Update

I nanny currently for that green mulah that is so desired by most people who like to eat and stay warm. And the kids I nanny can be very darling. Examples:

The boy, I will call Luke, is three years old and quite a character. I am his play buddy so he's always making sure I have my sword and my helmet so we can play properly. Even when his friends come over I need to be dressed in all my evil-fighting regalia. I usually try to take it off unnoticed because those plastic helmets don't actually fit on my head and they are always snagging my hair. But Luke is insistent.

One time he had two friends over (making it three 3-year-olds and me) and we all had guns. They were all shouting, "I'm Star Wars!" and then make a series of shooting noises. Originally we were on teams, but it quickly evolved into everyone hunting me. 3-year-olds may seems almost harmless, but put them in packs and arm them with heavy plastic machinery they turn quite lethal. The game continued for a while, mostly, I think, because my death scenes were so legendary. I found if I made a great, lasting commotion about it they would stop attacking and simply watch my amazing acting skills (which are amazing).

Other times when we play with guns (Luke always being "Star Wars!" [said in a very angry voice]) We just aim the gun at each other and every once in a while one of us will fall down and play dead for a few seconds. There is a plethora of Nerf guns in the house, but we still have to play Russian Roulette with only one dart between the two of us. And that single dart is usually greatly slobbered on because it's the baby's favorite chew toy.

The baby, Samantha, is a doll. So darling and funny. She doesn't know any human words yet, but she sounds like an Ewok when she talks. Sometimes she gets really into telling me something and I have no idea what she's trying to say, but it's adorable. She also dances really well and shakes her head "no". She's got a lot of spunk for one who can barely walk.

And that is my life thus far.

Midnight Baking

Last night I came home late from work. My entrance woke my mother who had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother leapt off of the couch and started moving.

"What time is it?" She asked.

"Midnight." I said.

"What?"

"It's midnight." I repeated, watching her dash around to no specific destination.

"But what time is it?" She was frantic.

"Mom! It's midnight. Twelve o'clock in the morning."

She moved around. "What time is it?"

"It. is. midnight."

She flapped her hands and looked desperate, "But what does that mean?!"

I laughed (not kind, I know, but you try doing it differently). "You're the one that's freaking out. You tell me." Then I noticed that the oven was on, so I opened it. "It's your bread." I told my despairing mother.

Her eyes finally started to focus. "Oh. Bread. Ok." She then pushed some buttons and told me to put the now risen loaves back in the oven, and turned on the timer. I was a little wary leaving her alone in her sleepy state with the oven and the eight fluffy round loaves of bread. But I was tired, so I did anyway.

I finished getting ready for bed and thought I better just do a last check on the Sleeping Baking Beauty. I barely saved the loaves from burning. They are a dark brown instead of a burnt black. "Mom!" I chided her. "Your timer is going off!"

She raised her head from the couch and said, "Oh.... put the other loaves in. Timer."

I went over and stood next to her. "Mom, can I trust you to take out the bread? Because I'm going to bed now and you didn't do so well last time."

"No, I'm fine. I've had a nice nap. I'm awake now," she said but laid her head back down. So I set the oven timer and put an alarm on her phone, thinking that between the two she should wake up decently.

This morning I went into the kitchen and found two very burnt loaves of bread. Indeed.