Our assistant helps with Otis and with all things assistant-esque here at the Baggott-Scott household.
One past sitter-assistant taught the kids how to zip themselves in suitcases and roll each other around the house, wildly. She now writes comedy in LA. (Quraishi, will you ever live this down?)
And when I go to LA, I rely on Darby -- who makes it possible for me to navigate the innards of massive buildings and takes notes so I know what the hell was said. She is deeply patient. Deeply.
This assistant -- the G., as we call her -- is interesting. A. Her mother is British and so Otis sometimes insists that the G. talk to him in that voice all the time. Otis spends much of his time when the G. isn't here, pretending to be the G., and therefore I have to be the G's mother. If I don't do the accent, points off.
Here's a typical moment for the G.. My oldest gets a glittery birthday card in the mail. We're anti-glitter here -- we once had to move out of a house because every crack in the hard-woods was filled with stubborn glitter. The G. sees the glitter, knows Otis' love of glitter, and immediately suggests (in typical logic for the G.) that he rub it on his head. He does. This is why he loves the G..
This and she'll play Pursebella with him and watch Katie Perry videos. He tells stories in the style of the G. -- about someone peeing their pants while an aged cat in a cat cage goes sliding around and the car lands in a ditch. The G.'s stories are always good. She invented Barbie hot tub on the kitchen table, sudsy water in a bowl and -- like everyone else in the family -- got fake dog poo in a very nice little box as a holiday giftie.
The G. is the best G. in the world. And I think I'm going to have to start dedicating a few posts to her greatness. Or maybe she'll tell her own tales ... In any case, more to come!