For Want of a NannyCam

It's the way it always is for me.

I feel guilty. Guilty for leaving my kids with two grown up people I should be able to trust to love and adore them as I do, to guide them through nighttime routines and keep them safe, and to break up the occasional prepubescent squabble.

The problem is, I can't exactly trust them to do any of those things. I know they would never do any harm intentionally, they are just simply not aware of the harm they do inadvertently.

I have no concerns about any tragedies. Mom would not stand idly by if something heinous would happen, a la Nero fiddling while Rome burned. (Let's face it...it would not be my kids in trouble if the house went on fire. Bill is somewhat more, umm, flammable, and not because they don't make flame retardant PJs in his size.)

No, it is more that I worry that the kids will feel unsafe. Like I've left them with the Child Snatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which is the movie they've selected for the evening). And because I know this up front, I am sure that I am a rotten mother for going out for an hour anyway.

An hour.
Within walking distance.
With my kids in possession of a phone and 2 numbers by which to reach me.
As if it would take more than a moment's provocation for my daughter to send me a flaming 911 text.

I take a deep breath, put on earrings, and head out for a glass of locally made wine with J.

Once out the door on the way to the winery, I tell J. story after story about Estelle and Bill and their antics, and then J. and I delve into more deep and meaningful territory in a much needed discussion about us...which I cut short because I am sure I need to be home at this very instant.

As it turns out, my instincts are correct. There has been a "to do."

My daughter went to retrieve her Glee CD from the CD player and found Mom's Raul Malo in there instead. She asked about the Glee CD. And my mother, rather than saying, "I don't know where it is, sweetie, but I know it's important to you, so let's try to find it together," feels as though she is being accused of taking and/or hiding the CD (for which, to be truthful, she has been fairly clear about her disdain) and takes issue with my soon-to-be 11 year old.

So much so that Bill, in his stupor, takes my daughter out to the hammock swing and swings and chats with my child about what a pain in the ass my mother is to live with.

I am never leaving the house again.