Listen, my children, and you will hear
the infamous booty call of Mikey-dear.
It started with potty at a neighbor's house
And a boy, not timid, unlike most mouse.
Who stated "You may not wipe my rear.
Please call my Mommy or Daddy dear."
The sitter, perplexed, did dial the phone
And found that the husband was, indeed, home.
Out the front door, across the grass
To wipe a little lad's smallish ***.
Mission accomplished! To home, returned
Grateful the privacy lesson was learned.
Listen, my children, and you will hear
A new lesson taught, one so dear
To kindergarten teachers across the land
and babysitters young and bronzed with tan.
A lesson including "Wipe front to rear!"
And laughter from parents who needed to steer
Their littlest boy to booty-wiping
And way, far away, from adult griping.
Listen, my children, and really take heed.
If you desire to not follow our steed.
Put toilet paper in your little one's hands
The minute you move away from diaper land.
Showing posts with label babysitting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babysitting. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
A lovely shade of gray
"It's GRAAAAYYYYYY" is what ushered from my mouth, when an errant hair was sticking straight out, in front of my eyes, while I tried to type today. I had just had my hair done and, based on the amount of mousse, hairspray and the general lack of humidity in the air, every hair should have been perfectly in place.
Not this little guy. He was standing at attention like a member of General Patton's army. No doubt, to get my ATTENTION.
Tugging gingerly, he fell into my little hand and looked, shall I say, ODD. Odd as in NOT BROWN, like the rest of the hair on my planetoid of a head.
Now, just last year, I think the race to grayville began. I, however, have been in complete denial, based on the following:
1. My first hint that there may be a little multi-color action going on was at a charity event. It was the first time Mike and I had been out, dressed up beyond Sunday morning, in FOREVER*. This was a food-lovers dream of a party, too. Cocktail hour with heavy hor devours (and an open bar), salad before the meal (with wine), first course (with a new wine), second course (ANOTHER wine), and dessert (with a choice of PORT!!)
I had a little bit of every liquor available.
Mike probably had a drink during the hor devours, then he switched to "designated driver and lucky husband with a slightly drunken-wife" mode. But, being one Tanqueray and tonic ahead of him, I ignored the following comments, made post-first drink from the open bar:
Mike: "Look. How cute! You have gray hairs!**"
Me (dryly): "Very funny."
Mike: "No, really. There, in your part. Just a few. Aren't they CUTE?"
Me: "Waiter? (pointing to glass) Another, please?"
Not exactly the time/place you want date-boy pointing out your impending status as a hot-momma in a nursing home.
Being a little, "under the influence", shall we say, I figured he had NO IDEA what he was talking about and chalked it up to poor hotel lighting.
2. My birth Mother has absolutely no gray in her hair AT ALL. I thought I had won the gene lottery after I met her. I'm normally not a lucky person. So, how in Sam Hill, did I get so fortunate?
Problem is, I've never met my birth FATHER. He could have goose feather grays all over his head, be bald as a baby, or have a comb-over he can't let go of. At this point, I just don't know.
But, I've been betting on birth Mom's genes to help me slide into Heaven with cow poo brunette hair.
Looks like I'll be sliding with CLAIROL "Bodacious brown #67" after all.
By the way, when we arrived home after swanky charity event, I walked my best straight line through the kitchen, past the babysitter****, and straight to bed.
What happened there is none of your business. It's just between my gray head and my husband's impossibly thick, wavy when it is too long, brown and GRAY hair.
Atop his head that is four years YOUNGER than mine.
HA.
*and a day.
**After you have kids, you never really have a hair-do, so it's virtually impossible, UNLESS you attend a hoity-toity party, for your husband to know if the color of your hair is a result of dirt, spit-up or lack of washing.
****Whom I acknowledged and slurred to.
Not this little guy. He was standing at attention like a member of General Patton's army. No doubt, to get my ATTENTION.
Tugging gingerly, he fell into my little hand and looked, shall I say, ODD. Odd as in NOT BROWN, like the rest of the hair on my planetoid of a head.
Now, just last year, I think the race to grayville began. I, however, have been in complete denial, based on the following:
1. My first hint that there may be a little multi-color action going on was at a charity event. It was the first time Mike and I had been out, dressed up beyond Sunday morning, in FOREVER*. This was a food-lovers dream of a party, too. Cocktail hour with heavy hor devours (and an open bar), salad before the meal (with wine), first course (with a new wine), second course (ANOTHER wine), and dessert (with a choice of PORT!!)
I had a little bit of every liquor available.
Mike probably had a drink during the hor devours, then he switched to "designated driver and lucky husband with a slightly drunken-wife" mode. But, being one Tanqueray and tonic ahead of him, I ignored the following comments, made post-first drink from the open bar:
Mike: "Look. How cute! You have gray hairs!**"
Me (dryly): "Very funny."
Mike: "No, really. There, in your part. Just a few. Aren't they CUTE?"
Me: "Waiter? (pointing to glass) Another, please?"
Not exactly the time/place you want date-boy pointing out your impending status as a hot-momma in a nursing home.
Being a little, "under the influence", shall we say, I figured he had NO IDEA what he was talking about and chalked it up to poor hotel lighting.
2. My birth Mother has absolutely no gray in her hair AT ALL. I thought I had won the gene lottery after I met her. I'm normally not a lucky person. So, how in Sam Hill, did I get so fortunate?
Problem is, I've never met my birth FATHER. He could have goose feather grays all over his head, be bald as a baby, or have a comb-over he can't let go of. At this point, I just don't know.
