Attention Ladies....

Listen up Ladies...I have been given a gift.  My ex sent me the "man rules".  I have in my possession all you need to know should you encounter a man.  Simply look for the following signs....once found-- all you need to do is turn around and walk the other way. Because girls...there are differences in communication. I will give you that.  The sexes are wired differently-absolutely...but ladies do not let yourself be duped by anyone claiming to be a "man" that exhibits the following characteristics. [watch for sarcasm along the way]

The Man Rules-At last a guy has taken the time to write this all down.   Finally, the guys ' side of the story.  We always hear "the rules" from the female side.  Now here are the rules from the male side.  These are our rules!  Please note...they are all numbered "1" on purpose. [or is it because you can't count?] 1)  Men are NOT mind readers. [is this the "its okay to be stupid" disclaimer...because that's what it sounds like to me. Men you don't have to be psychic to know that being a jerk is not gonna score points. ba-Duh.] 1)  Learn to work the toilet seat.  You're a big girl.  If its up-put it down.  We need it up you need it down.  You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down. [Seriously...this is a rule? I was just not aware that women worldwide had complete breakdowns about the toilet seat. Urban legend.] 1)  Sunday sports is like the full moon or the changing of the tides.  Let it be. [what?! a: this implies that women do not watch, comprehend, or follow sports. and b: that being a useless vegetable on the couch for the better part of the Sunday is somehow environmentally ordained...sorry boys...try again.] 1)  Crying is blackmail and witchcraft. [Then I suggest you are not the cause of it.] 1)  Ask for what you want.  Let us be clear on this one! Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! JUST SAY IT! [Yes...sadly we often overestimate your intelligence. Ladies-just look him in the face and say it. Saves valuable time and we can get back to saving the world.] 1)  Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. [Just remember that goes both ways..."Honey-baby-sugar pie (insert whatever sap name he calls you) can I get a little lovin' tonite?" "No" "But baaaaaaaaaaaaby....will you tell me why?" "No"--just 'a for example'.] 1)  Come to us with a problem if you want help solving it.  That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.  [This is perhaps one of the most disturbing "rules"...Boys, let me tell you where this one will land you: She will Cheat on you. Period.  If you are DUMB enough to believe this approach-your significant other will absolutely seek shelter somewhere else.  It would be like being in a relationship with a brick. a big dumb brick.  If its a problem you can't solve--be a man--say "Gee Honey, this is really outside of my area of expertise. Why don't you call _____ and I'll wash the dishes while you vent." That's how a man solves it--its a trade off. And guys-hate to disappoint, but women just need to vent. Period. It is healthy.  Women who don't vent in some way, shape, or form have spontaneously combusted. True Story. Look it up.  Sorry but that's life. We all do it-get over it or look into sheep.] 1)  Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument.  In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days. [Sounds like a great excuse to be a liar.  Ladies-I'm looking for a man that can keep his word.  Besides...guys tend to say stupid things if cornered in a situation that is most undoubtably their fault. If you find this happening often, you need to get a new man because it sounds like yours has an IQ = to that of dirt.  Girls-intellectual compatibility is Mucho Importante. It will form the basis of communication and the platform of respect between the two of you. In short: don't skimp on the brains.] 1)  If you think you're fat, you probably are.  Don't ask us. [again-if your guy is this stupid...And ladies: get active! do something to stay fit. its important for You...not him. Take care of yourself because face it: if you're with stupid-he isn't going to.] 1)  If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one. [way to go champ.] 1)  You can either ask us to do something Or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself. [can you find the faulty logic here?] 1) When you need to say something, please say whatever you have to say during commercials. [Whenever possible-listen the FIRST time we say it so we don't have to keep endlessly repeating ourselves.] 1) Christopher Columbus did Not need directions and neither do we. [Seriously? He had a crap ton of navigational equipment, and an entire CREW of people who knew how to sail and navigate.  They used the stars for direction-now that is a MAN. Last time I checked the number of men able to use the stars for direction while in a vehicle were slim.  So unless you are the one in a million-I suggest you pull your butt over and ask. Just remember--the longer you're in the car with us....the more chances we have to say "I told you so".] 1) All men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings.  Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color.  Pumpkin is also a fruit.  We have No idea what mauve is. [This is a delicate "rule". First of all-fellow sisters: I truly hope you have more interesting things to discuss than the fall colors with a man-But if you don't: may I suggest a gay one. The conversation will go Vastly better by leaps and bounds.] 1) If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that. [fair enough. Ladies: if you are with a neanderthal that has nothing better to do but scratch like a stray dog with fleas in public situations- have him dipped & find someone that is remotely cognizant of their surroundings.] 1) If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing" we will act like nothing's wrong.  We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle. [First of all: ladies-don't play stupid games. You give the rest of us a bad name. But having said that, plain and simple: if he thinks you're the hassle-you need to find someone new.  The person worth a "hassle"-won't treat you like one.] 1) If you ask a question you don't want an answer to: expect an answer you don't want to hear. [Two way street boys...I recommend avoiding questions like "How many?" "Is it the biggest?" and "Is it the best?" because regardless of the answers to those-feelings still get hurt. And guys thank your lucky egotistical stars that most of us are kind enough to lie when you're dumb enough to ask those questions.  We have realized that there are just some things not worth wrecking your egos over. Remember guy with bruised ego = whiney two year old, and you usually can't put the man and what is left of the ego down for a nap.] 1) When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine...REALLY! [Personal story: a boyfriend asked me to accompany him to the funeral of a family friend.  I arrived in a black skirt, conservative black top, black heels, pearls, and hair modestly swept up in a twist.  He was wearing jeans and a khaki sport coat with t-shirt underneath.  He said "Well you look nice but you'll be over dressed. These are simple people-no one is going to look like you." Well as it turned out: he was the ONLY person in jeans at the ENTIRE funeral with the exception of a mentally handicapped child. No Lie. People: going to a funeral is about showing respect for someone's life. It doesn't matter "how simple" the people are.  Everyone in that chapel was wearing their best-no matter how old, or worn-they had gathered together to remember a loved one and respect a friend...well almost everyone.  Dressing appropriately for a funeral is a sign of respect, and how you treat people in their final hour, will greatly project how others treat you.  Ladies-if the guy is worried about no one "looking like you" when you are dressed appropriately for a funeral-leave him by the casket-he is dead weight.] 1) Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss topics such as baseball or golf. [Again-ladies: if you are with someone that Can Only talk about golf or baseball, I suggest you rethink your approach.] 1) You have enough clothes. [Doesn't universally apply. I know plenty of guys that are Total clothes horses.] 1) You have too many shoes. [Well if I didn't keep losing one of them every time I had to kick a dumb guy in the ass....] 1) I am a shape. Round IS a shape. [Just remember: being healthy and active in general is key. And guys: the trick where you put your drink on your burgeoning gut and say "Look honey-its my own table!"....Noooooooooot Sexy. At. All. That's only cute when pregnant women do it and if you think not-remember it is you that happen to be the most likely the cause of us having our own personal ice cream shelf.] 1) Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know I have to sleep on the couch tonight. But you know men really don't mind that? Its just like camping. [Ladies: if your man has exhibited any of the atrocious symptoms listed above (aka: the man "rules") might I suggest furthering his love of camping by telling him to take a hike. A loooong one. Off a short pier.]

