Heidi, the nanny extraordinaire, is finally here. She’s like Mary Poppins, but without the hoarding and self righteous judgmentalness (that is a word) of my poor parenting skillz. She also doesn’t judge my use of outdated slang.

Before she came out, I was kind of worried that she’d be aghast at the sheer volume of neglect in this house. Because basically I had come to the point where I weighed everything I have to do against my own sanity. Like this:

and so on. I felt a need to remind her kindly that nowhere in the paperwork said that she was a “mandatory reporter,” meaning, that no one could hold her legally responsible for not reporting the crap that went down. Not that we’re abusive or anything, I just like to see it as having my priorities straight, or rather, taking the whole Martha and Mary story from the New Testament to an entirely different level. I choose the better part. Like internet Spades and trashy daytime television (that last part is a lie, unless you count Dr. Phil, and that doesn’t technically come on until the late afternoon).

My worries were put to rest as Heidi told me this simple, sweet story (I’m totally making up the dialog here, because she’s left to buy me some candy and I can’t get it verbatim from her):

“When I was a teenager I used to play The Sims. I don’t know how it went down, but one day the Sims Social Worker came walking up to my house. She was going to take my baby away. I yelled, “You can’t have my BAYBAY!” and then built walls around her and kept her locked in until she died.”

….so, we’re good here. Right?