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

From the Trailer Park to the Changing Table... the Saga Continues...

Me: That's a doggie.
The Cousin: Doggie. Woof. Woof.
The Cousin: Doggie?
Me:  Yep. There's another dog.
The Cousin: Woof. Woof.
The Cousin: Doggie?
Me: Doggie. Uh, huh.  Another dog.
The Cousin: Woof. Woof...
This stimulating conversation continues for 30 minutes on the walking path near their house.

That's how we roll, me and The Cousin.  That constant and predictable repetition of verbiage that drives weak caregivers to totally lose it, but not me.
Some things just come with the job. Some things you just accept as part of the territory.
Things like repetitive jargon and poop.  Yes, poop.
Those are two things you can depend on when spending a day with Sweet Pea and The Cousin.
Let me sidetrack for a minute. I know this is random... 

My ‘aunt-n-law’ is a frugal girl from the north, and with the rising cost of cat litter, she informed me that she buys sand ‘in bulk’ from Home Depot, rather than boxed litter, on a regular basis. Evidently, the savings is enormous.

Last week, she headed to HD to buy her 'litter-sand' and after making her purchase,  she gassed up at USA “the cheapest pump in town for Christ-sake” and continued home to change Mao Mao’s urine & feces box.

She thought the bag was “heavier than shit” but paid her thoughts no mind, continuing to clean out the old and pour in the new.

A day or two passed and she went to scoop out Mao Mao’s excretions and the entire box was filled with large, solid, hulking rocks.  Mao Mao’s piss had turned to cement.
I guess she raised some hell at HD for moving the sand to a different area and putting cement in its place.

On Wednesdays, poop's an issue for me too.
How could it not be when you're working with 2 'machines' like the ones I work with?
I learned a big feces lesson last Wednesday: Never try and shake the poop out of the Pamper into the toilet.
This action results in the nuggets missing the toilet bowl completely
and going all over the white tile.

But they're sweet, you say. Yes they are. True that. But there are some 'new developments' brewing.
Y'all have heard of "sibling rivalry" right?  Well, I'd like to give you a brief overview on what I call "cousin envy".

"If I drop my elbow to her chest, it could easily look like an accident."

"Look at those locks. I bet I could take one without her knowing it."

You see, The Cousin was used to livin the high life; agreeable, easy and alone before Sweet Pea came along.
'Attention' was her middle name and she bathed in it like a pig in sunshine.
She was la reina, the queen, and that felt good to her, I'm sure.

But things have changed for her highness, as things often do.  And 'sometimes', (I could say 'often'  but I know their moms read my blog) she just can't refrain from a quick and covetous smack with the This Little Piggy Book  right across Sweet Pea's cheek or a right hook to her ribs. We had to have a conversation about pinching and squeezing her cousin's face and I think I made progress although her response was " Ibah... abin... gibby... ga... goo."  
Which for all I know translates, "Go to hell".

Once I noticed her take the plastic sifting shovel, and what started out as a gentle rub-pat on Sweet Pea's back, quickly became a hard pounding.  

I get it, though.   I grew up in a house with a mom that always believed me.  I have since apologized profusely to my little brother for the torture and antagonizing, the teasing, the egging him on until he reached a boiling point in which he couldn't take it any more. He'd then haul off and hit me and I'd then run crying to mommy. 

Yep, he'd get in serious trouble.  I'd get a hug.

As the Wednesday Nanny, I try to assess each situation individually and with fairness. 

Sweet Pea's no bowl of cherries, believe me.

Basically my strategy is simple.  I run it like boot camp.

This is especially effective when they are both awake.
However, when one's asleep, I ease up and I must admit, super cool things do happen. Like turning on PBS and getting down with Elmo the Musical: "...yip... yip... unky... unky...do the Elmo dance, it's funky" is what The Cousin and I find our groove to.
Also, exploring painting with water.  We went through two sets of clothes, but hell, I don't do the laundry!