how to resuscitate a Shih Tzu...and 4 other things I wish I didn't know...

The vision was lovely...seven happy children jostling joyfully round a big fraiser fir...soft glow from the fire place mirrored in the eyes of the adoring parents...the glint off the Christmas ornaments reflected in the eyes of the elated children...it was the most wonderful time of the year.

And then the box moved. The red one...with suspicious holes poked in the sides. Then the box yelped...and then I knew: life as I had come to know and love it was So very over.

Lid was flung off. Puppy emerged. Chaos ensued.

A whirlwind seven months later...I am on my hands and knees scrubbing puppy poo up off the bathroom floor for [easily] the seven hundredth time. And as I grimace into the tile, I reflect on the dear little poof ball's first months with us...

For starters-it is difficult for a new puppy to adjust to switching from a high octane environment with seven people pulling, pinching, poking, petting, and pecking at you...to one where you are suddenly shut in a drafty laundry room all alone because you "made potty like a no-no-bad-dog" on the oriental rug [again]. I'm sure the poor darling felt like a yo-yo.

And there begins our problem.

The wonderful people in charge made the decision to purchase a dog that has a) long hair that is difficult to manage b) weighs less than 15 pounds (thereby putting him in a category with things that can easily be broken, injured, or killed) c) cannot play outside

and brought him to a home that a) is lucky to get the girls' hair brushed for school or church-forget the boys-we just buzz that to the scalp b) has given their children various and sundry pointy and pokey items, any of which are perfectly capable of inflicting great harm on anything smaller than an elephant, [these things are not limited to any variation of the following list: knives, guns, spears, arrowheads, machetes, fish hooks, needles, clamps, dart gun (to be fair that one wasn't given...the 11 year old actually made it from scratch), tools, axes, large sticks, broken glass bottles, and little people (which have proved to be quite the formidable foe of the downstairs toilet)].

