The babysitter

Cousin Bailey (age 4) arrived Saturday afternoon to spend the night and help out with the boys. She did a bang up job and enjoyed herself so much that she had a complete go-to-pieces when Mom and Dad showed up to pick her up today. She had such a melt-down so immediately that Jay and I both thought that she was going to tell her parents that the whole experience was so terrible and that we had been so mean that she couldn't stand it. We missed it entirely. Girls are hard.
Miss B arrived around lunch time and the first order of business was feeding the boys their lunch. Neither boy was particularly interested in cooperating. Griff put on a particularly good show: shaking his head, spitting food, crying, squealing, knocking food and utensils off on to the floor. (Steph: "Is this every meal?" Um-hm. "You do have medication, right?" If you consider alcohol "medication." ) Miss B and I went off to have manicures and pediures (her nails are bright green with white and pink flower decals. My toenails are bright blue with a pink and white flower on each of the big toes. I did manage to convince Bailey that blue fingernails were not professional, however.) Following that, Bailey announced that she was ready to go home and babysit for "the one with the mask" (Allan) and the "other one" (Griffith). When we got home the boys were ready to swing on the front porch and Bailey wanted to read to them. Neither Jay nor I was allowed to read and, really, she would have preferred that we weren't around at all. Under sufferance, I was allowed to sit on the swing at the far end of the porch while she sat in a lawn chair immediately in front of the boys. She was very attentive. If they slowed, she jumped up to give them a push. If I got up to get something, she volunteered to get it. (She was far more considerate than Jay and I are of each other, that's for sure.)
Dinner time was a matter of horror for Bailey. She was in sympathy with Griffith on not wanting to eat peanut butter with bananas in it (it stinks, according to Bailey) but she did not understand why he wouldn't eat mashed potatoes. She seemed quite distressed and explained to him that they were good and that he needed to eat food like a big boy and not just drink milk like a baby. Or a calf. She is a farm girl, after all.
Bath time was quite a lot of fun. We just thought Bailey would help, but after she started her bath she thought it would be fun for the boys to get in with her. (She could not keep who was who straight -- kept referring to "this one" or "that one" until she decided that saying "the one with the mask" made it much clearer.)
The girls slept downstairs. The boys slept upstairs. It all was pretty peaceable. (Actually I ended up staying up until nearly 2 a.m. finishing Harry Potter. The battle of Hogwart began at 11:49 and I really, really thought I could finish more quickly than I did.) Griff decided that last night would be a good night to be up from 4 to 6. Needless to say morning came early. Miss Miranda was singing solo at church so we all got up, slicked back our hair and headed out. Flora would have been so proud - the boys were dressed identically. We all survived a nearly endless sermon (Miranda's solo was lovely -- some sort of Bach something-or-another in German). Then we all trooped home and played until it was time for Miss B to head home. Which is when the aforementioned go-to-pieces occurred.
The boys have been good guys all day long. Jay and I are working really hard to implement this routine/schedule. After bath and while we were getting every one settled, Jay made the fatal error of saying that putting Griff down was a "pleasure" and "easy" these days. Then (because he is not gallant) he elected to take Griff up upstairs. Allan and I stayed downstairs and, after we had drawn up meds, picked up toys, started the dishwasher and, generally, done a bunch of scut work, we sat down in the calm, quiet, semidarkness of the living room and had a nice glass of wine (Mommy did anyway). Now, both of my children resent and resist me reading anything that doesn't rhyme. They will kick, buck, jump and otherwise do everything within their power to keep me focussed on them. Both of my children love The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As I launched in to the 17th verse, I could hear, distantly, the howl of my youngest son upstairs. You remember him, right? The Pleasure. You would have thought Jay was poking him with a hot stick. (Do you hear the lambs, Clarice?) And, when they both came back down for bottle number two, I asked Jay how that was going for him. He doesn't have much sense of humor (Jay, not Griff, Griff thought it was pretty funny. So did Mommy and Allan.)