The Not So Sugary Truth

When I decided to walk away from college before my senior year, there wasnt an ounce of hesitation in my heart nor a doubt in my mind.

Others were not so sure.

People wondered how long I'd "babysit" before getting a real job.

And while I don't have a 401k match program or large group medical benefits, I can assure you that there is nothing more real than the responsibility and privilege of the work I do each day.

Ive been called a servant and someone's personal bitch and a babysitter and a spineless doormat.

Please ask the kids I care for who and what I am: they will tell you I'm the person that taught them how to ride a bike without training wheels, I'm the person that prepares thoughtfully homemade meals 3x a day, I'm the person that begins the morning with a smile and a hug for every child, every day. They will tell you I'm a champion at fort building, scheduling, and Scrabble. I read to and with them each day and through gritted teeth, they will even tell you that I'm the person that takes away electronics, unplugs XBoxes, and sits them down for those tough to have This Is Unacceptable discipline talks.

I've been called a Fill In Parent. And while flattering, it is also untrue. You see, I am no one's bitch and I am no parental replacement. Because I've been grinding and hauling and poopy diaper changing for long enough that I don't have to work for just anyone. I choose not to work for lazy or absentee parents because that's a shipwreck that I can't change the course of.

Been there, done that.

But the not so sweet truth of what I do is that I'm not a fill in parent for one main reason. And it's the thing you're not supposed to say: I do it better.

That's not a judgment, it's a fact.

I could not go to the office of any of my employers and do what they do. Because I'm not an executive, I'm not a finance whiz, and I'm not a ruthless business person.

I am a Nanny.

Boogers on the shoulder of my shirt, sticky handprints across the thighs of my pants, and probably a Dora The Explorer bandaid stuck to the bottom of my boot: loud and proud, I am a Nanny.

A professional one with more than a decade of experience and instinct and Babies Should Sleep In Their Own Beds knowledge.

Where parents have every right to let little Tommy watch the Backyardigans for a moment of peace or even a shower, I dont have that right. Where McDonalds is easy and convenient and super practical when you're running around to hockey practice, a choir concert, and school to pickup the homework Tommy left in his locker, I don't have that right.

Where parents are human, I am expected to be superhuman.

I am paid to wear the cape.

Each day, I dont just show up and do my work. I excel and I give it every ounce of my every effort and when thats not good enough, I dig deeper. I fold another load of laundry, I play Barbies AGAIN, I do something that's not really my job but is helpful and needed.

You see, being a Nanny means not saying, "that's not my job." It means coming early, staying late, and giving up your free time to showup at Tommy's football game on Saturday because it means something to him that you came. That you care. Even when not on the pay clock, these kids come before all else.

My job description is never ending because my job is whatever is best for the kids. Which means yes, I break my neck to keep Moms happy and cared for and I believe in that. No one believes in Moms and family more than me.

And I can only hope that someday, I can be as good of a Mom as I am a Nanny.

Generation gap

This is an actual snippet from the actual dinner table conversation that went on in my house last night.

C: have you seen the new Rory and Tiger commercial?

Me: no I haven't why?

(pulls up YouTube. and I'm thinking ok, crap, now I have to watch the commercial and try to look interested)

C: see it's really kind of funny how the media and the public are trying to make it look like there's a rivalry going on between these two guys.

M: staring blankly. Trying to remember to blink and look alive.

C: I mean, there actually IS a friendship and that's real. they just played together for the first time last year and they truly are friends now. But the press is trying to make it look like a rivalry.

M: like Britney and Christina.

..crickets...

I dare you not to cry like the little baby that you are

Watch "Wrestler With Cerebral Palsy Wins Wrestling Match After Opponent Allows Jared Stevens to Pin Him" on YouTube

I hope to God that I raise children with enough character and heart to put others first this way. Not in a pity sort of way, but in a courageous and selfless kind of way.

Heck, I hope I someday have this much integrity.

Puppies and Arsenic Filled Gumdrops

Along with the infuriatingly GLACIAL PACE OF MOVEMENT that came along with Chris was a fluffer nugget puppy named Snoop. D-O-Double-G.