In short this puppy has no business being in this home. But here he is. And here he will have to be, until someone leaves the back door open....which happens every four minutes around this place. Which brings me to the finding service.

I have a feeling I am soon to be on a first name basis with this service, just as I am with our local fire department. This particular service simply functions as a "middle man" if you will when your dog is found by someone else who has the decency to call the number on the tag. They then phone the home and usually talk to me on speaker phone "Yes mam. They've found your dog....again." They used to ask me for a complicated numerical sequence written on a piece of a McDonalds receipt, that I promptly lost, the children burned, or the dog ate. Now when the lady just calls and hears the raucous noise in the background she just asks how the children are and if they've even noticed he is gone.

I must regularly turn the children out in to the backyard and dispatch them on some noble mission to ensure that my brain patterns remain normal and I don't spike on the crazed nanny meter and knock one of them in the noggin.

Now the first time this little brown and white fluffy angelic poop machine was released to go and play in the back yard (attached to a leash mind you) he came back looking like Sassquatch...only smaller. He had leaves, brambles, sticks, twigs, debris, mud, dirt, insects...you name it-if it existed in the back yard it was currently attached to the dog. It was like sticking a wet lollipop under the couch cushion...he was covered with bizarre stuff.

I tried to brush him off....I sat in the kitchen floor for TWO HOURS and tried to clean up his poor coat. The children had popsicles for lunch. And still I sat there painstakingly with a brush and a comb. Eventually the scissors and the 'goo be gone' helped to rid him of most of it. Finally I put him in the sink and after three shampoos he at least began to smell like a dog again. Well...wet dog.

Then I had to blow dry him and brush him out....

Finally after THREE AND A HALF HOURS we both collapsed in a corner of the couch. He smelled faintly of oatmeal and I smelled like wet dog. I sat on the couch and tried to imagine the disastrous results of the impending doggie door installation-I could not go through this every single time he went out.

In the meantime he had jumped down from the couch and was frolicking on the den floor-no doubt invigorated by his "doggie day spa" treatment. I listened to him happily snuffling around. Just five more minutes of quiet. The snuffling turned to chewing...the chewing to wet munching...the wet munching to gagging...the gagging to--wait a minute!!

I leapt off the couch to see him wheezing in that terrible "small-plastic-item-must-be-wedged-in-trachea" way in the far corner.

You Will NOT Die on me Dog!! Not after all that!!

I opened his mouth to see a ping pong ball lodged in the back. I called for Peter-hemostats now! [Working for physicians comes in handy when you need things like hemostats because chances are...there's a pair lying around without much to do.] Fortunately the little monster had chewed a few holes in the ball before attempting to swallow it whole. With the calm hands only sheer determination and outright indignation [how dare he try to die on me!] can produce, I clamped on to the ball and pulled.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story. That all the children cheered and the dog licked my face gratefully and never poo-ed on the rug again.

Alas.

He promptly vomited all over me, Peter, and the oriental rug. Everything that he had managed to eat while outside was now inside...in one form or another.

Best thing after that?

Peter is the type of child that vomits when other people/animals vomit. If he sees/hears/smells it...its over.

And ladies and gentlemen in the house on West Avenue...it was Definitely Over.

how to divert flood waters...and 5 other things I wish I didn't know...

How fast can a backyard flood? How deep can three five year olds dig with broken sporks and tupperware? How much weight can a PVC pipe hold before it cracks?  How long does it take to re-sod a backyard? How long does it take to re-sod a backyard if you have seven children, three random cats, two SUVS (that regularly drive over said yard), and one dog?

All these answers and more I know because of one afternoon's up close and personal experience with said backyard.

It all started with burnt cookies and a visit from the fire department.  I work in a house with a smoke detector that is advanced enough to call the fire department but not advanced enough to tell the difference between over done oatmeal cookies and an actual Fire.  The kids heard the alarm and thundered down the stairs to the front room, bouncing on the couch in eager anticipation of Engine No. 12.  Sure enough-just as I was forcing the last of the super burnt Klingon cookies off the now warped metal baking sheet and into the large trash can out back the firemen lumbered up the front walk and the kids ran to the door to let them in.  They know this family by name now, as they have to make regular appearances at the residence on West Street.  And its not because they have a bad cook for a nanny...its because they have a hyper sensitive smoke detector and a stove with Nuclear capabilities...that thing goes from stone cold to meltdown in 2.5 seconds. Did I mention they also have seven children and that my friends can get distracting.  Someone's always trying to tie something (the dog) or someone (the three year old) to the ceiling fan.  Its always like Ringling Brothers meets Dr. Doolittle meets the dark black vortex of Chaos...with a pinch of danger thrown in. (that comes from the machete story...that one is for another day)

So I'm there chattin up Tom, the head fireman for today's call, sadly I inform him there are no more cookies-they all perished in the quasi blaze.  He recommends (for the 37th time) that I make the children play outside in the backyard, lock the backdoor, and tell them they can only come inside if they're bleeding or on fire.  I laugh...realize he isn't kidding...them stammer something unintelligible about bathroom breaks.  He tells me they can dig a latrine with a spoon.  He rounds up his men and they trundle back on to the truck and the children give them a standing o from the front porch.

