How to give a Hedgehog a manicure...and 7 other things I wish I didn't know.

There comes a time in every nanny's day when she stops and says..."Why in the World am I doing this??"

"This" takes the place of many things. There's the obvious: "why am I taking care of other people's children-this" and then the not so obvious "why am I trying to explain to the mechanic how two five year olds managed to dump (approximately) 45 marbles into a gas tank without me noticing-this"...

Most of my moments of "why this" are found in the not so obvious category.

Why this #1:  Frank the hedgehog is a particularly ornery member of the category of spiny mammals of the subfamily Erinaceinae and the order Erinaceomorpha.  He resides at 703 West Avenue in a wire cage decorated with 17 glitter care bear stickers, 6 army men, and 3 year old tri-colored macaroni necklaces.  I would be ornery too.  

Now Frank is particularly precarious pet for 7 small children.  [Of course so is a four foot reticulated python-but we can tell-- I certainly don't pick the pets.]  

One day some of the children had Frank out for a spin in the plastic ball of doom (named so by me after the guinea pig/stairs incident...that was a dark day) and as they toured the downstairs living room I noticed a persistent clicky scratchy sound from the pbd (plastic ball of doom) and then...strange silence punctuated by a soft click every couple of seconds. Now I'm sure a certain number of clicks and scratches is to be expected from an animal completely covered in spiny quills that has been placed in a plastic ball and rolled around a hardwood floor.  But consistency in sound is so important with this many child handlers...when the noise stops you know there is trouble afoot. 

Sure enough poor Frank had become so terrified that he had dug into the plastic ball of doom with all his little claws and was now suspended upside down mid roll over....all quills out.  He looked like the spiky nucleus of some strange and foreign atom.

How does one extract a pissed hedgehog that is embedded in plastic? (besides the obvious answer "carefully" I was out of my element) I shooed the handlers outside and placed the ball-Frank still suspended-in his cage.  I thought maybe he'd calm down in a few and un-stick himself.  No such luck.  Four hours later I loaded up 7 children and one-still petrified and stuck-hedgehog into the car and headed for the vets. 

They managed to extract poor Frank.  The vet recommended that we trim his nails before letting him roll around in the pbd.  

And how does one give a hedgehog a mani/pedi...

Turns out you gently turn the cage over until their little legs hang out the top-and presto...you clip the tiny toes as they chill.

The other six incidents to follow....

M&M Drag Queen

As some of you know...I am a nanny for seven children.  

Seven lovely children.

And after today I don't think I shall be able to eat M&Ms without laughing and crying at the same time.  Math and mothers can tell you that when you have a large enough group of children-one or two of them will emerge as the "odd" ones.  In groups of three or less-the "odd" one may manifest as a little girl that is an overly dramatic starlet...or a boy who still sucks his thumb and plays football in the seventh grade.

But in groups of seven +...weird has to be really weird to get proper attention, otherwise you're lost in the shuffle of arms, legs, and other kids' boogers.  Well my friends-my seven children can do weird, strange, eccentric, and hilarious with their little fingers.  Today was no exception.

Today it was raining...and not the light friendly spring rain that I can justify kicking them out in for thirty minutes while I glue my hair back to my head...this was the nasty-can't-go-out-therefore-must-go-crazy-inside kind of rain.  So I turned to every nanny's nightmare.  Give them whatever toy they want to keep peace in a room that is 11x15.  Yaay. 

First it was dominoes. But they began to use those as replacement cartridges in the nerf weapons and it was starting to leave marks on the walls and various siblings.

Second we tried army guys and the dollhouse.  But the army guys led a pretty ambitious charge on the dollhouse and the girls beat them senseless.  I had to put one boy on top of the bookcase for safekeeping...the two year old was out for blood and he was wearing shorts.

Finally-in desperation, I raided the attic.  I struck gold with a chest of old dress up clothes. Now this family buys a lot of stuff (groceries, tp, etc...) in bulk. Dress up clothes were no exception.  Their mom had a habit of clearing Party City out when the Halloween costumes went on super duper clearance.  Which will explain the seven M&M costumes.  They were stuffed amongst other treasures...Seven brightly colored representatives of rainbowed chocolately goodness. This was going to be fun.  

The hardest part was talking the 11 year old into one of them for the picture session.  I wanted him to be red because I was trying to get them to pose in rainbow color order. No dice. He wanted brown because it looked less like "dork candy" and more like a "stinky poo pile"...which is somehow more preferred in the realm of almost adolescent boys.  I wrestled them all in the foam circles of wonder...and began snapping pictures.  Beth learned that even though it was a candy costume it did not taste like candy. She lost interest and went back to remodeling the dollhouse.  Soon one by one they abandoned their M&Ms to fish out more flashy or robust pieces from the costume trunk-letting their bright colored shells fall by the wayside.

