Paging Mary Poppins

So I’m once again on the never-ending rollercoaster ride of finding a replacement caregiver, sitter, nanny, faux mama, whatever the hell you call those that you hope protect, love and cherish your child as much as you do (which is impossible, I know). It’s upsetting and nerve wracking and I just want to win the lottery already so I can be with my kid and not do this anymore. I read Craigslist and email strangers and they email back and then I read Craigslist some more and see WARNING: DO NOT HIRE THIS PERSON postings and I get freaked and email that poster and they send me a novel about what happened to them and how they got ripped off or that the sitter hit their kid and include the person’s real name and I wait to get emails back from those that I want to interview and hopefully the names don’t match up. I find someone I like and then they decline because our “house is too far away” or they “need more hours” or they “just got a job at Hooters.”

I took the little tyke to work today for a few hours. We are in between sitters and papa is playing some Food Fest in Albany, NY…more on that in a second. We had an all-staff staff meeting. Baby paced, clapped his hands and babbled loudly like the floor was his. He then fell down, burst into tears and didn’t stop. Thank goodness I work at a very cool place where some days are “Bring your dog to work” day. My desk is on the second floor. My child prefers the first floor and tried many times to take the stairs…alone. He tossed everything he could find in the recycling bin. He’s teething. He fussed. It was too much to bear. I can get more work done from home. There, he’s in his world and those crib walls work wonders. Plus the Herradura is to my left. So the sitter search continues. It shouldn’t be this hard but it is and always will be.

Before papa left, I told him it was okay to go to a store called H&M and buy me stuff. To my super-duper surprise, he hopped in a cab in Albany to seek out the oasis of cheap and trendy clothing and nearly landed in another town that also had the store. I think the crackhead cabbie thought he had a sucker on his hands. $40 later, papa calls, a tad frustrated, and starts asking me questions about skirt lengths, dress sizes and other dreamy topics of shopping for me. I’m thinking “Hello, is this my new gay boyfriend?” Even if papa ends up buying me clothes only Pamela Anderson-Rock can (barely) wear, he’s getting some serious lap dancing for just asking those kinds of questions. I told him to pick out whatever he liked (hee, hee) and bring it. Later he called to say he needed to purchase a duffel to bring the goods home. Although I hoped it was all threads for moi, he said he found some dude duds, too. Bueno! I can’t wait and I will share the newly purchased and picked by my husband items when he returns. I am waiting with bated breath.