The Rabbi

Rabbi with The Cousin and me

This is what I look like by noon. You can only imagine what I look like by 5:00 pm.

I've had f*!@#ing Hava Nagila stuck in my head for the last 48 hours. 

So, The Cousin got a new toy. By the time Sweet Pea's mom came home at lunch to offer up a little "boob action" for Sweet Pea, I had listened to, danced to and sang Hava Nagila so many times, I thought any slight trace of Jewish heritage I might have, would jump out of my skin and slap me up the side of my head... hard. 

"More, Rabbi, peez"  was what The Cousin requested OVER AND OVER AGAIN. So I'd squeeze the Rabbi's left foot and the Hebrew folk song would begin again.  Even when I hid Rabbi behind a pile of dirty clothes, The Cousin would find him. It's not that I hate Hava Nagila. It's alright. 

But I'm sure you'd agree; when you hear even your favorite melody 100 times in a day, it sucks. 

Sweet Pea isn't at all interested in Rabbi.  She does her own thing and her own thing is fine by her. I dig that about her. I honestly do.  Our struggles are lessening actually.  The only real one we have, and it's a "doosey", is on the changing table. She still fights me like a caged bull and I still hold her two little ankles up in the air like a plucked chicken.  I'm all about not getting the poop all over the table.  She's all about winning the battle. She and The Cousin are such polar opposites in so many ways.  And though it's The Cousin who's being prepped for the toilet, it's Sweet Pea that thinks she's ready...

"I can do anything and my age has nothing to do with it."

Th Cousin not so much...

"Rabbi, pleez."

The Cousin is very cooperative about diaper changing. She remains still and lets me get the job done quickly and efficiently. She loves a clean diaper and has happily accepted the nickname I've given to her: "Clean Machine".

"Clean Machine" and I have bonded and, as y'all know, it happens during Sweet Pea's naps. This week we made pink play-dough. Totally took me back to my teaching days when play-dough was actually used regularly in Kindergarten and even 1st grade classrooms, not just for fun, but for the healthy development of fine motor skills in young children. Kneading the dough, cutting it with plastic knives, rolling balls of it into worms, etc is proven to help young kids in their abilities to hold pencils, use scissors, connect blocks and manipulatives.  And there's the whole brain connection with other areas such as language arts and math. But hey! Now our public education system has nixed the play-dough (and other "play" experiences) in favor of scores. We go straight to the test, and of course, the bubbling in of Scantron sheets beginning at age 5.
It's all about the data I've been told by my teacher pals.

But The Cousin and I, we know better. She poured in all the ingredients, including the strawberry JELL-O for color.

We just had to spend a little time working on not eating it.  Once that concept sunk in, it was smooth sailing and lotsa fun!
And, it kept her mind off Rabbi for a good 45 minutes!
~tpg

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

David Bowie sings one of my all-time favorite tunes.
http://www.myspace.com/video/angelacarbone/david-bowie-sings-quot-changes-quot/10607991
Changes is Bowie's wise exploration down the road of growing older.
He wrote it at the time his wife was pregnant with their son, so he had big changes
going on in his life.  What I didn't realize, when looking up info on the song, was just how much controversy there is about the chorus lyrics. WOW.
Huge, lengthy articles, blogs, research discussing whether Bowie sings "Face the strain" or "Face the strange" or "Face the stranger".
Some of the remarks are down-right volatile!

All 3 interpretations work for me.  When change surrounds you, encompasses you,
It most certainly can be a strain or strange or an actual stranger, i.e. the messenger.
There is no dispute about one thing, though, and that is that Bowie says, "Face it".
Every day, each of us, faces 'the strain' of change. At times, it's painful.
It's an ache that might be so deep and personal that even our closest allies are unaware
of what's really happening.
We face it quietly and we get through it.
I face 'the strange' a lot.  In fact, I deliberately throw rocks at it's window;
wanting 'it' to come out and play with me.
And as for 'the stranger', I've faced them too. Often times, with an open heart because
many who I've encountered, have witnessed much more in their lifetimes than I have.
Therefore, I have a lot to learn from them.  But sometimes, I face a stranger and if I'm a bit worked up, I've been known to offer them the universal sign for "naff off!"
Sing it any way you like.  Ch-ch-ch-Changes...