But, I've been betting on birth Mom's genes to help me slide into Heaven with cow poo brunette hair.
Looks like I'll be sliding with CLAIROL "Bodacious brown #67" after all.
By the way, when we arrived home after swanky charity event, I walked my best straight line through the kitchen, past the babysitter****, and straight to bed.
What happened there is none of your business. It's just between my gray head and my husband's impossibly thick, wavy when it is too long, brown and GRAY hair.
Atop his head that is four years YOUNGER than mine.
HA.
*and a day.
**After you have kids, you never really have a hair-do, so it's virtually impossible, UNLESS you attend a hoity-toity party, for your husband to know if the color of your hair is a result of dirt, spit-up or lack of washing.
****Whom I acknowledged and slurred to.
Monday, August 17, 2009
That's with a "J", thank you
I used to babysit for a doctor, his nurse-cum-housemaker wife, and their three girls. It was during this period in my life I had the realization that, if my body produced all girls, I might just throw myself off something HIGH.
It's not that I couldn't handle the little darlings. It was that I didn't UNDERSTAND them. They were WHINY, high-pitched screamers who were prone to crying fits, unlike the boys I babysat for who just wanted to roughhouse, spit, and generally try to gross me out. With only a brother at home, this latter environment made sense to me.*
But, with all their shortcomings, I still enjoyed BEING with the doctor's girls. We had fun playing Barbies, braiding hair, and telling secrets. As long as bedtime wasn't too far from the time I arrived, I was able to keep my sanity.
Their Mom, on the other hand, never quite won my heart.
Every time I babysat, that woman wrote a check to me. Each time she spelled my name "Gill". As a teenager, I just dismissed it as a spelling issue and I, respectfully, NEVER corrected her. Sure, it annoyed me--all the way to the mall.
As a phonics-Mom, I realize she was way too intelligent, with her nursing degree and all, to chronically make this error. There is a big difference between pronouncing "G" and "J"**.
Yet, in case I thought she was the only person who learned pronunciation from a hair-lipped woman from Transylvania, I was lucky enough to cross paths with these fine folk:
This same town boasted a great friend whose Dad put fires in the "chimley". I'm glad he never "burled" down the house.
A close relative had co-workers who offered her "uranges" the first day she worked with them. I think they must eat "Ureos" when they need a good snack.
Mike would like to put a plant on the "window seal" above the cabinets that have "pools". I can't figure out where in the hell he is living, but it's not in the house with the "windowsills" and drawer "pulls".
Dr. B, the phonics guru, states that English is the most difficult of all languages to learn. Just because I've always been fascinated by language and, therefore, have studied it more than the average Joe, I shouldn't be such a hard-butt when people make pronunciation errors. I really should give everyone a break.
But, then, blog reader, you wouldn't be reading this post today. I CAN'T let you down. I WILL continue my evil ways and sacrifice so YOU have something to read.
Today, the girls I used to babysit are likely Moms; sometimes I wonder what happened to them. Did they have girls of their own? Where do they live? Did they ever realize how often I put them to bed early after changing the clock on the stove to "prove" it was 7:30?
Likely, I'll never know.
I just really hope they found "jynocolojist" in the phone book when they became "prejnant".
*Now you know why God graced me with boys.
**I know you are trying it, so, admit it, I'M RIGHT.
It's not that I couldn't handle the little darlings. It was that I didn't UNDERSTAND them. They were WHINY, high-pitched screamers who were prone to crying fits, unlike the boys I babysat for who just wanted to roughhouse, spit, and generally try to gross me out. With only a brother at home, this latter environment made sense to me.*
But, with all their shortcomings, I still enjoyed BEING with the doctor's girls. We had fun playing Barbies, braiding hair, and telling secrets. As long as bedtime wasn't too far from the time I arrived, I was able to keep my sanity.
Their Mom, on the other hand, never quite won my heart.
Every time I babysat, that woman wrote a check to me. Each time she spelled my name "Gill". As a teenager, I just dismissed it as a spelling issue and I, respectfully, NEVER corrected her. Sure, it annoyed me--all the way to the mall.
As a phonics-Mom, I realize she was way too intelligent, with her nursing degree and all, to chronically make this error. There is a big difference between pronouncing "G" and "J"**.
Yet, in case I thought she was the only person who learned pronunciation from a hair-lipped woman from Transylvania, I was lucky enough to cross paths with these fine folk:
This same town boasted a great friend whose Dad put fires in the "chimley". I'm glad he never "burled" down the house.
A close relative had co-workers who offered her "uranges" the first day she worked with them. I think they must eat "Ureos" when they need a good snack.
Mike would like to put a plant on the "window seal" above the cabinets that have "pools". I can't figure out where in the hell he is living, but it's not in the house with the "windowsills" and drawer "pulls".
Dr. B, the phonics guru, states that English is the most difficult of all languages to learn. Just because I've always been fascinated by language and, therefore, have studied it more than the average Joe, I shouldn't be such a hard-butt when people make pronunciation errors. I really should give everyone a break.
But, then, blog reader, you wouldn't be reading this post today. I CAN'T let you down. I WILL continue my evil ways and sacrifice so YOU have something to read.
Today, the girls I used to babysit are likely Moms; sometimes I wonder what happened to them. Did they have girls of their own? Where do they live? Did they ever realize how often I put them to bed early after changing the clock on the stove to "prove" it was 7:30?
Likely, I'll never know.
I just really hope they found "jynocolojist" in the phone book when they became "prejnant".
*Now you know why God graced me with boys.
**I know you are trying it, so, admit it, I'M RIGHT.
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