All of them accept for Ethan.  He preferred to simply accessorize the M&M.  He was Bright Orange. And soon he was bright orange with a pink princess hat-complete with veil, pink boa, and red power ranger gloves.  He looked like an M&M in drag.  I nearly hit the floor dying of laughter.  On my way back to the kitchen to get my inhaler, I passed his father in the hall-without thinking-I pointed to the den, and kept staggering and laughing my way down the hall.

[now as a side note: the children's father is a conservative, religious, republican-with little to no sense of humor where boys and pink are concerned. Having said that-he is a good father and he loves his children-but in this house-boys play with boy toys and girls play with whatever they want.]

His father did not find the M&M drag queen very funny and promptly told Ethan to stop playing with his sisters' things.  Ethan quietly began to disrobe.  He fished out a black X-man suit complete with fake muscles.  He looked quite handsome.  A little while later I glanced up from the kitchen island counter where I was preparing lunch to see a much more "manly" Ethan come into the kitchen. He cruised around the island followed by a clicking noise. I thought it must be some sort of manly weapon accessory.  No such luck.  He had quietly accessorized with the pink lucite heels-complete with feather toes.  He got about halfway round the kitchen before his father noticed the clicky clacking wasn't from a sword.  Firmly he was told to lose his sister's heels.  With a seemingly blank expression he merely shrugged at his father, flashed me a grin Cher would have been proud of-then raced off in the direction of the den....tiny pink glitter fairy wings were strapped to the bulging back muscles of the black super hero suit.  

Rock on boy wonder-rock on.

The Nature of the Gift scares me.

The symbiotic nature of the collective should always be valued for its intrensic ability to calm and sooth. 

in other words...

when my Daddy pays for my tires I really appreciate it.  I don't deserve it-I have a job-granted it doesn't pay much-but still...I could have found a way somehow...

But I have a Dad who takes care of his girls. All five of them. Its one of the Big small ways he shows us he loves us.

Which brings me to two different things.

The first is, in this day and age of hyperfeminism, it is important to remember to not include all men in the bastard category.  

And second of all: 

every now and again it is necessary to practice the art of receiving. Take it how you will. But I think some of us have a hard time accepting help. It is difficult and it can make us feel like less of a "person". 

But standing in the tire store with the grizzled oil stained mechanic handing me my keys with a smile and telling me to watch out of those curbs that "just jump right out in front of yah" made be realize how thankful I am for help. 

every now and again.

this is me-reminding you to check and see if your sole has soul...if it is thankful--you are on your way.

Yay for Life.

It was freezing.  Hard sleet was coming down in buckets.  The highway was deserted.  I'm pretty sure a man with a hook for a hand was lurking in the pines just off the desolate interstate.

Okay okay okay. So it was only about 41 degrees, drizzling enough to be annoying, and my tire had gone flat in the parking lot of the local Arbys, harshly set ablaze by those Ginormous flood lights.  And I was far from alone.  My daughter and I watched my wonderful Dad get down on his knee and curse my car like any true sailor's parrot as he shoved the jack under it in the grimy parking lot.  My five year old bounced gleefully from one side of the car to the other, fogging up all the windows, and doodling random pictures.  By the time she'd been in there five minutes the windows of my car were fogged up worse than any highschoolers on a friday night. Kids. 

I leaned over to check...I don't know...something...I was trying to be helpful-and promptly busted my head on the wheel well of the car. So now I am standing in the increasing rain, with a bleeding skull, a wet father, and a five year old who thinks all of this is hilarious.

Yay for my life.

I trundled the spare out of my back hatch [which was a miracle in itself] and rolled it over to my Dad.  It flopped funny for a spare-but what did I know.  My Dad did know-rather quickly on the other hand, "Your spare is flat."

Yay for my life.

My Dad drove over to the gas station for air while I contemplated my poor car.  My car looks like a typical soccer mom car that just emerged from a fight with a Decepticon.  I have left side damage from one of my sisters "pulling too close to an ATM". We all know what side the ATM should be on-and it is not the left. Don't ask her about that night-her memory stops at the ATM run before they "hit the third bar" [I'm pretty sure she means that literally].  I have a hole in the front bumper [the size of the trailer hitch on the SUV I rear-ended], a missing grill, a headlight that is duct taped to the socket, various and sundry dings and dents, and a back hatch that is bungee corded shut [courtesy of the other sister].  My poor car is struggling. But it gets me where I need to go and honestly that is all I care about.  It gets good gas mileage and it is a very safe car [see all the wrecks I've walked away from without a scratch] so thats a plus.