Change happens to be in the air just about everywhere you look;
the autumn breeze, crisp and new.
The leaves turning from frog-greens to brittle crimsons and browns.
The way hearts turn the corner, only to find their summer joys have slipped away...
Change, unavoidable as it can be, can also be embraced, coveted and often times,
held in highest regard.

Change is in the air at Sweet Pea's house too.
Babies change from week to week. I didn't know that.
Two weeks ago, she was awkwardly "scoot-crawling" and yesterday she was full-on,
straight-up crawling like a wind-up robot.

Just last week, "boob milk" was her only entree.
This week, the menu's changed.
Oatmeal and organic sweet potatoes have been added and she can't get enough. She devours them like she's been on a hunger strike for a month.

SHE LOVES THEM YAMS!  And you can't shove the BPA-free plastic spoon in her mouth fast enough.
She loves them so much, I'm changing her name from Sweet Pea to Sweet Potato for the sake of this blog.

There's modification at the 'changing table' as well. Sweet Potato does not feel she needs to be there, therefore, fights, struggles and flip-flops more than Mitt Romney.  Changing her diaper is reminiscent of an alligator handler grappling with a gnarly beast.

But in all seriousness, (that is if seriousness in fact exists in me)
I felt myself changing this week too. Perhaps it was because we were by ourselves.
(The Cousin was at home with a little bug.) Whatever it was, Sweet Potato and I bonded
like two hogs in mud.
Meaning, there were times, when the swear words that usually dance around in my head were completely absent. Or maybe I'm adapting, adjusting, changing, letting go! Dunno.
But face it folks:
One is easier than two.
Hell, zero is where I'm at, but at least with one, you don't break a sweat or find yourself cramming your face with Hostess GMO products as much.

Another change in this little tot's life...
She's starting to understand the significance of the two-letter word "N O."
And I'll tell you why.
This child loves to approach, grab, tug on, conquer and eat various objects that could cause
damage to her person and cost me my job.
The main items of interest are cable cords, lamp plugs, heater grates and the ficus plant.
Yesterday, she insisted on going for these things numerous times.
She was the most persistent with the lamp cord.
She's made her way to it, then proceeded to do the "split-second-grab-pull-and-eat" motion before I could scoop her up.
Since I come from a long line of enablers, I'm not taken seriously.
I'd look into her baby blues and say, in a firm but pushover manner, "N O."
I'd then move the lil buckeroo all the way across the room, and give her plenty of cute, interesting baby toys to distract her... You guessed it!  Back she'd go for the damn lamp cord.
About the 3rd or 4th time, she'd stop, in route, look back over her shoulder at me,
and smile this kinda "ha ha ha" smile.
I'd say, "N O" and I'll be damned if the little shit kept going.
I call this her "I think it's funny to hear you say, 'No' and then do it anyway" crawl.

                             After I redirected her one too many times, she alerted me of her
                                                            undeniable unhappiness.

This crying thing really messes with our day and my mood.  So in an attempt to take a cheery photo together, I couldn't seem to set the camera and auto-timer up successfully.

But actually, here's some too...

Now, I wouldn't go as far as to say that this kid is totally changing me.
But maybe partially.

Change appears in so many forms; a career move, a box of Clairol, weight gain or loss, the weather...
But more importantly, such things like a closed heart opening, an unexpected
admission of wrong-doing, an unforeseen apology.
These are the precious ones; the ones that matter.

The weather changed today, and with it, my mind-space.
Winds from the North, sounding as fierce as Sweet Potato's cry, and then the rains, powerfully deliberate.

When it downpours with such a venegence, I tend to go inside myself.
My thoughts touch the tipped corners of melancholy and reflection,
and I'm usually best left alone.

But you see, I'm not a girl who easily adapts to change. 

It's taken me 19 years to actually believe that I'm an insulin diabetic, and even then,
I still leave the house without snacks in my satchel.

When the doctor diagnosed me in '94, I told him he was "f@*#ing wrong".
Then I drove to Winchell's and bought a baker's dozen.

Stubborn about change?
Sometimes.

Obviously, my lack of knowledge, combined with my extreme stuborness, convinced me that I was far more intelligent than my doctor.

This little girl; this future leader of America, is changing too. She's eating sweet potatoes.
She's babbling in a language all her own.
She's  pulling herself up; standing under the "big" table and feeling so proud of it!
Now that's cool.

But even if we could stop change, would we want to? Now that's something to ponder.

