clean up your worm water before your sister falls in it" (April 8).


2. In reference to yogurt discovered unrefrigerated in the garage one week after our trip to the grocery store, "No, Claire. You can't eat that. Um. It has worms in it." (April 9: Claire's response, "oh. I squish them up?" Me: "You're going to eat them?" Claire: "Yeah. I'm a boy?" Me: "Boys eat worms?" Claire (emphatically): "Yeah!!")


3. "No, Sammy. You cannot do an explosion. We are going to Grandma's house for supper and we are leaving right now." (Note to reader: I do not know what "do an explosion" means either). (April 11).


4. "Do NOT put your sister in the patio cushion storage bin. I don't CARE if she likes it!" (April 11).


5. "No, Grace, Sister Marilyn is not a 'num'--it's 'nun'" (Note to reader: either the shortage of religious in our Church is really getting serious, or our family catechesis needs a little work) (April 14).


6. "Claire, what happened to your ponytail? Oh, you dropped it?" (April 15).


7. "Sam, did you say Lucy put her hands or her pants in the toilet? Was there poop or pee in it? Oh, ok then." (Sam's answers: hands, no) (April 15).


8. "Guys! You can't play with those and you have to wear clothes!" (April 15).


9. "Sammy, are you okay? Did you burn your wenis?" (April 17: Note: wenis is Sammy's word, not mine).

10. "Claire, put down the gun and then you can give Carrie a hug" (April 30).


11. "Sammy, if you don't be quiet right now you are getting a spanking. Now what did you need? Oh. Yes, I will pray with you."

Adventuresome

This weekend, Chad and I took the kids for a mini-getaway in Des Moines. We traveled down on Sunday morning (planning to leave at 8, making it out in record time--by 8:40!) and drove through a torrential downpour during which we debated the merits of just turning around and trying another weekend. Given our insane schedule, we knew the next weekend we could conceivably work it in we would also be working around Gracie's high school graduation, we soldiered on. We were glad we did.


We had a wonderful time--complete with all the adventures only 2 slightly insane adults and 4 sweet children under the age of 8 can pack into less than 48 hours.


We stayed with my cousin, Kristie. There is another post altogether contrasting the differences in our lives, but suffice it to say that for 2 women who grew up as close as sisters and as similar in early experiences as two people could be, our lives have certainly arrived at dramatically different places. Kiki is single and lives in a fabulous, stylish old house with her sweet puppy Paisley. I live, in a 12 year old, haphazardly decorated house busting at the seams with children, toys, and general chaos. Professionally, I think our careers are similar enough, but what we come home to each evening couldn't be more different. I wonder if she has yet recovered from the noise (shrieking! crashing!) and constant hubbub that hovers around us like the dustcloud around Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen. But, like I said. Another post.


I want to describe our day at Adventureland via the awards we decided to bestow upon each other on the drive home.


Sammy wins the Silly Silo award. Thanks to the unpredictable weather and the weekday, we were blessed with a perfect, nearly line-less day at the park. (After this and our rainy experience at Disneyworld, I think the best way to do an amusement park is in the rain. I'd rather be wet than wait in line). By some miracle of genetics, Sam escaped both my queasy, motion sick-prone tummy, and Chad's tendency toward headaches on wild rides. Sam was fearless and tireless. On one stretch, while we waited for Chad and Grace to finish their turn on the space shot, he did the silly silo (which is the one where you enter a huge, barrell shaped structure and get spun around faster and faster and faster until eventually you are stuck to the wall and the floor drops out from under you. You know the one). This ride is the ultimate puke machine--the one that brings even the steel stomached to the verge of vomit city. Not Sammy. He didn't even LEAVE the ride (you know how sometimes they make you exit and then you dash around to try and get right back on? Monday we didn't even always have to leave!) And so Sammy didn't. 6 times in a row. He finished the day with a grand total of nine spins on the silly silo. I couldn't even watch him (there is an observation deck overlooking it) because it made me sick just to see it. Chad took a few pictures, though. When we asked Sam if he felt sick he looked at us with utter confusion.