Snoop is the kid that gets in trouble in class because he's too smart for basic multiplication tables. He needs to juggle bone China with one paw, perform long division with decimals with the other, and jump up in down in concentric circles all at once to be adequately entertained.

 

God love him, Snoop is one enormous pain in the ass.

 

At the mere sight of a shoe or the reach for a set of keys, he loses his composure. Barking and whimpering and jumping and totally losing his freaking marbles. We have tried pheramone collars and mists, Quiet Moments calming tablets, a bark collar, and putting him in a different room while we work. A ROOM you proper dog owners say.

 

Why yes. Because two summers ago, during a thunderstorm during which Chris and I were away, Snoop took his tiny teeth and tried to chew himself out of his metal crate. Not only did he wreck his teeth, but he tried to jam his head out of the opening and instead pierced his neck with broken metal.

 

Sad and tragic, yes. But more than anything, infuriating and idiotic.

 

We moved him to the kitchen and put up a baby gate to keep him in. We then came home to find that he chewed the buttons and knob off of the dishwasher.

 

Chris and I can't sit next to each other on the couch, no. Snoop doesn't like it when people touch. Not when they touch anyone/thing that isn't him, anyway.

 

Snoop is an attention whore.

 

He's a 16lb ball of fluffy love and over enthusiasm. Surely, he is more human that canine.

 

He understands calendars- predicting which days and times we will leave for work. He anticipates goodbye kisses in the morning and bedtime cuddling. If Chris and I scoot too close?

 

OH NO YOU DON'T, HUMANS!

 

Snoop will throw his entire body down in between mine and Chris's. No joke. A canine cock block.

 

Sigh.

 

Guys. Real dog owners. Miracle Workers. Save me. Snoop is the asshole step child I never really asked for and now have to deal with his bad behavior. I love him endlessly: he's funny and loving and full of character. But his bad behavior actually changes the tone of our day. Snoop is our fur baby- the most doted on member of our family trio-- but another decade with this snippy, yappy, chaotic interruption of human life is unfathomable.

 

 

Warm Your Bellies With This Liquid Gold

About a year ago, after one of those I simply cannot stand you Sundays with Chris, we tromped into a Panera Bread where the mere thought of speaking with him about what I was going to order raised my blood pressure. In an attempt to send one of those I'm too angry to eat temper tantrums messages, I ordered a cup- not bowl, CUP- of tomato soup knowing I wouldn't like it and then could slam down my spoon, food uneaten, and glare at him while he consumed his Cuban sandwich.

Much to my surprise, I did like it! I did like tomato soup, Sam I am!

Since then, I've discovered that Costco makes a delicious version, only it leans on the salty side. I have tried a couple of homemade versions. Buttery ones. Creamy ones. Backyard herb garden basil-y ones. Even some with silly French cafe names. All were meh, but none that tickled me quite like that Panera Bread cupful.

Then THIS happened. And why I am surprised, I don't know. Of course Ina Garten would come up with a blue ribbon worthy version of such a simple, comforting meal.

Yes, I do recognize that the term "grilled cheese croutons" implies a certain amount of Laissez Faire-ness towards any sort of dietary consideration. But people! The winter months are upon us, the days are brief and cloudy, moods lethargic and anxious for something sparklier and more festive than the lingering days of Fall.

For a mere 4 cups of stock and just one simple can of San Marzano tomatoes, this recipe produces quite a lot of soup. And that orzo? OH, THAT ORZO! I questioned it initially, but it truly does change the landscape of something that could otherwise be consumed by straw. So fire up your giant soup spoon, folks, you're going to wish you had a shovel for this one!

Pink Peonies Go With Everything if You Want Anyone With a Penis to Sleep in Your Bed Never

 

Since the chances of me marrying a man that will allow pink and purple and orange FLORAL BEDDING are absolutely nill, I shall instead pin this beautiful bedding and quietly pout about yet another Pin that I'll never have.

 

Dear Pinterest,

 

You have ruined an entire Nation's concept of real life. I hope you're so pleased with yourself that you go bake yourself an Oreo stuffed chocolate chip cookie marshmallow and go eat it at the table you whittled yourself from the organic Sugar Maple trees you grew in your raised bed backyard forest.