Family Affair

As I gassed and braked and tobogganed my way home that day, J. sat silently in the passenger seat, more than likely stewing in the bubbling cauldron of familial swill we'd inadvertently fallen into.

I, behind the wheel, was trying to figure out what to do about his mother in her babysitting role. I wanted to handle this gracefully but I really didn't think I could have her continue watching the kids. (And in 20 years of working in Human Resources, I'd fired a lot of people, but firing your boyfriend's mother takes a special kind of backbone.) To be truthful, she'd really gotten my hackles up, and I was dreaming of greeting her at the door and collaring her, and then marching her back to her car with her toes barely touching the ground. How dare she take advantage my children's trust?

I decided to consult my very own personal Mr. French. The world's foremost authority on all things rich with family-social-etiquette pitfalls. My sister.

My detailed retelling of our most recent tale of woe was met with a multitude of OMGs, No-she-didn'ts, and other expletives unfit for print. She may have been in disbelief, but she was very convicted in her immediate conclusion.

"You need a new babysitter. She can't come back. Even once. She betrayed your trust. I'll help you until you find someone."

Betrayed. I imagined Mrs. Kravitz searching and seizing all manner of information and filing them away for future reference. Suddenly a dusty house was the least of my worries. What if she'd inspected my checkbook? Scrutinized my medicine cabinet? PERUSED MY BEDSIDE TABLE DRAWER????

My sister was right (as usual) I did have to give Mrs. Kravitz the broom. And it was for sure that I was not going to get all gussied up to sit for hours feigning the slightest bit of interest in the shower. In a subsequent conversation between J. and Sheila she offered that my daughter could attend the shower. (So BIG of everyone to allow her to come! Why? So she could get more pie-eyed about an event she will not be invited to?) I needed to re-RSVP - to state that I had a conflict. Let it remain a matter of intrigue as to whether it was a conflict with something on my calendar or a conflict of an emotional nature. Only my hairdresser will know for sure.

I rifled through a stack of papers looking for the invitation and struck oil. In a stroke of packrat luck, I not only found the pink frilly invitation, but a letter I'd gotten nearly a year ago, rolled and stuck in my door handle, which began,

"Hi! I'm Marnie. I'm a certified babysitter..." Marnie, bless her 9th grade little heart, lived 4 doors away. Many thanks to the patron saint of babysitters. I made the call and offered the steady assignment. Then phoned in my phony baloney regrets about the shower. Showers of happiness, my derriere.

Now...how to nudge Mrs. Kravitz toward the door...