Claire gets the nine second nudie award. Adventureland has added a water park section this summer and after several hours of roller coasters and carnival rides, Claire was ready for something different. "Mom," she said, as we sat at some picnic tables near a food court type area. "I'm ready for the pool."

"Okay," I said, and turned, (literally, just that quickly) to dig out her swimsuit to head for the locker rooms. I turned back and Claire was buck naked. When she said ready she meant READY!

We decided to award Grace the "spirit award." On all of the family vacations we have taken with the Luekens, Grandma Lueken awards a "spirit" prize to the person (grown up or child) who demonstrates the best attitude--no whiners or complainers need apply. Grace shows remarkable patience and kindness in all circumstances--especially given the fact that she is only 7. She is a great role model--especially for her prone to whining mom and dad! Even when she had to share an icee with her brother, sister, and dad (the last being the worst sharer of all--at least when it comes to his beloved icees) and wait for Sammy to take his 6th trip on the silly silo, she never complained.

Chad gets the kid at heart award. It has taken 10 years and countless trips to amusement parks to really internalize just how much days like this bring out my adorable husband's inner 12 year old. The guy is tireless, full of enthusiasm and who needs the sun when we can bask in a smile like that all day long? Aside from his annoyance at the cost of everything inside the park walls, he really is at his very best in big amusement parks--so long as we can keep up with him (no small feat since I am usually pushing a double stroller and trying to herd "spacey Gracie" away from the junk vendors everywhere and Sammy from the sugar sellers). It helps that the big kids are getting big enough (and are 110% fearless enough) to do almost every ride. We don't have to hang out in the kiddie section the whole time anymore, which is a vast relief to their daddy. Claire, Lucy and I still spend some time there (and seeing Claire's face light up on the ladybugs and frog hopper is worth the price of admission in itself), but Chad, Grace, and Sam can dart from giant roller coaster to giant roller coaster without even a glance back at the pathetic baby rides. And can I just say, thank God we live in this era of cell phones. If not, and short of park security intervention, there is a chance I would not see my husband or two firstborn until park closing time on days like these.

We didn't come up with a name for Lucy's award, though this and Disneyworld are beginning to make me think that amusement parks are her kind of place. My unpredictable, grumpy little queen is a dream at these long park days. I don't know what it is--the junkfood, the constant flow of colors and sounds and smells and crazy people, the constant motion, the attention I pay her while we wait for the big kids (all 4 of them) to finish ride after ride after ride. Whatever it is, she is a delightful little stroller riding doll on days like this. She snoozes when she's tired, and demands a reprieve from the stroller every now and then, but is essentially effortless to care for.

I don't think we came up with an award for me, which is just fine. It has taken me four kids and nearly 8 years to figure out that these trips go best when I tend to everyone else first. Believe me when I say this does not come naturally for me. I have wrestled myself into some semblance of selflessness, but it doesn't run very deep. I love roller coasters and kettle corn and the space shot. It kills me to sit off the log ride and the raging river to tend to the baby while everyone else emerges, soaked and laughing, a half hour later. But I am getting better at it. And Chad takes his share of turns (well, maybe not completely his fair share--but we are both getting older and more willing to sit out more often than we once might have been. And after 12 months of morning sickness over the 4 pregnancies, I'm not willing to suffer that awful queasy churning stomach for the temporary thrill of very many rides anymore--though I do still love the roller coasters).

All in all, we had a great time, and can't wait to plan the next weekend getaway. We left the park when it closed on Monday night, and didn't get home to our beds until after midnight. It's been a long week already as our schedule picked right up where it left off when we returned. But we'll do it again. Soon.

Smug

Yesterday, I finally did it. I have been trying for years to trick myself into being on time. But I am always smarter than myself. I know my clock is set 6 minutes early (and my non-math oriented brain can ALWAYS add those minutes back in my lead time with no thought whatsoever). I know the party really doesn't start on the quarter hour. But yesterday, I did it. And, true to form, both Sam and I were bewildered and uncertain at our uncommon status--EARLY!

