So I went to pick up the kids from the supervised visitation provider at the park.
She's a very likable person, friendly to the children, pleasant. I have nothing to hide from her - she has already seen my messy car - and I am not under scrutiny, but of course I always worry about every new scratch our wild little Bubbles gets. What if that is under scrutiny....and he keeps fighting with the damn cat!
We're mothers, we worry. Like the time Supergirl was barely 2 years old and whined in a tiny plaintive voice, "Mama....I want soda! Peeese get me soda!"
In front of 5 month old Elijah's Early Intervention therapist!!
"She means CEREAL! For some reason it just comes out sounding like 'soda'! HA! I would never ever give her soda! HA HA HA!!"
She blinked at me. I got up and got the cereal.
So the kids. At the park. And the supervisor person. As I am getting the kids buckled in, I remind them who we are going to go pick up before we go home.
"Malcolm??" shouts Bubbles. "Malcolm is coming OVER?"
"Yes," I remind him, "We're going to get him now."
"AND HE'S GONNA SPEND THE NIGHT AND SLEEPOVER?" He shouted, quite loudly.
I look at the still very nearby chaperon and smile.
"Umm YES!" I shout back, "Malcolm the DOG is sleeping OVER! The DOG!"
File that under: Unforeseen hazards of dogsitting for Grace.