It is now Day 26 since I was mistakenly torn from the grasp of my undoubtedly-old-money family and placed in the care of...well, how should I describe them?
Let me hasten to say that it would be entirely ungenerous of me to claim that I have not been well-cared for. Indeed, my material needs have been met with great alacrity. The red-haired wet-nurse, a charming and lovely woman whom I have to say is growing on me, is quick to feed me and dispose of my alimentary leavings, ensuring that my nether regions will not be chapped. I rather enjoy the swaddling and have plenty of time to rest. Bathing seems to be great fun, and the water is pleasant to the touch. The clothing, though too often second-hand, alas, is sturdy and comfortable. The wet-nurse also seems to have primary care for me, which is good, given her mostly cheery demeanor and overall competence. I will miss her when I am returned to my Grosse Pointe (Farms, quite likely) abode to reside with my natural kith and kin. I have resolved to send her a card on my birthday in gratitude for her assistance.
The surroundings are passable, a brick bungalow with a second floor addition that makes it near-enough a colonial. Only a one and a half car garage, but that's not my problem. Surprisingly enough, given the behavior I observe, they seem to be bookish. Plenty on the built-in bookshelf, including the Bard and Homer, along with rumors of an impressive library in the basement. Drat my inability to ambulate!
I say "surprisingly enough" because, as regards the rest of the staff....sigh. I am certain their intentions are good.
The hairy-faced fellow to whom the wet-nurse is inexplicably espoused is a rather loud and eccentric chap. He seems competent enough in the ways of child care, in a sort of rough-hewn peasant fashion. And the rest of the staff, wet-nurse included, seem genuinely happy when he returns from the quarry (?) where he likely works. He, too, is capable when it comes to keeping my nether regions unchafed, and proves to be a startlingly-effective heat source conducive to productive napping. He could be a bit more capable of dressing me, but at least he chooses appropriate clothing. However, his eccentricities have become a bit cloying. What is with his penchant for bizarre nicknames? The name they gave me is solid enough, passable even in the Pointes, especially when I abbreviate the first initial. I can't get attached to it, of course, but it is a commendable moniker. I understand diminutives like "Tom" or "Tommy." But what on earth is a "Tombert"? And what's with "Tomás"? They don't look Mexican. Odd--and increasingly annoying. By the way, Mr. Hirsute Jokester, "Chubba-bubba" is right out.
Alas, while they are likely not Mexicans (though the wet-nurse has one of those tall candles with the Savior on it), I can confirm that they are Papists. That would explain the large staff. Worse yet, they appear to be Irish--all except the Bearded One, oddly enough. Despite his annoying mannerisms, he seems to be of good Kentish yeoman stock, if his stories are correct (I'll ignore the Welsh component). This is something of a relief, given that when I first saw him I thought I might have been accidentally deposited with the followers of Mahomet. No, adherents to Popedom instead. With at least a leavening of the Sceptered Isle in their veins.
And, if I must go to the Roman Mass, I suppose I shan't complain about the surroundings of the church itself--the decor is commendably high church, with a baldacchino and some tastefully done stained glass.
As to the rest of the staff, they are a mixed bag: the older three--a girl, a boy, and a girl respectively are all rather decent. Loud and boisterous, but genuinely charmed by my presence. And no attempts to play dress-up by the ladies, which is a relief.
The younger two staffers need much more work, unfortunately. The boy is just bearable, what with his ill-timed need to lean over to give me a kiss or hug whilst I am sleeping in the papasan. But even he is a prince next to his younger sister. She is called "Elizabeth," but I refer to her as "the Poker." She has no sense of appropriate personal space--"close talker" doesn't begin to describe her oafish intrusions. And her constant poking of my eyes, nose, mouth with her jabbing index fingers, intoning the facial feature in question as she does so, is utterly intolerable. The rest of the staff seems to be aware of her proclivities, so they intervene before permanent damage is done. And, I suppose I can grudgingly admit that she wants to be nice, but is simply awful at displaying it, most of the time.
Stiff-upper lip, keep calm and carry on--these are my creeds. The mix-up is no doubt being investigated as I write this, and I am certain the authorities will return the burly peasant boy to this band when I am redeposited into the arms of my family in the Farms. I suppose it could be worse.