My blackberry said Sammy's team soccer pictures started at 6:30 between fields 6 & 7 at the soccer complex. So, as always, we dashed out the door at 6:18 for a 15 minute trek across town which we (also as always) managed to do (accompanied by much swearing, sweating, and the occasional daring traffic maneuver) in just under 12 minutes. We dashed to the picture area to find--nothing. Not a single shark (Sammy's team). What?

My heart fell. I was convinced, of course, that pictures were in fact at 5:30. Or at the Washington Junior High practice field (on the other end of town). Something that explained the inexplicable absence of the rest of Sammy's team.

Then we saw a little boy in the same team colors. "Did you do pictures, yet?" I asked.

"Yeah. A long time ago," he said, with that sort of pitying sneer of the ne'er screw upper.

Sam burst into tears and I started the mental math on what I could do to make up my most recent mommy failure (new legos? happy meals? ice cream after the game?).

But I was still confused. Where was the coach? Where were the rest of the sharks? Something just didn't smell right. And, although perpetually just late (like 5 minutes or less, every time), I am really pretty darn organized. I mean, teachers and coaches know they can count on me. I won't walk in 20 minutes early with freshly painted nails and extra wet wipes. But we'll be there and we'll have what we promised to bring.

So we made our way back to the car to check the copy of the schedule I keep in my van (see? organized). And it said pictures "immediately preceding" the 7p game.

So I was, in a word, stunned. And in another word. Sort of thrilled. So I walked back to the picture area feeling a bit smug and at peace with the world.

We sat on the hillside to wait for our turn before the cameras. And Sam got all confused. "Did we miss it?" he asked, his tear streaked face just too adorable for words.

"No, honey, we're EARLY," I said.

His eyebrows knitted together. "What?" he asked, completely confused. "Where is everybody else?" he asked, now suspicious.

"They're coming," I promised. And we sat and waited. And waited. And waited.

So here is something I would have no reason to really know. Being early kind of sucks. It is boring and it made me all annoyed with the parents dashing in late. So I got a good perspective on me from the other's point of view.

In my constant haste, I always think that early people seem kind of smug, all cool and glancing over their shoulders as you dash in dropping crap and dragging unwilling preschoolers and toddlers with your hair all askew and your eyes wild and darting around apologetically.

And you know what? I sort of felt that way. Smug, I mean. Although I realize that people who are normally on time might not have the same perspective on it that I did--sort of this anthropological analysis of "the other side". But I did feel a little annoyed. I mean, like I didn't have anything better to do than wait for them to show up?

But, of course, being perpetually a member of that "team," I contained my annoyance and smiled my understanding. I get it that the expectations of modern motherhood are completely unrealistic, and that these poor moms have probably just finished ballet, piano and karate, have baked three dozen gluten free cupcakes with team colored frosting, run 15 miles and finished a conference call with India for the multi-million dollar company that they run. So, you know, being late is the least of their problems. Me too.

And for those of you who are normally on time--forgive me. I want to make it there exactly, precisely at the moment these events begin. I don't want to waste your time. I truly don't. But even more I don't want to waste MY time. I left my house in shambles when I left it--my dishes undone (though Chad was there and diligently working to complete them--my hero), my lunch unpacked, my next morning's coffee unmade. And that just KILLS me. I am perpetually haunted by the phrase in scripture that says, "be perfect like your Father in heaven is perfect" (though even I realize that Jesus surely didn't mean an immaculate house, a high paying rock star career and perfect children--at least every day). But my time is my most valuable commodity--the thing of which there is never, ever enough. The thing I crave like a drug. The thing I long for like a lover. So squeezing every teeny second out of every precious day is just my way. It generally puts me just this side of on time to virtually every event I attend. And I am enough of an optimist to assume that every light will always be green, every detail will be remembered, and every child will listen to my every command in record time in the 5 minutes before we leave the house (and, you know, will always be wearing shoes and pants when they climb in the car). So nights like last night will be the exception. And I'll remain apologetic and not smug. Unless I outsmart myself again. And I'm not all that bright, so the odds are good. But I wouldn't hold my breath, either. Someday, I'll be organized and thoughtful enough to be on time every time. How old is Lucy now? So, plan on it in, give or take, about 17 years.