Hold your breath for me, cross your toes, toss salt over your shoulders, keep on wearin' those lucky boxers because I might, might, might just have a nanny.
No, I won't extol her virtues. Last time I did that anywhere semi-public, hordes of people from Harvard, MIT and Brandeis tried to steal her. (No, not exaggerating. More fool me.) But I will say that she has a sister with anaphylactic dairy allergy and can keep her head in a crisis. Oh, and she seems to love my children, thus I may just be inclined to adore her.
The belief in dirty children and neglected televisions might just be a bonus.
There is, of course, one complication. (Only one? Astonishing, no? Especially given my track record.) One of the two days that suit both our schedules is....Friday.
Yes, Friday, day of harried labor for those of us anticipating a religiously-sponsored day of rest. Friday is the day on which we scuttle around, cooking everything that we'll eat until after dark, Saturday night. And with the ritual sabbath meals, that's a whole lot of eating. The NY Times once compared the Christmas dinner to the Sabbath meal, and noted virtuously that the Jews appear to eat healthier than the Christians. Reading this, the Jewish community held their collective sides as they roared with laughter. Them's statistics for ya: Christmas comes once a year, but we sabbath-observers tend to have two NYTimes-style sabbath meals per week.
So, no, I don't think we're going to be the slimmer crowd. And given that, how likely is it that I can swing a cooking-free Friday? But oh, for my Mary P., I just might try...