Thank you, Jessica
Since becoming a “babka,” I have worn many hats. Well, much to the chagrin of my Oreos, I haven’t worn many actual hats, but that is another story. When Strudel was a baby and DIL #1 was in graduate school, I was Babysitter Babka. That transformed into Camp Babka. When my Danish was born in Israel, Camp Babka opened a Camp Babka International and, well, you get the point.
This last week, I started a new venture call Babka Nanny. Babka Nanny moves into your home and “helps” with the older children. We help get them dressed and bathed and changed and in bed. We “help” in the mornings with getting ready for school. We do laundry and light housekeeping.
Babka Nanny also supplies lunch at the exact time requested by Oreo #1 so he isn’t late for afternoon learning. Babka Nanny also does carpool.
This is where it gets fun.
Three adorable girls, three different drop-offs (which I only had to do once because Son #1 usually does it and I just come along for the ride). Pickup becomes a little more complicated, well, maybe just for Babka Nanny, because she has trouble following directions.
First we pick up Strudel at her school. Then we pick Strudel’s sister up at her Morah and then we drop those two cuties off at the babysitter and retrieve their little sister, bring her back home, and put her in for a nap.
And then, two and a half hours later, we pick up the two older ones at the babysitter and bring them home for what mothers have been referring to for centuries as the “witching hour.” Add a mother-in-law to that mix and there are good times a-plenty.
I try my best to stay out of the way, but I am a big girl, so it is a little hard. I do get an A for effort.
First day of Babka Nanny carpool duty, I leave a little earlier than suggested and I pick up Strudel’s sister from the Morah. I am so proud of myself that when I arrive at Strudel’s school, I am only the third car in the carpool lane. Unbeknownst to clueless Babka Nanny, I have parked in front of a Hatzalah driveway.
Yes, you know what comes next. Those Hatzalah guys start running to the station from north, south, east and west. There are lights and sirens and Babka Nanny is in big trouble. A nice man from Strudel’s school comes over to me and realizes that I am a clueless grandmother from New Jersey and directs me to the front of the line so the ambulance can pull out and everyone can stop honking me.
Lesson learned.
After Strudel gets in the car, Son #1 had told me to make a right turn to pick up from the babysitter, but Strudel told me to go left, and I listen to everything that kid says, so I turn left and quickly realize that we were going in the direction of the OTHER house they also go to the babysitter in.
After a quick call to DIL #1, an address placed in Waze (thank goodness for Jeeves) we were back on track.
When I went to pick up from the babysitter, I got lost going home, but this time, I did not go over the Atlantic Beach bridge, a very expensive mistake I have made in the past, but it did take me 15 minutes for a five-minute drive home. Fortunately, my passenger at the time was a delightful 17-month-old who is so adorable that I just want to eat her.
And now, the final portion of this column. We will call it the Jessica portion.
Have any of you seen the “Jessica hack”? The Jessica hack is supposed to stop a temper tantrum in its tracks.
Picture this. Your 3-year-old is having a total meltdown…I mean screaming, yelling, making no sense. You feel overwhelmed and helpless. And then, you start saying, “Jessica? Jessica — where are you? Has anyone seen Jessica?”
And your kid stops cold. “Who is this Jessica my mommy/daddy/babka is asking about?” “I don’t see anyone named Jessica (especially in Far Rockaway).”
When I tried it at Camp Babka International, I used a Hebrew name, Rivka. It worked so well that Danish asked for this mysterious Rivka the next day. “Did you find her, Babka?”
The fun never ends…
Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck wishes all of the moms a Happy Mother’s Day. It is her dad’s yahrzeit, so she will be spending Mother’s Day with him and the Rebbe at Old Montefiore… Good times…