I walked into the apartment to chaos. The baby, smiling at me from her high chair, had coated her chair, herself, and the floor with her pasta’s marinara sauce. As I approached her disaster of an area, her mother intercepted me to hand over her middle child, a 3 year old boy who had soiled his pants. “Elizabeth’s sick again,” she apologized, as she hurried out the door. With a glance at the sofa, I could immediately tell from Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks and unusually lethargic demeanor that the 4 year old wasn’t doing well. The puke basin beside her head wasn’t particularly reassuring, either. “Bring. It. On.,” I thought to myself.
I had to prioritize. First, baths. Dirty clothes and dirty babies simultaneously went into the washing machine and bath, respectively. Tonight wasn’t the night for baths (they had played for nearly an hour in the bath the night before), so tonight’s bath was all business. In less than fifteen minutes I had two rosy, squirmy, smiling, wet little kids. Diapers and pajamas were wrestled on. I painstakingly teased through each tangle in their hair, not wanting to bring pain to their tender little heads. “Go play,” I then instructed, with a little pat on their bottoms to get them going.
Turning my attention to sick little Elizabeth, my heart melted. I sat down on the couch and she crawled into my lap. Snuggled up like usual, we watched her brother and sister play on the floor. Samantha, always eager to be held, shakily stood up on unstable legs and took a few tottering steps towards us before falling backwards onto the carpet. “Elizabeth, when did you sister start walking?” Struggling to open her drowsy eyes, Elizabeth replied (without looking at her sister) “She can’t walk. She’s just a baby!” Yet once again Samantha stood up and attempted another few steps towards me. “Shoot. Not again! Not another milestone,” I thought to myself. I had been the first one to see Samantha crawl, and the recipient of her first word. Her mother, Megan, had cried when she missed these sentimental milestones. No doubt she’d cry again when she heard the news. Ugh.
Elizabeth had drifted back off into a feverish slumber in my arms. I laid her in bed, careful to avoid the bed post where I had whacked her head the first time I had attempted to put the sleeping child into bed. Whoops. I had become much more experienced than that first time, though. In the 6 months I had been nannying for them, I had become accustomed to having to move sleeping children from the living room (they were constantly falling asleep while watching movies), to their beds.
Samantha’s cries drew me back out into the living room. Gathering the almost-one-year old in my arms, I deftly prepared a bottle with my remaining hand. Settling her into her crib, I knew my night was winding down. Only one child left to put to bed.
I adjusted the pillow under his freshly-bathed, sweet-smelling head, and pressed my lips to Ryder’s cheek to wish him goodnight. He wrapped his plump arms around my neck and lisped “I love you, Courtney.” “I love you, too,” I replied. “I love this and I love you.”
I had to prioritize. First, baths. Dirty clothes and dirty babies simultaneously went into the washing machine and bath, respectively. Tonight wasn’t the night for baths (they had played for nearly an hour in the bath the night before), so tonight’s bath was all business. In less than fifteen minutes I had two rosy, squirmy, smiling, wet little kids. Diapers and pajamas were wrestled on. I painstakingly teased through each tangle in their hair, not wanting to bring pain to their tender little heads. “Go play,” I then instructed, with a little pat on their bottoms to get them going.
Turning my attention to sick little Elizabeth, my heart melted. I sat down on the couch and she crawled into my lap. Snuggled up like usual, we watched her brother and sister play on the floor. Samantha, always eager to be held, shakily stood up on unstable legs and took a few tottering steps towards us before falling backwards onto the carpet. “Elizabeth, when did you sister start walking?” Struggling to open her drowsy eyes, Elizabeth replied (without looking at her sister) “She can’t walk. She’s just a baby!” Yet once again Samantha stood up and attempted another few steps towards me. “Shoot. Not again! Not another milestone,” I thought to myself. I had been the first one to see Samantha crawl, and the recipient of her first word. Her mother, Megan, had cried when she missed these sentimental milestones. No doubt she’d cry again when she heard the news. Ugh.
Elizabeth had drifted back off into a feverish slumber in my arms. I laid her in bed, careful to avoid the bed post where I had whacked her head the first time I had attempted to put the sleeping child into bed. Whoops. I had become much more experienced than that first time, though. In the 6 months I had been nannying for them, I had become accustomed to having to move sleeping children from the living room (they were constantly falling asleep while watching movies), to their beds. Samantha’s cries drew me back out into the living room. Gathering the almost-one-year old in my arms, I deftly prepared a bottle with my remaining hand. Settling her into her crib, I knew my night was winding down. Only one child left to put to bed.
I adjusted the pillow under his freshly-bathed, sweet-smelling head, and pressed my lips to Ryder’s cheek to wish him goodnight. He wrapped his plump arms around my neck and lisped “I love you, Courtney.” “I love you, too,” I replied. “I love this and I love you.”
No comments:
Post a Comment