Good help

You just can't find good help these days... or so I thought.

I'm not going to tell you her name.
I'm not going to tell you her number.
I'm not going to tell you her price.
Go find your own person.  She's mine. Alllllllllll mine.

Because I work weekends, finding child heaven for Ashton and Reagan wasn't enough.  We had to find someone who was great with kids, available, and reliable to be our extra set of hands for five full days and five pick up days a month.  Somehow, among all of the murderous weirdos, we found our Nanny McPhee.

She's a ball of energy, a smile from ear to ear, creative, attentive, and wonderful.  She's the kind of person who makes being a parent look like a breeze.  Someone who should have kids and lots of 'em.  She has two children, one who is almost 4 and one who is almost 1, so their ages work well with our two.  Nanny McPhee's husband is supportive and understanding, which is also rare, and is usually with her when she has all four kids. She treats our kids like her own, and since she has a natural gift for parenting, our kids are in love with her.  They do crafts, go to the park, go swimming, and much, much more. 

Again, you can't have her.

I'll slash your tires and leave flaming diapers on your doorstep, so just don't try, ok?

Anyway...

When I come home and the kids run to me screaming my name and wanting "up," I always feel like a million bucks.  But when McPhee's there, the kids have a little less pep in their step when I come to through the door. At first, working mother's guilt tightened my chest and turned my stomach into knots.

Do they have more fun with her?  Am I losing my touch?

No, of course not.  I know that my kids love me... and thanks to a little developmental milestone called infant-parent attachment, the kids will love me pretty much no matter what I do... But the more I've thought about it, the more I want the kids to love their part-time sitter.  If they love her, I know she is caring for them in a way that I would.  If they kicked her out the door upon my arrival, I'd worry about how she really treats the kids.

So yeah, she's so awesome that I am competing with her, and that's just fine with me.

Here for the Potty.

I will never forget potty training Ashton.  I was convinced that potty training was a full-contact sport.  I was constantly hearing "PEE-PEE" and would yank up my little man, sprinting to the bathroom, planning my hose-management as I ran.  There was always pee somewhere: the floor, the seat, the wall... you get the drift.  This time around couldn't be more different, just as you might predict.  Reagan decided one morning that she was going to use the potty and really without very much coaxing, she's been going consistently on it since.

Ashton was totally interested in potty training, something that Reagan lacks, as it seems like she's just doing it because that's what your supposed to do.  Booooorrring...  Where is the giggle of delight when a trickling noise fills the bathroom?  Where's the thrill of finding poop laying in Elmo's basin?  Totally gone.  She's so over it.  I keep making this huge deal about everything, while she looks at me with the enthusiastic smile of 16 year old who catches the eye of her mom chaperoning the homecoming dance.

Nevertheless, it is nice to have our kids potty train themselves.  I don't know what that means about the adults around here... Is it weird to still be jazzed at 28 and 31?  We must be having a little too much fun doing our business, but hey, life's short.  We're here for the potty.

Grateful for friends!

Obviously since I work now, I have less time to spend with my SAHM friends.  Luckily, I had a chance to see two of my favs on one of my days off.  I'm pretty sure I had more fun than the kids, and was almost talked out by the end of it!  This is yet another example of my job being part of an amazing plan.  I'll save the job update for another post, but wanted to share a few pictures from our visit.

The kids love these cars and even though Dana's tall, she managed to do a great job of being the official playdate taxi.  

 Noah's a chick magnet in this jeep and would not get out of that thing for 100 cookies.  Though I caught him with his hands on the steering wheel, he preferred riding hands free, as any gangsta would.

Andrea playing a game of hide-and-seek, which was adorable. Though the kids are really terrible at hiding, they didn't seem to notice. 

Testing my dedication.

Last night was like a scene from a movie; there was vomit everywhere.  Ashton threw up on a soundly sleeping Reagan.  Reagan threw up on a soundly sleeping Jimmy.  Jimmy threw up in every bathroom in the house.  And I was the vomit catching, hair washing, back rubbing slave through it all.  Thank the good Lord that I only felt sick and didn't ever get sick, because then we'd be out of hands to hold barf bowls for the kids.  I was damn close to putting both kids on the kitchen floor with two bowls and leaving them there to fend for themselves. I mean, after the first 10 times using the bowl, they knew the drill.  Besides, by that time, it was all dry-heaving, so the mess would likely be limited...

This morning, I called my mom to thank her for all the times she had a similar experience with me, because it takes love. Real love.