Here's some wisdom on the subject:

“And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.” 
~ Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. 
Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” ~Lao Tzu

“The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die. As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

“Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.”  ~ John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

"Peace out."~tpg

50 Shades of Determination

The other day a friend asked me, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get fired writing

about those two babies the way you do in your blog?”

…BIG PAUSE. (followed by) HMMM… (followed by) BIG IDEA

THINK BUBBLE…

You know, yesterday was actually so damn full of “Disney sweet happy” that

I really have nothing to blog about.  Good moods were had by all, pretty much for 9 hours straight, give or take a couple minor flare-ups.  It was weird.

As if every single care of theirs just melted away when I turned on Pandora and Toddler Radio.  We sang, clapped and danced into the afternoon to such hits like

Raffi’s “Down by the Bay” and Jewel’s version of “And the Green Grass Grows All Around”  and "Play Day" from her album The Merry Goes ‘Round. 

I never realized Jewel was a toddler phenomenon. Who knew?

Yesterday we had a play day! 

Sweet Pea, The Cousin and I got down.  The Cousin loves to dance.

Sweet Pea not so much. 

Sweet Pea’s thing is to stand up, though she’s not yet 7 months. 

Her determination is amazing and quite frankly, I wish some of us grown-ups had even a fraction of it.

Here’s an example:

She spots my backpack on the couch.  Yet, she has the attached pen of The Cousin’s  

toddler-type Etch A Sketch in her right hand and it’s clinched between her lil fingers 

like a jaw-grip. 

The same exact grip she had on my earring the first time we met, hence, I’m earring-less on Wednesdays.

Anyway, so she sees my bag and begins her infamous scoot-crawl toward it, using only 

her left hand on the carpet, as the right is gripping the pen and dragging the Etch A Sketch.  

She reaches the couch, balances herself with her left hand and presses her forehead into the couch cushion, using it for hand-like leverage to stand up.

And she f*#@king succeeds!  And the thing about Sweet Pea is; if you move her away from something she wants; be it, plastic bags, a knife on a counter, cleaning supplies…well, if it’s what she wants, she returns to it again and again. She’s determined and she doesn’t forget! This perturbs The Cousin because Sweet Pea usually wants what The Cousin is playing with.  Sound familiar?

I will climb these bars.

I will figure out how this damn thing opens.

 

I admire her 50 shades of determination.  It's 100% concentrated persistence and that's what it takes to make changes, to move mountains, to attain goals. What happened to yours and mine? 

Sweet Pea will make the unattainable attainable even though the baby books say she shouldn't be there yet.  She goes full-steam ahead, even though she crashes and burns.  Head bonking is not a deterrent.  She gets right back up.  The Cousin and I are amazed quite frankly.  

This little girl is something else. And I'm not just sayin that to keep my employment.  I look at her and I not only think determined, I think fearless.  

And again I wonder, what happened to mine?  

The Cousin exhibits determination as well, but not as much.  On Halloween, she was clearly determined not wear the sheep costume. Picture #1 indicates the start of her tool of choice: 

the tantrum.

Picture #2 is the full-on foot kicking and pounding of hands on the floor.  But she finally gave in and grandma was delighted.  I predict Sweet Pea won't give in when she hits the big age of 18 months.  Tough luck for grandma with that one.

Picture # 1

Picture # 2

I think it's good to reflect on our lives and the times that stand out with regard to our own personal persistence and determination. The times when we were over taken by huge jolts of both and we reached whatever goal we had our sights set on.  And then with that, came the most wonderful feeling of basking in the satisfaction of our own accomplishment.  

The best ones were of course the quiet ones; the ones we never told a soul. The ones we didn't need an award or recognition of any kind.  The ones where we felt contentment inside ourselves simply because we knew we had it in us.

Maybe we still do.

You can do it!

Life is good.

This song will give y'all a "jump start!" Perhaps offer up just the right amount of determination you might need to get going today!  Make something happen or at the very least, 

have a play day! 

Crank up the volume! ~tpg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSObrQZByo8&feature=colike

Word Up: The Cousin

I got the phone call at 7:45 a.m. on the day after the election…

"You only have one today. Sweet Pea is sick, so you only have The Cousin.”

SWEET JESUS! Truly a bonus morning! An Obama win!  A Yes on Prop 30! Todd Akin taking 

a legitimate loss! Same-Marriage wins in 4 states!  

But nothing, NOTHING spelled J O Y like the words “You only have one.”

It’s like don’t wake me up from this luscious dream I’m having.  Just tiptoe around the bed, PLEASE!

