Babysitters

Real Gil has two days off next week, and I am determined that we are going out on a date. Only one thing is missing: a babysitter.

This got me to thinking, where did that terrible word "babysitter" come from? Do we pay cute young teenagers to come into our house and literally sit on our babies? Does it refer to the possibility that the hired help sits (with a remote control) while the baby runs amuck? Or does it mean that the baby sits obediently and quietly for the lovely temporary mama? Anyway you look at it, it doesn't make me want to pay $10 an hour for one. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure this post is not going to help my odds of finding one by next week.

Anyways, I'm nothing if not a researcher...well, an internet researcher at least. I checked Wikipedia and found that the title "babysit" might stem from egg-laying animals that must sit on their baby eggs to incubate them. Not very comforting to me. Another idea is that the term "babysit" originated from (and I quote directly from Wikipedia) the action of the caretaker "sitting on" the baby in one room, while the parents were entertaining or busy in another. Hmm...perhaps I'm a bit slow on this one, but that doesn't help me.

I've given up on figuring this out. BUT I am not giving up on a babysitter. If you would like to come to my house and tend to, care for, and play with my very healthy children in a very cleaned, disinfected home, Real Gil and I would love to hire you. We do not want you to sit on eggs, sit on our children, or walk around yelling, "Baby, sit!" If you can meet these requirements and Punkin, Sugs, and the Little Man don't scare you away (or their weird mother), you're for hire.

Picture me with my thumb at my ear and my pinky on my lips stage whispering, "Call me."

Resting,
Karen

The History of Our Gastroenteritis

My mom called me today.

"Karen," she said without pretense. "You're in the newspaper."

"I'm in the newspaper?" I repeated.

"No, not you. The sickness," she clarified.

"Oh no. If there is an article about this sickness, I want to be in that article. Me and my three young children. By name." I insisted.

She laughed as if I were joking.

I was not.

The article was not a joke either. It basically said that this specific stomach virus is affecting our entire area and - my favorite part - the infectious period begins as soon as someone becomes ill and lasts at least three days after recovery or, in rare cases, up to three weeks after recovery.

Three weeks of contagion? Oh dear Lord, save this homeschooling mother. I'm rebelling. Officially. I have put us under a seven-day quarantine. After that, all you locals better look out because these crazed, sun-less folk are busting out of this joint.

Do you know who is at fault on this one? My poor dad. But he's not the only one at fault. I am too. We, unknowingly, went out on Saturday and swiftly ruined the Spring Break of visiting extended family.

About a week ago, we had a birthday party for my dad. (He is young-ung!) With all the family gathered at my house, we celebrated, but poor Dad never even got to eat his lemon cheesecake. In fact, by the end of the evening, dear Grandma G.G. (my great-grandma, my father's grandmother who lives with my parents) was sitting in the corner with her hand over her mouth, and my dad was trying not to even look at the food being served. We actually sang "Happy Birthday" to him as we were waving good-bye to their receding car. Then, we all went inside and proceeded to eat his cheesecake.

Unfortunately, we caught the crud. Of course, we don't hold it against dear Dad, especially considering how many germs we've shared with him and Mom.

But that's how The Bowl got to be used this week. And that's how I came to the realization that sleep is highly overrated. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

Sick children abound around here. And one recovering parent.

In an act of sheer self-sacrifice, I have sent Real Gil away to sleep at his parents' house when he is not working his shifts. He is the only family member not to get this lovely stomach flu and it would really make work impossible if he got it (duh).

And he did take care of the children while I was vowing to never go near a Panda Express again. In fact, this is what Real Gil was doing, and this is just another reason why I love the man so dearly.


Yes, homemade sugar cookies with blue frosting. I got nauseous just looking at them, but the kids loved them. And him, of course.

SO-O-O, I'm manning this house in my sleep-deprived, queasy state.

A few things I've noticed. My children are fussy when they are sick. So is their Mama. Two examples will suffice:

1. The Little Man actually cried this morning because some of his toes are smaller than other toes. Interesting observation, humorous response. A good parent would not laugh at ridiculous tantrums, but I couldn't resist.

2. The girls were trying to play pretend, albeit weakly. And they ended up in a fight over princes. The interesting thing, I pointed out to them in perfect Spirit-filled patience, was that the princes were imaginary.