Yay for my life.

Two hours later I was limping along back roads towards home.  Apparently you can only drive 50 mph on a spare donut tire. Dad says he is going to replace all my tires with donuts because thats the safest/slowest he's ever seen me drive. My daughter just wants to know if she can eat them.

Yay for my life.

This is me reminding you to appreciate the ones that stand beside you in the aftermath.  Whether its during the loss of a loved one, or simply witnessing your stupidity at hitting [another] curb and getting a flat tire in the pouring rain-love them for standing there because they love you.  Yay for my life. I am loved.

How to survive a Honkey Tonk.

If you live below the Mason-Dixon but still have all your teeth, chances are: you've been to a honkey tonk and felt Slightly out of place.  I had such an experience just the other evening.  I was headed two towns over to meet up with some girlfriends. I was looking forward to traipsing around the downtown and West End districts-popping in and out of posh little night spots, cozy bars, playing darts, chatting up fun professional adults, sipping imported beer, and shooting expensive tequila. Instead...somehow a vote was taken, and I wound up in Honkey Tonk hell at a place called the Blind Horse Saloon somewhere west of Nowhere. 

I approached the bar with caution. It is located near the quaint local airstrip because apparently all the big trucks that park there need the lights from the tarmac in order to pull their Insanely huge tanks into a general chaotic formation that more or less passes for a parking system of sorts. Now I am arriving at about 10:ish and the locals have been on the scene for a while-hence I park in east BFE and curse everyone inside this place as I begin to trip over the copenhagen-spittled-broken-beer-bottle infested gravel lots about a mile from said honkey tonk destination. And did I mention it is dark? And next to a near deserted airstrip. And very dark.  My terror somewhat abated when three rather large decent looking fellows got out of an Explorer that parked close to me. I shadowed them the whole way in-so as not to get grabbed before I'd even had a chance to see who was falling off the mechanical bull.

[Now just a side note here: I am already prejudiced against this place. Seven years prior to this night's potential debacle, I was set up on a blind date. Not by a friend-I assure you. A mutual acquaintance with obviously NO experience in the dating realm-not the one on this planet anyway...But this acquaintance figured out he had a "cute friend" (that'd be me) and a "pretty good lookin' buddy" (ladies-if 'pretty', 'good', and 'lookin'' are combined with 'buddy' RUN. you can thank me later). In short I found myself on a blind date with a redneck jock. He took me to the afore mentioned honkey tonk where he proceeded to spend an hour moaning off key to bad country music with two bud light bottles, spitting in one, drinking out of both, and hitting on me in a most unsavory manner. After he left me sitting at a table with three other "redneck wonders" for a half hour while he went and hit on something blonde with big hair and too much eyeliner over in the mechanical bull line, I had reached maximum redneck tolerance levels, and found my mace trigger finger gettin' itchy.  Needless to say: first opportunity that arose-I took his keys, calmly walked myself out to the M1126 Stryker he called "m'truck", drove myself home, threw his keys in the fountain in front of the apartment complex, opened a champagne split, and took a long hot shower so the night wasn't a total waste.  He called the next day, complaining about his back hair, bragging about the amount of canned tuna he'd eaten already that day (and it was only Noon!) AND...wanting to know if we could go out the next weekend. Like I said ladies RUN. RUN FAST and don't look back.--so after this story (if the general atmosphere of the bar in and of itself did not strike fear into the soles of your Pradas) you can understand why I was not looking forward to slinking back through the swinging saloon doors of this place.]

So with that in mind-My black silk BCBG's struggled to keep pace behind my 3 hulking self- appointed escorts into redneckville.  I daintily skirted the two police cruisers parked at the entrance, heaved myself through the massive wooden doors, and peered through the smoke gently set on fire by the haze of neon lights.  How in the hell would I find my friend before being snatched up by Bubba and the gang? Seriously-my friend is a precious and gorgeous 5'2". This was going to be hard. I ducked in the side hall and dialed her-"Jess...where the hell are you?" "Just come straight up to the first bar dear-you can't miss me...I'm the one with class." 

And so the evening began.  I squared my shoulders, took the lame neon green wristband from the tattoo covered, trucker hat wearin', belt buckle totin', midget cowboy bouncer and pushed into the sea of belt buckles, teased hair, big hats, and bigger 'necks.  I managed to find Jess by the Atm on the way to the first bar.  The bar was slammed and we agreed on a frontal assault and to resort to cleavage only if 5 minutes passed and alcohol was still not in site.  Deep breath-here we go.

