On Monday, I was a reporter for an innovative new space launch to Mars. Somehow, I was able to report first hand what happened when aliens attacked the astronauts, and was there to support Mission Control to bring them home safely.
On Tuesday, I was an artist, drawing a seascape complete with a railroad station, teaching another artist how to draw jellyfish.
On Wednesday, I was a packhorse. Carrying a tired princess on my shoulders, a hello kitty bicycle with my free arm and pushing an exhausted bank robber down the road with my foot while we trekked the 8 blocks home from the library.
On Thursday, I was five years old again, jumping in a bouncy kingdom and helping a three year old do backflips. I tried my best to shoot small balls through a cannon into a net that seemed impossibly far away. I climbed up giant inflatable slides and rushed down clinging onto Hannah's small hands, giggling the whole way.
On Friday, I was the slide, letting four year old Evan slide down my legs while I laid off the side of his bed silently — because slides didn't talk.
On Saturday, I slept. I read books and cooked good food. I made homemade ice cream and took a yoga class. I danced to my favorite songs. I remembered how great it is to be a grown-up. But, 8 hours in, I miss my kids, my adventures, the chaos that ensues when toddlers are around. I miss the finger paints, the joy in the little things, the goldfish crackers. I miss stains on my shirt from half-eaten Nutrigrain bars and the bruises on my feet from preschoolers who have yet to have awareness of their bodies. I miss the laughter, the smiles and even the tears. I miss my kids.
And this is why I'm a nanny.
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