Latrines with spoons eh? Well it would keep them busy.

I hunted through the kitchen junk drawers for random utensils that were dig worthy. I came up with two old dingy metal camping spoons, four sporks, an old plastic spatula, and a beat up measuring cup with an eagle etched into the bottom.  (the eagle reminded me of the stylized eagle the Nazis stamped their china with...in retrospect I should have listened to the silent screaming omen of death...and just locked the kids in the basement) I threw in a bowl of old tuperware containers for good measure-and sent all seven of them packing.  "Outside!" I said.  "Outside and dig to China!!"  

Again...in retrospect...that was not a good idea to place in their heads.  Heaven knows what would have happened if I actually told them to dig latrines.  

I did not lock the door-but I did use the firefighter's line "Unless you are bleeding or on fire" and then with them playing in the backyard I began to clean up the war zone currently called "kitchen/breakfast nook" and attack the pile of laundry that could double as a jump ramp at the X Games.  I glanced outside to count heads often.

Not often enough though to note the ferocity at which the digging was being accomplished.  At first it was merely a shallow hole...maybe a foot deep...then it gradually became deeper...two feet...now two and 1/2.  I hesitated.  Should I stop them? They were all working together so wonderfully...from the 11 year old to the 3 year old-every last boy and girl-scooping and running here and there to spill the removed dirt on this flower or that plant.  They were like little busy ants. And no one was bleeding, screaming, or crying.  No one had gotten bitten, smacked, or punched in the back of the head.  There was no way in hell I was going to tell them to stop digging.

Again...in retrospect...I was stupid to underestimate them.  Things went south when one of the triplets was lowered into the (now) vertical tunnel.  It came up to his shoulders.  He had on a red plastic fireman hat (courtesy of that mornings visit).  Philip began to bounce.  I didn't realize dirt was so sproingy.  He was bracing himself on the hard earth around the hole and Really bouncing up and down.  Perhaps, (foolishly) I thought, they've found a root and they can't get past it.  Suddenly-Philip and the red plastic hat disappeared from sight.  Plooop. As if the ground just swallowed him up. Then mesmerized the others stared into the hole.  Two little hands began to wave frantically from the hole. The 11 year olds face was all I needed to see.  At first I thought-crap-they've found the mother load of snakes or giant worms or something creepy crawly that lives in the ground. But then I realized the boys weren't smiling near enough for that-and the girls weren't screaming loud enough...I raced across the backyard...closer and closer-finally I leaned over the side to see Philip at the bottom of a hole with his foot stuck in a section of PVC pipe...and Water pouring everywhere.  

Shit. They had managed to dig far enough to hit the irrigation system and subsequently break it.  

Oh god China---why do you have to be so far away and hard to dig to???

I pulled Philip out of the hole...the water was filling up the hole at an alarming rate.  It hadn't rained in weeks and the ground was hard.  It was like our own little mini well.  

And unless that water was going to turn to wine-I was about to have a very bad afternoon.  

Thanks to the worm-washing machine incident of May the previous year I knew how to cut the water to the laundry room, and thanks to the little people incidents of March, June, August, September, and "two-time-tober" I knew how to cut the water to all four bathrooms...But the water to outside?? I had No Clue.

I herded the children inside to the magic box-turned on a movie and said "move and you'll be in time out for a month" then drug the 11 year old outside to hunt for the water cut off while I frantically tried to phone the parents.  I called the ER first...no dice. He had just coded a patient and was not available. I left a message with the charge nurse asking about the water cut off. Called the Neuro wing to get the mom...strike two.  She was in a consult. The water was beginning to spill out of the hole.  I called the ER for two hours, every 20 minutes. Finally the charge nurse said he'd gone out to lunch. HOW HOW HOW do you miss 16 calls from your Nanny??????? (In his defense often times the children would highjack the phone and call the ER. After the 9th call for Dr. Dad, the nurses run out of patience.)

