Hi, I'm Back.

This is the last time I'll apologize for my absence. Either I'll just keep writing on the regular, or I won't be sorry for being way too completely out of my mind busy.

I babysit a little boy and a little girl, and can't believe I've yet to share their crazy antics. The boy, Zach (zachy), is three and the girl Leah (Leah), is 6. They are Upper East side kids. So yes, Zachy is the next Chuck Bass, and Leah is the next Serena Van Der Woodsen (forgive the Gossip Girl reference, it's the only show I watch).

My dad's business partner's daughter is the mom (reread to uncomplicate), and she is married to an extremely successful man, to say the least. They have a beautiful apartment that gives me a breath of fresh air- and brings me back to all the luxury I once knew and loved pre real world struggle (I wish reread was the answer to life's complication).

Before dispensing two darling babies, the mom was an actress- musical theater her forte. The kids are never too shy, too tired or energyless to show just how closely they follow in mom's musical footsteps. Leah is lead vocals, accompanied by Zachy on the guitar (acoustic or electric, sometimes a switch mid-song as he sees fit). There are literally 9 mini-guitars in his collection, all out of tune. For a three year old, Zach's actually got some pattern to his strums and for a 6 year old, Leah's got some oomph to her do rei me. They do a great "We're Not Gonna Take It" and for reals... I just can't take it. I want to squeeze every ounce of babyness out of them and squish them into little nothings.

The other day, Zach and Leah got in a bit of a tiff. Leah called Zach a baby, Zach started crying hysterically- really proved her wrong. I tried to calm him down by telling him he is not only a big boy, but my favorite big boy. That didn't work. He ran into his room, grabbed a framed photo of him as a newborn, ran back out and sternly put Leah in her place. "This is a baby (pointing to the ol pic)! This is NOT a baby (pointing to himself)! This is NOT a baby! That is!" he cried, he bawled.

My last story of such children (this post anyway) is again more about Zach. If Leah could read at a more mature level, she'd be pissed that it's not all about her. We were all watching some kid movie, and a fair-skinned girl with blonde, short hair entered set. Zachy points and goes, "Stacy, you look like him." For one, dear Zachy, I don't look like a pale blonde chick (who wasn't particularly cute). For two, that girl is not a "him." He's lately been having trouble with his pronouns- I try hard to not let it offend me everytime I get called him, he or his. I felt a lot more sure of myself, and less sure in Zach's discretion, after a little African American boy entered set, and my Jewish American Prince (jap) pointed and said, "She looks like me."