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?