But we are surviving. And I have found the new washing machine's "Sanitary" cycle to be "tested and proven." Candyland has been taken out and played a few hundred times. (Have you ever wondered why Mrs. Nut is in there? What kind of candy is a nut? What a bum deal for her. She should be Mrs. Toffee or Mrs. Sour Patch Kids or something else, but Mrs. Nut? C'mon now, toy manufacturers, think like a kid. At least one with a sweet tooth.)

We are officially quarantined so if you live anywhere near us, resist the temptation to visit. (I know it's hard.) And if you don't live near us, thank our good Lord. Then, go wash your hands just in case.

Hope you and yours are healthy today. And if not, I hope you have a working washing machine and lots of Lysol.

Resting,
Karen

Morbid Monday, or a pre-posthumous letter from the first wife to her replacement.

Dear Second Wife,

I have no intentions of dying any time soon, but I'm all about being prepared. And controlling. Even from the grave. In fact, I am so controlling that I'll reach out to the competition (hate to phrase it that way, but you are, my dear). Helpfulness is not my middle name, but it will be if it means Real Gil and the children are happy. In all honesty, your happiness is somewhat secondary, but not by much. After all, you've taken on my children with all of their odd idiosyncrasies and flesh patterns. Thank you for doing it. They are well worth the stress, laundry, and diapers. Real Gil, well, I'm not sure I'm ready to say thank you for that. He's my best friend, and in fifty years, I still won't be ready to hand him over. But because I love him so obsessively, I do want him to be happy, even if it's with you...after he's cried a lot about me. By the way, he hates this Morbid Monday post idea. (And I'm really glad.) But like I said, I thank you for taking on my lovely human children and the running of the house.

Maybe you are wondering why, all of a sudden, I have decided to write down all of my instructions, tips, confessions, and sarcasms to you, the second wife. It's really quite simple, and it happened this week. You see, I was suffering a miserable bout of the stomach flu. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that I saw THE bowl through your eyes. And it scared me! What if you didn't know that it was THE bowl? What if you saw it and thought to yourself, "I'm going to make a fresh salad in this perfectly sized bowl!" This first wife would roll over in her grave! So much so that even in my suffering state, I got out of bed, located a Sharpie pen, and clearly labeled the bowl. The only thing that should ever be tossed in it are cookies. And not the edible kind.



So I, Karen, do bequeath you THE bowl. The Ralph bowl. Have fun with that one.

What else do I give you? Lots of good quality thrift store purchases and hand-me-d0wn furniture. You can have The Meadow picture, and my mini-van. You can wear my clothes, use my make-up, even my new triple-barrel iron. There's my Kitchen-Aid and lots of favorite books on the bookshelf. In an act of self-sacrifice, I'll even give you my wedding dress. Good luck getting into it - I was one skinny bride. Harumph. Totally not connected, there's a treadmill in the back room if you need it. It's all yours.

This might be a little awkward. But there are a few things that you cannot have.

1. The Dave Barnes song, Nothing Fancy, is my song. I claim it and talk about it all the time with Real Gil. I know that since it is Dave Barnes' song, it's impossible for it to be mine. But it is and you can't have it. 'Nuf said.

2. I am sure you will be a great cook. But after 12 years of collecting recipes, you cannot have my personal cookbook. I want the children to remember the smells of my cooking and not confuse it with yours. (This may sound harsh, but I have informed my mother and sisters of this so don't try anything underhanded.)

3. You can't have my blog. You can guest blog any time you want and you probably should review it. It'll give you a pretty good idea about what goes on around this house - family worship time around the warm fire, apron-donned mother stirring dinner while her homeschooled children sit at the kitchen table and practice how to win spelling bees, perfect order and belly laughs abound. Or, on second thought, don't read the blog. You don't want to get overly intimidated by me. But you should probably take a few minutes during your transition to our house to introduce yourself to my blog readers. They will probably want to harshly judge warmly welcome you.

I'm exhausted. This is hard stuff to write. I'll continue next week if I can think of anything more you should know about this family. Until then, second wife, thank you for putting up with my words. Do you think we'll meet in this lifetime? It might be convenient for me to hand-pick you, but that might be a bit too extreme, even for this control freak.

Resting,
Karen