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.