We managed to come away clean with an assortment of two drinks and three shots. The bartender made them stiff-but hey-drunk girls make better bar top dancers. That came later-something about the song "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and the movie Coyote Ugly-if you've seen it you know what I'm talking about. We retreated to a small corner of the balcony in front of the bar.  There I met the four other girls that were forming that evening's entourage.  We had prime seats for people watchin' and oh...oh was it fun.  There were dresses that should have been shirts, shorts that should have been panties, and girls that should've just stayed home.  There were jeans that looked like he had to jump off the roof of his garage-or at least his tailgate-to get in, mullets (that's right-I said mullet...and not sexy British pop mullets either...just Muuuullets) and belt buckles bigger than my ass--Everywhere.  On the dance floor little couples spun and shimmied while the rhinestones on their black denim flashed in the lights from the band on the stage.  Over in the mechanical bull line it was pretty much just as I remembered it...some girls looked like the bull would eat them, some looked like they'd already eaten the bull.  Just a friendly word of advice girls: just because it has spandex, rhinestones, and they make it in your size-does Not mean it will be a good costume for mechanical bull riding.

So we began to scan the crowd. Now, my ex gave me good advice earlier in the evening when I called him to let him know where to find my body should the south rise again-he said "Sweetie, just remember to find the biggest guy in there. Go stand next to him and strike up one of those conversations you're always abusing people with-even if you leave the bar as just friends-no one will mess with you the whole night-but remember-he's got to be the biggest Single dude...i'm not sure you can take a honkey tonk girl--even with your mace."

So let the scanning commence.  Hmm...nope nope nope nope...Ugh...god was that a human....nope nope...Ah ha! Turns out...one of my self-appointed guardian escorts in from the parking lot from hell was definitely the tallest guy in the room.  I gauged him to be in the neighborhood of six-five from where I was standing.  We watched him for awhile.  One of his friends was busy chatting it up with a couple of girls that had bangs bigger than his head so he was a lost cause outright. But the tall guy and his shorter side kick just chilled by themselves to the side of the dance floor with cold brews watching the disco ball shoot out random patterns on multi-faceted cellulite canvases.  

Wait a minute...they were laughing at no-no bad rhinestone/spandex girl struggling to maintain her hold on both the mechanical bull and her dignity. Hmm...well they appeared to be at least sane.  So far not a single platinum blonde-teased haired-eyeliner drenched honey had swaggered up to them... then the short side kick wandered off somewhere leaving tall guy alone. Like an island in a storm of faux suede and bad country music.  He actually looked scared. I turned to the entourage and announced (much braver than I felt) "I am going to talk to the tall one".  Because I am all that is woman....or something like that. Took a big swig of the crown and sprite-squared the shoulders-licked the lips-got the butt approval from the gang-and stepped off the balcony. 

He didn't see me coming, but didn't look surprised when I appeared at his elbow moments later....in fact he almost looked relieved.  He smiled and leaned down to introduce himself.  He shook my hand and said he was glad I had wandered over. I assured him it was in the interest of personal safety and that I did not find him attractive at all.  I am a bad liar. He smiled again. And I began to abuse him with conversation.

The rest-well, I won't bore you with the details-but as it turned out-he had been drug there against his will due to another mythical and highly unethical vote. And would have much rather been stumbling around the quaintly cobble-stoned alleys of the West End that night.

But by the evening's close was glad he'd been talked into the honkey tonk.

So ladies: it's not a fool proof plan but it does make good sense-If you find yourself in a bar where mace might only make it worse-find the biggest guy. Go stand next to him, offer up some chatter, if it turns out he has a soul and seems decent around the edges-let him buy the next round. Can't hurt. And no body messed with yours truly the entire night.  I was escorted back out to my car at one by my now consciously eager guardians. (All three turned out to be precious gentlemen.)  And I have a date Wednesday night with the tall one. Don't think we'll be going to the honkey tonk though. 

This is me reminding you that sometimes the best defense is aligning yourself with the dude that can exert the best offense in your honor. Keep it real and keep it out of the honkey tonk.

Heidegger's Cup is Orange...apparently

Ever have a twilight zone discussion? They are fabulous and I highly recommend them from time to time-especially if you are working on losing your mind. Heidegger is an excellent place to start. I suggest his essay on the essence of truth.  "The essence of truth is freedom".  Truth in a sense is a relative term...it is true if it is not false. It is true if it is the opposite of un-true. This cup is orange. (now all of us are thinking of 15+ shades of orange and about a gazillion different types of cups) But we are assuming that the cup is a cup and that the color of said cup is orange. Then what is orange? and what is this cup of which you speak?