Dipping big brushes in big bowls of water and 'painting' the chair, the pumpkins, the table is 100% pure, unadulterated fun.
(We both shared a moment of silence; a prayer if you will,  prior to this activity. We asked God to keep Sweet Pea asleep for as long as possible).
But Sweet Pea does eventually wake up, and when she does, it briefly looks like this:

And this is nice while it lasts.
But of course, it never f*#!ing lasts.
Good thing I have a partner who pops the cork and pours 'the grape' right as I'm walking
in the door.
~tpg

W(h)ine Wednesdays

I arrive at 7:45 a.m. and usually she greets me with an infectious smile.  With such a sweet, intimate little greeting, you wouldn't think I'd need 2 cups of coffee, the strong shit, under my belt to make it through the day, but I do.

Extreme situations, call for extreme hard-core leaded.  It's necessary on Wednesdays.
You see, I'm now the "Wednesday Nanny" for this little sweet pea and her
1 year 5 month old cousin.  

When I reflect on all the jobs I've had in my lifetime; pre-school teacher, elementary school teacher, coffeehouse owner, tutor, waitperson, hotel concierge, tea shop extraordinaire and my personal favorite, trailer park manager...
This 9-hour-per-week position should be a piece of cake. But quite honestly, it takes not only the cake, but the frosting, decorative sugary florets and rainbow-colored sprinkles as well.
You're probably saying to yourself right about now, "Awww...she's super cute. Like a little button. 
TPG, you whine but all you really have to do is play all day like all those stay-at-home moms. 
What could be so challenging?  And why the hell are you whining?"
And you're probably thinking, "How could such a sweet face turn devil-child?"
This leads me to two words:

“Shit Show”.
Having never been a mom, never breast-fed, never changed a Pamper of a breast-fed child,
I had no f@#*ing clue what to expect.  I mean who really thinks about these things in the course of a day when it doesn't apply to you, right? But let me simply describe "the show" or plural as it occurs 2 or even 3 times, per pooper, per day. Allow me to describe it in a small, but powerful fragment of a sentence:
an oozing river of mustardy goop. And I mean oozing. Come to find out,  breast milk causes this yellowish messy substance and because it is odorless (its single redeeming quality) it oozes on my jeans, oozes on the changing table, oozes on the Safari Rainforest Magic Blanket and oozes
on the toy set.

But not so in the case of her older cousin who is on lots of  solid foods and eats a banana like she was a ravenous alligator devouring raw meat.
Her 'contribution' consists of GINORMOUS, dark brown balls, the size of 1lb. truffles and solid as rocks.  They have a familiar shitty smell that at least gives me a "heads up" when she needs changing, unlike Sweet Pea's whose runs out of her diaper and straight up her back and neck like a gushing river.

I know I've got what it takes.
I know there's a rhythm to be found in a job like this. Changing the diapers, like the changing of the guards, will in fact one day become a timely event; masterminded and easily woven together with feeding times, stroller times, nap times
and play times.
One prays for all of these things to fall into place without any wailing.  But you know what?
The wailing comes! And that little "Sweet Pea" has lungs! They call her "Slugger" but I call her "Fog Horn" and boy when that horn starts to blow, it does not let up!
Ships could find their way to us in a matter of seconds, even through the most dense fog.

Seriously, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't phoned CPS on me.  It begins with a slight, breathless panting and a quivering lower lip. You try everything in your power to avoid what is to come.
You shake rattles. You check her diaper.  You pick her up and blow on her tummy.  You get out the "crunchy book" she loved last Wednesday. You put her in the Ergo. You bounce her on your knee. You warm the bottle of pumped breast milk (liquid gold).  But you don't succeed and the horn blows, sending a screeching vibration that penetrates the walls. All the while you're singing, "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and telling her cousin, 
"No, honey take the crayon out of your mouth, please. 
Crayons aren't food." 

