My daughter’s a nanny.
I used to take care of little children a long time ago.
I referred to my most overwhelming day of the week, a handful of five-year-old boys and a two-year-old girl, as Black Thursday.
All day long, everyday, she has three under the age of two-and-a-half.
The youngest, a seven-month-old boy is now crawling several miles a day, usually he’s chasing her. He’s begun growling. She’s not sure why.
Phone calls are always interesting. Sometimes Elmo sings in the background. The A-B-C song is a reoccurring classic. Other times the pitter-patter of little feet and chitter-chatter of sweet little voices fills the earpiece like Muzak in an elevator.
Silence means its nap-time.
One day I had to lay the phone down, and when I picked it up, she didn’t know I’d come back.
She was in the middle of a serious conversation with the youngest, then five-months-old. “Listen, the girls and I took a vote. It’s unanimous. You need to get a new hobby. If not, we’re voting you off the island.”
Apparently, before he could crawl and cling, he was very vocal about not being held constantly.
I just received an e-mail from her. She closed it “the little bald tribal leader’s banging on a toy and chanting! So I should go!"
She probably should have voted him off the island before he learned to growl.
Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.