Me:Will I get an authentication token for his computer?
Him:Probably not. Just break in.
(It’s a little game I’m playing, snapping into full FBI mode to prove to Metcalf that I’m capable of what he’sasking me to do. Even though I’m still not sure I made the right decision.)
He writes:Is landline digital or analog?
A landline? Who even has a landline these days? I look around and see a cordless phone on the desk. But how can I tell if it’s digital or analog? Oh God. I’m already in over my head.
I open the desk drawer. Luckily, there’s a manual right on top: “Avaya 8 Phone System with 8-Gigabit IP: Essential Edition.” I take a picture and send it to him.
Metcalf:Good. So we can go with DECT-enhanced and an IMSI catcher for a trap-and-trace.
Me:Good thinking.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Just to make things more interesting, Lily’s face suddenly turns red. I’m worried she’s going to cry again, but no. It’s even worse. She’s pooping.
Metcalf again:Will let you know if VOIP service interferes.
I text:Looking forward to it.
The poop has ended. (Another great name for a rock band.) As I carry Lily upstairs to change her diaper, I make a mental note to look up all the things Metcalf mentioned if I ever get time to myself again. The world has changed a lot since I was at the FBI. More technology. More procedures. More acronyms, and learning curves that may very well be beyond what I’m capable of at my age.
I know it’s just day one, but I feel like I’ve totally failed everyone. Metcalf, the FBI, and myself. But most of all, Lily. Does every new mother feel this way?
Can you get postpartum depression from someone else’s baby?
CHAPTER 10
HERE’S A QUESTION FOR YOU: How can a fifteen-pound baby excrete what looks like two pounds of poop? The sheer volume of it is breathtaking—pun intended. Is it all just poop? I survey the dirty diaper in awe.
This is a bowel movement I would be proud to call my own.
My next question: Exactly what kind of solid food “tastes” have they been giving this baby? Linguine with clam sauce? I start to gag and realize I’d better hold my breath. That means I’m in a race against time: I’ve got to remove the dirty diaper, open the diaper-disposal pail with my foot, drop it in, and clean the baby’s bottom before I can breathe again. Sounds doable, right?
Then—a major glitch. As I reach for a baby wipe, Lily kicks the whole box of environmentally safe wipes to the other side of the room.
I’m still not breathing. I’m starting to feel faint. Now what? My only option is to wipe her fat little butt with the dirty diaper. A pretty feeble plan B.
But wait! I suddenly remember that I have pockets in my uniform and tissues in my pockets! An entire packet! Not perfect, but enough to do a quick cleanse before I pass out.
The plan sorta-kinda works. I start the excavation with the tissues, then retrieve the box of baby wipes from the floor so I can return her tush to pristine condition. There’s a tube of something gloppy called Tubby Todd Sweet Cheeks Diaper Paste, and I squeeze it onto her little red bottom but severely underestimate the power of my squeeze. The paste comes rushing out so quickly, you’d swear it was fleeing the cops. I need two more wipes to clean it all off my hand and the changing table. I wonder how many trees are going to give their lives for this one little tush.
Once Lily is clean, creamed, and cornstarched, she gurgles a couple of times and starts to suck on her fingers. Wait! Is this really happening? Do I detect the beginning of a smile? I know it’s just the first hour of the first day of this assignment, but I’m feeling ridiculously smug.
Congratulations,I think.You have changed your very first diaper!
I wonder if they make a Hallmark card for that.
CHAPTER 11
THE BIBLE IS RIGHT: Pride goeth before a fall. I was too cocky. As I carry Lily down to the playroom, she starts crying again. It’s like she’s suddenly remembered that her mother is not here. Gotta give this baby credit—her short-term memory is better than mine.
Amber mentioned a stroller, but I can’t find one anywhere in the front or back hallways. All I see is a huge navy-and-white carriage about the size of a Steinway grand. Is that a kajillionaire’s idea of a stroller? According to the “Get to Know Your Balmoral Pram” booklet in the hanging basket, this carriage was designed to “exude luxury from every angle whilst”—whilst?—“offering your baby every comfortpossible, thanks to the world-famous gliding Silver Cross ride.”
The booklet also confirms what I suspected: All this comfort and gliding doesn’t come cheap. But the good news is that the $4,499 price tag includes free shipping from England. When the Harrisons were debating which luxury carriage to get, I bet that’s what tipped the scales.
As I strap Lily into the pram, I hear a squeak from the kitchen. It’s the doggy door. Jane and Austen come bouncing in. Do they smell the fear in my new-nanny pheromones? Do they smell my fear of animals? Does it matter? The two of them slowly circle the carriage, watching me closely, whining. Great. It’s just like Amber predicted. They want to join us on our walk. And they won’t take no for an answer. To make their point, the two of them dart past us and block the front door.