Getting both the little buggers in the 2-child stroller is a classic act of poise and dignity. As they both initially fight it, the passerby's stare at me with the same damn stare I used to give parents who were out in public with screaming children.  You know, the stare that says, "What are you doing to them? What kind of a mother are you? Can't you see those children need something?" 
I wanna shout in their faces, "I'M JUST THE NANNY AND I HAVE AN A.A. IN CHILD DEVELOPMENT AND A B.A. IN EDUCATION AND A TEACHING CREDENTIAL FOR CHRIST-SAKE. I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!" But I don't.
I just keep my composure and my "sweet as maple syrup voice" the one that says "please" and "good job" and I get the girls harnessed in.  Soon we're off.  Hitting the pavement does something miracluous. Let me tell you. The first time I took them for a walk, I couldn't believe it.
It was as if God herself stepped out from curbside and said, "Here is my precious gift to you, Valerie."  I'm talking about the sweet gift of having both girls fall asleep simultaneously.
The baby is snoring by the time we turn the first corner and her cousin, who I call Ms. "I love cinnamon, apple sauce, hitting my cousin with the toy camera and tossing all the books all over the floor 5-times just to watch you pick them all up" is sawing logs after about 10 minutes of walking and I am so relieved I can barely see straight.  I breathe deeply and say a prayer that parents everywhere get this kind of a break.
I walk them up and down the path next to the ocean.  I don't know which is a lovelier sight:
the ocean or the two sleeping babies?  No, wait a sec.
I do know.  Hands down,  it's the sleeping babies.

                         When the cousins are engaged, it's blissful and sweet as Gummy Bears.

Ergo

                           So this is an Ergo. It's a pack thing you can resort to when all else fails.

Ergos, like strollers, car seats and even Pampers are fairly simple to hook, put on or use
unless you're me.
Here's a perfect example of a helpless child dangling in an Ergo that has been put on incorrectly.

Bamba

I start looking at the clock around 4:30 p.m.
I smell of breast milk spit up, Bamba peanut butter crackers and crushed bananas.  I have Exhaustipation.

ex*haus*ti*pa*tion     (noun)    a condition in which one is so tired they don't give a shit.

I haven't been this wiped since the carport inspections in which a half-dozen residents gave me hell for walking with my clipboard on their properties.  Stressful stuff like that happened often. Like telling "Naked Man" at space 31 that he couldn't keep all those goddamn chickens in the back of his carport.  Or having to ask space 22 to stop putting her sanitary napkins down the toilet.  "It's my f@*#ing toilet" I recall her shouting at me from her front porch, as I took off the latex gloves, set the bleach in my wheelbarrow and gave her a "mental middle finger".
"The Chronicles of a Wednesday Nanny" will surely bring some 'situations' that are right up there with my "Park Tales".

At 5:00 o'clock, I hand off my new little friends to their parents like a quarterback under pressure
and head out into "road rage traffic" which I have absolutely no patience for.
Suddenly, I realize I 'm out of wine.
I make a jarring and deliberate right turn into Safeway, where Lerry, that's spelled  L E R R Y, greets me.  He's a middle-aged white guy with a big belly hiding under his Safeway
apron, which has all these pins on it telling you which gift cards to buy.
Lerry's got a look that says, "I hate my job as a Safeway checker but I owe alimony and child support so I'm here".
I put my bottle of cheap Syrah, a salmon filet and can of peanuts on the belt.  It's Wednesday but I don't expect Lerry to listen to a grown woman whine, so I hold back and muster up a courteous "Hello."
I'm totally spent and I'm feeling pretty unsociable.  I'm still humming "The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round "  in my head.  I'm wound tight.

"I forgot my bag, Lerry, so may I have paper not plastic?"
He takes out a brown paper bag, but then puts my salmon in a plastic bag.
"You need this plastic bag so it won't leak in your other bag." 
"No, I don't Lerry. It's ok cuz I'm not going far."
"Yes, you do.  You'll thank me when you get home.  It's just one plastic bag."

I lose it big time.  Nanny Goes Ballistic read the headlines.
And after I'm done yelling at Lerry and educating him about our oceans and pollution,
I yank the plastic bag off my salmon fillet and toss it at his apron.
It's just another Wine Wednesday.

L'Chaim! (To Life!) 
~tpg