We had our first bonafide family summer vacation this weekend. Like so many Bostonians, we packed up the car and headed south for the Cape. Actually, not technically the Cape, but Buzzard's Bay. If you think of Cape Cod as an arm with bicep flexed, we were roughly in the armpit. But what a lovely armpit it is: blue water and sky, beach roses, sailboats, seashells, green grass, weathered shingles. The kind of place that makes you wonder why everybody in the world doesn't want to live in New England.
Clio enjoys the good life
We were staying with family friends who have a veritable compound of cottages in close proximity. All your favorite family vacation characters were there: the elegant, elderly matriarch; the wisecracking, sports-loving grandfather; the doting, book-loving grandmother; the trio of boisterous school-aged boys; the professorial uncle; the young pregnant wife; the visiting distant cousin from Mexico; the affable Disney World pianist. All your standard archetypes.
Also in attendance was a wonderful college student whom we really should have paid for all the baby-holding she did. It was awfully messy baby holding, too; I think about 90% of the time the babies spat-up (spitted up?) for the three days we were there, it was on this poor girl. In general, people were very willing (dare I say eager?) to hold the girls, which was great. Within minutes of our arrival, Elsa was whisked off by an aunt to cheer up a little girl who'd just been stung by a bee. Even Clio, who's started having some stranger anxiety issues lately, allowed herself to be bounced on a few unfamiliar knees. At times we weren't entirely sure where one or both of the babies were, but we always knew that they were in good hands. I love that laid-back, communal feeling. And I love the idea of having kids who are comfortable with any number of trustworthy adults and adaptable and relaxed in new situations. It takes a village. Or a compound of cottages on Buzzard's Bay.
Elsa swings, baby, yeah!
The highlight of the weekend was a parlor talent show at the matriarch's cottage on Saturday night, featuring some fine Suzuki violin performances (see: "Boisterous school-aged boys" above), a spirited rendition of Edith Piaf's "Non, Je ne Regrette Rien" by the wisecracking grandfather, some folk songs by Alastair, the pop keyboard stylings of the Disney World pianist, plus a few standards and showtunes mediocrely interpreted by yours truly. The elegant matriarch wanted to hear "Memory" from Cats, and I was the only one who knew it even a little. What choice did I have? I'd had enough wine not to care that I didn't know the words, as had most of the audience. So: "Memory!....All alone with my...memories? I'm a cat in a leotard, and I musn't give in....!" Yes, I'll be keeping my day job.
Elsa and Clio, had they been awake to participate, would have wowed the crowd with some of the stuff they've been working on lately. Clio could have done some rolling over onto her stomach (she's become a real champ at it), Elsa could do some Bronx cheers complete with projectile spit, and for the grand finale, a sister act: synchronized foot-eating! Brings down the house every time.
Instead, they were upstairs in an antique crib in a strange room, probably disoriented out of their minds, the poor things. The next morning, we rewarded them for being such good sports by
dressing them in ridiculous hats, dragging them to the beach, exposing
them to UV rays and attempting to photograph them. I wore a ridiculous hat, too, in solidarity. (All hats courtesy of K-Mart. We're couture like that.)
Big shout-out to the Marion crew, if you're reading: we had a fabulous time. Thanks for making us feel like family.
