Jeff and I have been away for the past several days on Captiva Island, Florida (endless beaches, piña coladas and naps… ahhhh…) My house is being cared for by the A team consisting of my mother at night, the thirteen year old dog walker for Penelope and my college bound babysitter during the day. From what I hear, things are going quite well.
Too well, actually.
I have not received one tear-filled phone call, urgent text or emergency e-mail. I blame my sitter.
My children have gone to the zoo and to the aquarium and to art camp. They’ve been to the library and the bookstore and the park. My mom, who normally does laundry at our house, hasn’t even had a chance to tackle it because my babysitter keeps the basket empty. She washes and dries and actually folds rather than simply stuffing everything into drawers. She loads and unloads the dishwasher and puts everything back where it goes rather than leaving it all on the counters. She’s got the boys on a nap schedule and they’ve been bathed each day. Oh, yes. My babysitter is a better mother than I am. By a lot.
If I take all three of the kids out to the farm or zoo or wherever, by the end of it, I’m exhausted. My sitter takes them out for four hours, brings them home for lunch and then takes them out again. I couldn’t handle that without some sort of upper in between. During the summer, the kids are lucky if they get bathed every other day (pool water totally counts right?) but she keeps them fresh and clean daily. And a schedule? What’s that? I’ve never had my children on any such thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has them on a raw food diet by now. It’s humiliating.
It’s a good thing we’ll be home today so I can fuck them up all over again. Like any good mother.
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