The Cousin calls me “Bau lee lee” and I hear her calling my name from the back of the apartment 

as soon as I arrive.  She comes out wearing pink tights and a fresh little “onesy" with tiny grey elephants on it.  She has severe “bed head.”  She doesn’t want to brush her teeth. 

She only wants to play with Bau lee lee.  I dig that.  

This morning, I put on a sad face and say to her, “Your cousin, Sweet Pea, is sick today.  

She isn’t coming over.” 

Inside, of course, I’m dancing so hard there's marks on the hardwood, but I’m way more mature than to let it show.

After the mom takes off, we begin our day with our morning beverages of choice and PBS’s  

Curious George, followed by Super Readers and Sesame Street. 

(Thank God Big Bird will continue to be partially federally funded.)

Today’s activity or “word up” in Elmo language is: E X E R C I S E.

We toss our bottles, get down off the couch and stand in the center of the room. 

First word up: S W I N G.  

We each extend our arms out, lock fingers of both hands together just like Pablo “The Panda” at bat and swing! 

1 2 3 4 strong, big girl swings and we’re good to go for the next word up:

B O U N C E.  We squat down at the knees and plunge upward like Blake Sheldon’s index finger…

1 2 3 4 5 times. WHEW! This feels great!  

Final word up: D A N C E.

And boy can The Cousin get down!  We dance way into the commercials, then take our boogie into the kitchen for our bowl of applesauce with cinnamon.

Life was going down a bump-free road until "the explosion" which The Cousin’s mom conveniently forgot to tell me had been happening for the last few days.

So, we're in the living room putting together an opposites puzzle, when B O O M!

Our eyes meet in a sort of emotionally troubled way, and without warning, 

some sort of wheat-colored flood starts seeping out of her elephant “onesy”.  I’m appalled.  

I scoop her up under her armpits and whisk her to the changing table.  

The smell is indescribable. 

She looks terrified and, of course, I begin recalling child development courses I took years ago.

They repeatedly talked about not making a big deal about excessive poop; not making the child feel bad or like something grotesque and horrific is actually coming out of their body.  

I begin saying things to The Cousin like, “It’s okay. It’s just poop. No biggie.” and “Everybody poops.” 

But with my tee shirt up over my nose, I start singing the A B C song.

She knows that song, damn it, but she’s not joining in.

There’s shit everywhere; down her legs, up her back, on the changing table, on my hands, 

and it’s rancid smelling.  It’s way worse than Sweet Pea’s. 

I start wiping with as many Wet-Ones as I can pull out of the package.  

“Word up for me?” T R A U M A T I Z E D. 

Soon I realize, we gotta get to the tub…

And a bathtub makes everything alright, doesn't it ladies? 

                      The Cousin seems to adjust quite well in the tub. I seem to need a cocktail.

Sometimes in life, you know, you just make-do; roll with the punches...make Citrus Martinis from lemons and all that stuff. I recall my mom saying that and it's true.  Whatever your profession or  "calling" in life...whatever obstacles you face, you just fake it til you make.

You just make-do. Word Up: A T T I T U D E and more so, I M P R O V I S E.

I remember, 5 years ago, when the trailer park was my personal little piece of heaven, 

we took a vacation with some pals to Mexico.  We ended up driving our little Chevy S-1 over 

to their house, which is situated in a very nice "low-crime" neighborhood.  We parked the truck there for the duration of our trip.  That was our first error in a trip, that would unforeseeably, host an endless string of comical errors.

But what we didn't expect was to find our truck's tailgate gone when we returned.

It was a clean job. No scratches on the truck. No dints or paint chips. Just a perfect steal.

Anyway, my partner was pissed but resourceful. She made-do.

You see there was a new prefab going in at 29, and when the workers were nowhere to be found, she, her jigsaw in hand, cut up a piece of 29's trailer siding to exact measurements, which made for easy sliding into the grooves of our pickup. 

That damn thing's held up for 5 years now! It does have some chips, as prefab siding is made of cheap, toxic shit, and we sometimes live in fear that, with the right amount of wind gust, 

that mutha might catch and fly up. But you know what? SO WHAT! It's not a big deal unless you're the guy behind us. We miss so much of life when we focus on the big deals.

Just like "Holy Shit! shit" isn't a big deal.  N I K E word up: Just do it! 