I heard the gravel crunching on the driveway. God Bless the Buddha! He came home for lunch! Seven kids, a terrified nanny, and a very excited dog mobbed him at the top of the drive way.  In ten minutes the water was off and the engineers of the dig were in various rooms contemplating their various punishments.  Turns out Philip was encouraged to jump on the pipe-those "encouragers" received polish pot duty for a month. The other diggers got puppy potty clean up for a week. And I got a valium and went home early.  

It cost $3,000 dollars to dig up the back yard, replace the pipes, and re-sow the Giant mud puddle that formed as a result of the dig.  

If only they had found a dinosaur.

What not to feed an African Spotted Gecko...and 6 other things I wish I didn't know.

Continuation of the Hedgehog Series...

Why this #2:

One morning, I decided to cook breakfast from scratch for the kids.  Which on the surface sounds lovely.  However, there are immediately several things wrong with this picture.  Number 1: it takes a lot of food to satisfy 7 kids. Number 2: the likely hood of any of that food being ready, hot, and edible simultaneously corresponding to the second all seven children can be corralled and scrubbed and duct taped to a chair are slim to none. Number 3: I had not consumed enough coffee to be able to read a recipe let alone make an educated estimate on the doneness of the bacon.  Number 4: Cooking anything in this particular kitchen on the stove is a delicate matter requiring constant and desperate attention.  For some reason they have a nuclear stove top. It is one of those flat ranges that goes from stone cold to nuclear meltdown in 2.5 seconds.  It can vaporize a pot of noodles in less than five minutes and a pound of bacon will go from pink and cold to unrecognizably charred in less than three.  To make the situation more fun...they have the most hypersensitive smoke detector EVER.  I've set it off lighting a candle one room over before.  

So back to my Brilliant idea: breakfast from scratch. I was going to make pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon...which means to feed all 7 I would need to make about 25 pancakes, scramble 14 eggs, and cook 2 pounds of bacon.  It was 7:30 am when I started.  By 8:30 I had burned 10 pieces of bacon, given the responding fire fighters coffee and bagels (its become a tradition), and the pancakes hadn't even hit the griddle.  The natives were getting restless.  Usually the visit from the fire department keeps them occupied for a while.  When the alarm sounds-the fire department automatically responds--unless I manage to find the phone and tell them its the bacon (again).  I'm not going to bother telling you how difficult it is to find the phone in this house--but think navigating a paranormal dimension with a blind Bedouin that only speaks...well you get the picture.  So after the third friendly chat with the fire department that month [which by the way EVERY time they come, they always ask me if all seven children are 1) mine? and 2) all related?  Every.  Single.  Time.  Bizarro.]  They've responded so many times over the years that they kids have taken to waiting at the front door for them.  Its like in their minds smoke detector = big shiny red truck.  The family joke at one point was that I was trying to date a firefighter. 

But I digress.  When children are bored, they play with random things.  When children are hungry, they come into the kitchen and stare at me with saucer eyes and start asking "is it ready yet?can I eat this?can I have a bite?can I eat that?can I help you?"  

**just a side note...i am currently sitting in the kitchen at the bay window that looks out into the back yard while i enjoy a cold two hour old cup of coffee and peck for a second or two on this entry...two of the triplets (Ethan and Lucy) are in one of those jeep things driving around in huge muddy circles around the swing set while the three year old (Beth) chases them with a croquet mallet...she looks like a viking warrior...blonde curls frazzled out in the breeze...blue eyes fiercely narrowed with determination...mouth open in a constant high pitched scream...swinging the mallet like a scythe as she pumps her chubby little legs as fast as they will go...they probably called her 'short stack' again...if she gets within striking distance i'll have to go rescue...someone...i love my job**

But back to the Saturday breakfast debacle.  The 11 year old, Peter, had come into the kitchen and was patiently standing there at my elbow while I frantically tried to get the griddle hot enough to cook the pancakes but not so hot that it vaporized them instantly.  He had on his usual jeans with a million pockets (pockets that I long ago realized that I would never make enough money to go through on wash day...that was the worm incident of 2003) and a standard black tee shirt with some sort of reptile slogan on the front "sssssnakes are sssssuper" or something.  Slowly out of the corner of my eye something on the shirt began to move...On it...not him but On the shirt...one of the lizards was ACTUALLY moving.  I screamed. He jumped. The spatula flew across the kitchen.  And the gecko sailed into the bowl of pancake batter.  He flailed around for a good ten seconds before Peter recovered enough to grab him. He rinsed him in the kitchen sink (against my sputtering protests).

Sadly Sid the Gecko left us later that week.  Turns out-pancake batter is not on the list of approved foods for African Spotted Geckos.  Either that or being traumatically tossed into a bowl of pancake batter is not on their approved "to do" list.

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.