Nannying for the Nanny

My dad is my sister's nanny.

This in and of itself is humorous, but becomes more so when one realizes that he is legally blind and hasn't held an infant since my youngest brother was born almost a quarter century ago.

My niece is 5 1/2 months old and the family entertainer. She is at the age where she mimics everything from facial guestures to sounds - including the sound of her male relatives on her father's side spitting (imagine a 13-pound little girl sounding like she's trying to cough up phlegm - amusing, to say the least). "Papa" has come up with unique childcare techniques, including pushing the baby around in the stroller inside the house when she's fussy, entertaining her (supervised, of course) using common household objects like paperplates, a plastic egg seperator and a Tupperware melon baller, and outdoor stroller adventures in to visit the dog and hang the laundry in the backyard or longer rides to visit the horses several blocks away.

I am visiting this week, which means my parents' house looks like a baby depot and Dad and I hang out with the two little girls all day. In other words, a five-ring circus minus the clowns. Today, Dad had to visit the dentist. I, in a fit of what was probably complete insanity, volunteered to watch both girls - while I was on a conference call for work.

Baby G was sleeping (easy enough) and my niece was in the swing, happily slobbering on anything in a two-foot radius. As the conference call began to wind down, my niece got fussy. In a fit of desperation, I stuck my foot, clad in an oddly stripped fuzzy house sock, on her tray and began to make puppet motions with my toes. She smiled, then gurgled, then began to laugh a belly laugh I didn't know a baby could produce. She squealed with delight. My boss, on the other end of the phone said, "That can't possibly be your baby."

I confessed that I was babysitting while trying to discuss the merits of having a corporate philanthropy page on a client's website. Then I thought about what I must look like, clad in an oversized sweatshirt covered in drool and spit up, sitting at the dining room table on my laptop with my fuzzy-sock-clad foot propped up on the swing, toes waggling wildly, with one eye on Baby G who slept nearby. At least the babies didn't have snot coming out of their noses, thereby leaving me just shy of being the unkempt housewife with dirty, screaming kids.

The call ended. It was time to feed Baby G. I sat my niece by my side (she sits if she can lean on something) and occupied her with an assortment of Papa's household objects while I fed Baby G. Then the phone rang. It was for me. Then my cell rang. My mom arrived home about the time both phones were ringing and I had reintroduced the fuzzy sock foot puppet along with the household objects and paperplate into the niece entertainment division - all while Baby G munched happily away - oblivious to the world.

For some odd reason, even amidst the chaos, I was asked to sit for a few minutes again tonight, while everyone shuffled to and from their evening engagements.

I was nothing short of surprised.