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 surprising 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.

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.