Dear God, Not Oatmeal

It was not a difficult or even borderline choice:
the third and final presidential debate or the final game to determine if the San Francisco Giants
go to the World Series.  It wasn't a grueling decision.

Duh.

But after watching both, (the debate taped) if I had to choose the most entertaining, because, my lovelies, I DO like to be entertained, I think Scutaro brought it!  Y E A!
I might add, though, that the second debate did leave me with the realization that I, in fact,
have something "special" in common with the governor:
“Governor Romney and I both have binders full of women.”

It’s an eery, gray Tuesday, the morning after rain, and I already have anxiety for tomorrow.  
Seeing Sweet Pea and The Cousin in just 24 hours, somehow makes me want to crawl back under the blankets of my king-size nest and suck my thumb until Thursday.  
Sweet Pea’s mom sent me a text with the earth-shattering news: “SWEET PEA’S EATING HER FIRST FOOD! OATMEAL”

Now that's thrilling and exciting news unless you're the nanny.
A cracker I can deal with, but runny slobbery oats will put me on a bridge.

The thought of feeding her oatmeal sends chills up my spine.
And I don’t mean in a satisfying way.

You know, I might just be getting too old for this stuff.  Runny diapers. Runny noses. Runny oatmeal.  Not to mention, screaming infants and spit-up. 

But then again, my "I can handle anything" super-sonic-bionic action figure takes over just like it did when I managed the park all those years.

Because only the truly brave, fearless and insane mess with me. 
No child under the age of 18 months is going to take me hostage. 

There was this whack-job from space 22 that did attempt it though, and with some success.
Some of you might recall how 'loose' she was when she didn't take her meds... 

               Calling me names from her trailer window, taking a swing at her husband, "Gil" when he came home late one night, calling the cops on her sister for reasons that probably stem back to when they were six and eight.
But the time that my action figure was "on vacation" was when the blonde bombshell at 22 came down to my place, screaming like a Banshee, in front of my pre-fab and dropping 100 more 'F-bombs' than Tom Hanks on Good Morning America.
http://youtu.be/UdX8OexkEvQ

I almost pissed my pants.  Clearly, if I had boots on, I would have been shaking in them, but in my jammies and bare feet, I hit the shag in my living room and belly-crawled under the single panes to the phone.
I had become a hostage in my own home.  Fact.
But this is rare for me.  She scared the shit out of me and in my mind I was thinking,
"Gil, for Christ-sake, get her a pill." 

She had gone ballistic because we, the management, hadn't trimmed her trees and one of the branches was touching Gil's prize possession, a 1967 Chevy Camaro.

Sweet Pea has lungs like space 22. The Cousin, not so much.
But note to self: Be prepared.
Tonight, I'll need at least 8 hours.  In the morning, I will eat a hearty breakfast.
When I dress, I will hook my bra on the last hook to ensure 9-hour comfort.
I'll arrive with a satchel of toys, books and humor.
And, obviously, the wine will already be in the fridge chilling.
Stay tuned...
~tpg