Concierge

Lately I find myself contemplating my next career move. Where does one go from being on a set for 14 hours a day, fanning down a sweaty, tomato-faced stunt man after he just flew out of a window in full armor? What job will fulfill my need for adventure and my addiction to being around eccentric, dramatic people? 

LO is certainly eccentric (running around the house with her diaper on her head) and she has all my Hollywood peeps beat in the dramatic department. She flings herself on the floor, instant tears spilling down her face, after a raisin falls out of her hand. Everything is so tragic at our household these days. 

Oh no, the episode of Yo Gabba Gabba finished: "WHAAA!" No you can't have another packet of fruit snacks: "WHAAA!!!."  Let's comb your hair: "WHAAA!!!  And yesterday I had the audacity of cheerfully saying "Good morning, my angel face" to which she threw herself in the crib and wailed "WHAAAA!" It's going to be a long day, I thought. 

And it was. 

But nobody is paying me to do this job. In fact, I'M paying a pre-school to get a break for a few hours.

So I need to find something that will have a financial benefit - not a liability - as a financial magazine once harshly but honestly defined children. They are expensive little creatures.  

And then it hit me: I need to be a concierge. Basically, that is my job description now. I meet the requests or more precisely - the demands - of a very discerning and difficult "guest". And I usually deliver on most with poise and grace (ok, that may be a stretch but I get the job done). 

For instance, as I was pulling out of our apartment and onto our street (which happens to be the feeder road of a busy freeway) LO screeches "GASSES, GASSES, peeze." At least I got a please. And no, the request has nothing to do with a bodily function. Luckily we are not at that gross stage yet or maybe we'll miss that altogether because she's girl? Anyhow, she's asking for her sunglasses. On our drive home from the hospital, little newborn LO squinted her eyes annoyingly at the sun in her face. I proudly exclaimed to P that she's just like me! She's definitely mine because she hated the sun in her eyes. Two years later, she's still the same. If the sun hits directly in her eyes, she'll scream in horror "Light, light" and cover her eyes with her hands.  

So as I try to avoid a collision with a zooming car, I reach in the backseat pocket to get her Dora glasses. What's next? A few moments later "Fiwawoak, Fiwawoak." She's asking for her jam of the moment, Katy Perry's "Firework." I put on the CD that P burned with all her favorites. Check. 

"AGUA, AGUA!" echoes from the backseat. "How do you ask?," I retort. "Agua, Agua, PEEZE." I reach into the fully stocked diaper bag beside me and hand her the sippy cup. She takes a swig.

"SNACK, SNACK!" "No snacks until we get to the park," I say. "SNACK, peeze," she beckons. 

"Nice words, LO, but you may not have a snack until the park," I answer.  Silence.  She got it. 

"SNACK, Mama, PEEEZE." Maybe not. When the explanation tactic doesn't work, I move onto the distraction tactic.  I reach in the car toy bag and pull out a book. "Would you like a book?" She gives me an enthusiastic "YEAH."

And we're barely at the first stop light on our journey to the park. It's going to be a long ride. 

Bring it!