But truth is also freedom. But not freedom in the conventional "it is my right-see how i have freedom to smack you in the head" sense. But the abstract freedom-the freedom that lets us breathe without having to remind ourselves. The freedom that lets us smile when we laugh, love when we can, and cry when we cannot. This freedom is beyond right. It is a beautiful thing-if you can even begin to explain it. See Heidegger reminds us all to question the obvious truths we accept everyday. This is a good thing. Trust me.

Heidegger can get quite dark-confusing-but read for the silver linings. They exist. But only if you want to find them.

  

This is me-reminding you to see if your sole has soul. Keep it real. 

Kid Wrangler.

Kid wrangler.

That is my official title. It's not babysitter...or even nanny.

There are seven of them-all under the age of 11...all from the same family

...I am The Kid Wrangler.

Peter is 11

Caroline is 7

Charlotte is 5 and 1/2 [that is a very important 1/2]

the trips-Lucy, Ethan, Philip are 4

and the baby: Beth-is 2.

And they are beautiful, lovely, wonderful children of two very nice, busy, practical physicians.

And they make my life colorful. ....yes colorful is the adjective we will use.

Here are just a few of the things I have learned that now "color" my advice to others seeking employment among the ranks of childcare providers.

1) If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

2) If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape.

3) You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

4) The glass in a window (even double-pane) does not stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

5) When you hear the toilet flush and the words "uh oh", it is already too late.

6) Brake fluid mixed with clorox makes smoke and Lots of it.

7) A 4 year old boy can start a fire with a flint rock even when a 42 year old man says they can only do it in the movies.

8) An 11 year old boy should not be allowed to watch Man vs Wild or Myth Busters and take notes. Ever.

9) Certain Legos will pass through the digestive tract of a 4 year old boy, and a Shih Tzu named Roxy without relative difficulty, but the x-rays still look really cool.

10) Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

11) Super glue is forever.

12) And ever.

13) No matter how much Jell-0 you put in a swimming pool you still cannot walk on water.

14) Pool filters do not like Jell-o.

15) VCRs do not eject pancakes even though some tv shows say they do.

16) Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

17) Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

18) You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.

19) It takes 5 minutes for a pound of bacon to catch on fire at medium heat on the stove.

20) It only takes 3 minutes if your back is turned.

21) Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

22) The fire department in our town has a 5 minute response time. I am on a first name basis with at least two of the shifts.

23) The spin cycle of the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.

24) Spinning on tire swings does make cats dizzy.

25) Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

26) Pancake batter will kill an African Spotted Gecko.

27) Snakes notice when their cage door is not shut. Immediately.

28) A Reticulated Python can make it downstairs and into the warm laundry basket in less than five minutes.

29) "No, I will not help you count your bullets" and "Put the machete down for the last time" are perfectly acceptable phrases to hear before 9:30am.

30) PVC pipes burst under a surprisingly small amount of force.

31) A broken sprinkler system can flood a backyard in under two hours.

32) Nerf darts sting when shot in the face at point blank range.

33) It takes a stomach virus less than 30 minutes to spread to seven people under the right conditions.

34) One hug is just never enough when nap time is trying to be avoided.

35) Red Kool-aid and ANYTHING else that isn't red is a bad combination.

36) Ginger bread houses stay together better when hot glued.

37) Hot glue causes constipation and mild indigestion.

38) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and a cherry bomb in a ginger bread house it will explode.

39) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and three cherry bombs in a ginger bread house you will not be able to find the neighbor's cat.

40) A glider slammed into a 4 year olds chest at the right angle can fracture a rib.

41) It is not a good idea to snipe squirrels off power lines with a shotgun.

42) Squirrel meat looks deceptively like pork barbeque.

43) Squirrel meat does not taste like pork barbeque. Even with lots of sauce.

44) It is very hard to tell the differences between Gerbil feces and chocolate covered sunflower seeds. Very hard.

45) A gallon of hand sanitizer will last about a week with seven kids-supervised.

46) Twin 4 year old boys can go through a gallon of hand sanitizer in about an hour-unsupervised.

47) 3 dozen eggs making a "really cool smacking sound" when slammed against the ground is a legitimate reason to throw them on the garage floor to four year old boys.

48) A four year old girl can punch harder than a four year old boy.

49) A two year old can bite harder than both.

50) Feelings get hurt when your siblings try to feed you to a pet.

51) 80% of the men who read this will try mixing Clorox and brake fluid.

I love the children, I love the job, and I love the stories.

Oh the stories.