The important thing is taking action. Moving forward. Whether it's using our resources to make something useful. Whether it's handling an explosion whose point of origin is a diaper. Or whether it's just taking steps to make it through a difficult day...you can do it!

Word up: F O R T I T U D E!

~tpg

Elephants, Stars, Balloons: A Montage

                                                       This is how we begin our day.

Sweet Pea's content at the moment because she's guzzling a bottle full of her mom's freshly pumped breast milk. That's Lambie on The Cousin's lap. Or is it Lambert?  They all have f@#king names.

Lambert

Lambie

Sheepie

It's very important, during emotional meltdowns, (The Cousin's not mine) to know which one she wants.

The Cousin and I bonded big time yesterday while Sweet Pea was napping.

We played with scoops and shovels in bubble water...

And ate applesauce with mega doses of cinnamon.  

It's not that we don't enjoy Sweet Pea's company. But Sweet Pea has become a beast. Seriously. 

I've seen the change in just 2 short weeks.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, stops her from applying the 'bulldozer method'. Nothing gets in her way on the blanket. Nothing distracts her from her focus. Nothing says "unhappy" quite like this...

Sweet Pea's lungs are as massive as her body and she doesn't give a shit about the cutesy little Playskool toys, the PVC-free corn starch rattles, the soft plush bunnies, the teething rings.  

She now hates conventional infant toys.  She bypasses all of them, plowing through the childproof barricades, trampling every damn toy in her path, in order to get a tag, a Dasani h2o bottle, a magazine, 

the A+D diaper rash ointment tube or her cousin's feet.  All these items have one and only one destination: her mouth.

                  I didn't get to feed her the oatmeal.  Her mom's only "allowing" it at night.
Hmmm..trust issues with the nanny?  I did, however, secretly slip her a faint smear of The Cousin's banana and she about gnawed my finger to the bone, which pretty much told me,
bring it on!

And another thing.  Somehow, Sweet Pea didn't get the memo that states:
Babies crawl before they stand.
This presents a problem for the nanny as you might imagine, because she's pulling herself up on everything, at a jackrabbit's pace, and of course, what goes up...quickly goes SPLAT.

You know, choice words do go through my head, but I can't say what I'm thinking when it all falls apart, because The Cousin is a f@!#ing parrot and I'll get fired.
But when Sweet Pea bonks her head, all hell breaks loose.

Sweet Pea eating a red chair.

Sweet Pea eating a book appropriately titled.

The Cousin has many strengths, but her forte is not clean-up time.  She actually dislikes clean-up time with a passion. I'm trying to set a good example, but the god's truth is, clean-up time's not my specialty either.

Basically yesterday was all about primal survival.  When I got them both in the double stroller (with the help of Sweet Pea's mom and the grandma, both of whom conveniently dropped by to see if I was above water) it was as if a melodic breeze and the motion of a moving stroller worked some sort of wizardry and they both conked out.  When I'm walking with them, I do everything humanly possible
to avoid loud noises such as barking dogs and sirens.  I even silence my cell. Yesterday, I could have stabbed this dude in the jugular and left his body for the crows.  He was using a leaf blower inches away from us.
When Sweet Pea started to stir a bit, my deodorant instantly lost all effectiveness.
"I'm gonna kill that mutha if he wakes them up." 
Upon returning home, I had to carefully lift the monstrosity of a stroller up over several large cement steps to get them inside without waking them. Once in the front door, I wheeled the whole damn thing into the back bedroom, put on the humidifier for background noise and closed the door.  I then proceeded to stuff my face with carob covered malt balls and stare catatonically at Dr. Phil.
I'm sure all the stay-at-home moms or insane nannies all across America were doing the same.
I'd probably sum up "Nanny hood" with this simple one-word logline:
S O S!

It's like the army.  5-minute showers. A wipe of the drool with your own shirt sleeve.  A spoonful of cereal on the run. You can't even take a piss alone.
The Cousin follows me into the bathroom and watches.
And because I can't leave Sweet Pea alone on the floor anymore, I have to either harness her in the Johnny Jumper or strap her in the swing and that goes over like a fart in church.

Well, that's the story on this morning after. It's no joke that I was asleep last night by 8 pm.
I do have one last pic for the montage. I'm teaching The Cousin how to change a diaper.
(I wasn't born yesterday y'all and I see it as beneficial)
So, it isn't age-appropriate. So the hell what!
I think she'll be ready to help me out next week.
~tpg

The Cousin "in training."

"Sucka!"

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

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