Weekend Nanny Anxiety

It's the eve before the 6-hour trial of our potential weekend nanny.

Since I'm really good at delegating responsibility, I've decided to delegate the responsibility of being the boss of the house to Weekday Nanny. Whatever she says goes. Ultimately, she's the pillar of this household anyway.

The problem with having a really really good nanny is that alternate nannies are at a disadvantage before they even begin. I already am looking for reasons to not hire her, even though I don't really know her. But I'm having difficulty imagining Dally having as much fun with her. What if she doesn't blow bubbles or play monster arm eater or take him to the park?

Do I REALLY need a weekend nanny? Here's why it seems like a good idea on paper. Weekend Nanny would come on Friday afternoon and stay over until Sunday. That means John and I could go to a movie. At night.

Here's why it's a sucky idea in reality. She doesn't drive, which means I'd have to get my lazy butt off the couch on a Friday afternoon to go get her. Plus what if she's not fun or doesn't get my sense of humor or the quirky way in which we run our household. Weekday Nanny gets all of that. And she has a car.

Then there are the usual safety issues. CPR, 911, what to do in the event that a giant tarantula breaches the security of our GO AWAY doormat. Does she know not to EVER open the door for anyone? Does she cook and if so, is it gross? Dally's been hitting lately. Will she hit back? There's SO MUCH to stress about.

I'm picking her up at the Jack in the Box in 8 hours. Stay tuned for the post mortem...

Sailing to Nowhere

While I had planned to go to NY in August to eat falafel and talk smack with my old gang, I shifted plans to go on a little vacation with my beloved - a calm before the storm if you will.

We decided to go on this cheesy little cruise from San Diego to Catalina to Ensenada. No big deal - a nice getaway, just me and him, and 24 hour all-you-can-eat soft serve ice cream.

As I was about to book our little escapade, I noticed the disclaimer that that women must be under 24 weeks preggers to ride the big white boat.

WTF?

I mean, I guess it makes sense, but WTF?

And should you suggest that I could get away with hiding how far along I am, I'm so HUGE right now that while I was at the ATM yesterday, this lady asked me, "So you're due any minute now, huh?" If by any minute, she's counting in dog years, then perhaps. But in human years, not for another fifteen weeks, sister.

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The baby, that is.

Sort of. We call him Juan Pancho, just as we called Dally "Little Two" in utero. (Why Little Two? I AM LITTLE ONE. That's what John used to call me when he would ask my sister how much. As in, "How much for the little one?" And she would reply a pack of cigarettes and a couple of goats. Fine family, I know.)

Juan Pancho won't make it on the birth certificate lest my mom decide to never see, call or write to me. Ever.

So now we're getting desperate. I've got less than four months to come up with something. This is the shit that keeps me up at night.

I busted out the baby name book yesterday. I used to turn my nose up at such nonsense. Baby Name Book? Please. NOT MY CHILD. My child's name will have a MEANING. Something IMPORTANT TO US.

I also used to swear my home would never look like Romper Room.