Before I begin, I’d like to thank the hundreds upon hundreds of faithful readers who sent encouraging emails promising that the rest of the week would be better. Clearly, you really care. Although, I am disappointed that after having birthed more than 100 posts my top-viewed post is “look at my boobs.”
Today, as my way of appeasing your cravings for words and breasts (hopefully in that order), I’ve given you a little of both. Do you like how that works?
Anyway. The nanny’s tardiness as of late has been stressing me—so badly that by the time she arrives I am sweating profusely and suffering from terrible heartburn (are you having trouble concentrating?). Handing your kid off to a nanny is hard enough without covering what time he woke, what he ate for breakfast, when he last pooed, what kind of mood he’s in, and 100 other various things while you’re racing towards your car.
Yesterday, be still my fragile ticker, she was on time. Why? Because I finally asked her to be.
It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?
What you don’t know is that for the last week I have been pestering Chuck with my incessant questions: Should I say something about her being late? Should he? Should Junior? He kept telling me I was being ridiculous but, to be perfectly honest, I was scared. You know how when you complain to a waiter that your soup is cold and he smiles nicely and says it's not problem but it really is a problem and he and the cook laugh and spit and Lord knows what else in your soup back in the kitchen because you had to open your big mouth? I was worried it would be like that.
What if she pinched Junior hard on his fat arms? Made him sit in the litter box? You know, sneaky mean things. You just don’t know these days.
All day at work I sweated and downed Tums. And then I heard Chuck’s sweet—although mildly patronizing—voice: “Trust someone until they give you a reason not to.”
Grammar aside, he’s got a point. It’s a much better outlook, and it doesn’t leave you mentally exhausted. Think about it for a minute while you gaze lovingly upon the ample bosom below.
When I got home I found that Diana had spent the afternoon coloring with the boys. She had even saved Junior’s “drawing” and labeled it “Jager,” along with the date. She had also taken the boys on a long walk and couldn’t wait to tell me how they’d held hands and giggled for most of it.
Chuck was right! It is better to trust and relax than obsess and panic. And as soon as I get Junior’s drawing back from the handwriting analysis people I’m going to tell him so.
(About the boob thing, I don't feel too bad. This blogger's most popular post was about butts. Can we manage to get out of the gutter for like 0.2 seconds?)
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