For rent: Two apparently kick-ass babysitters. Must be able to drink while working.

As is my custom, I worked myself into a nervous frenzy over what turned out to be nothing, vis a vis the babysitting gig for The Wife and me on Saturday night. To recap: We headed to Canton and the home of my sister’s in-laws, to watch our nephews and niece while they were attending a function at the in-laws’ club. I was concerned especially about the niece, as Miss Mollie had not been especially accepting of her scary-looking uncle on our visit to Columbus last weekend.

I was resigned to disaster on Saturday, especially when Mollie started screaming as her folks prepared to leave. That’s when The Plan, formulated quickly with plenty of help from sister of Uncle Crappy, kicked into action. I kept the boys distracted — not a particularly tough chore — with pizza and scintillating dinner conversation. The Wife loaded Mollie into a stroller, handed her a bottle, and took her for a walk outside.

That worked well, as Mollie fell asleep within minutes. A disaster narrowly averted.

We knew that Mollie would eventually wake up, and again sister of Uncle Crappy was prepared: She left us a rented Barney video.

Let me say a few words about Barney here. In general terms, I abhor that big purple freak and everything he stand for. But I don’t have kids, and therefore can afford to be haughty and judgmental. On Saturday, I saw firsthand why millions of parents across the country gladly invite Barney into their homes: Thirty minutes of peace.

Mollie started to stress when she awoke, and The Wife swooped in, plopped her in front of the TV and let the purple beast work his magic. While I was running the boys around the backyard — they were chasing plastic whiffle golf balls, me and each other — Mollie was snuggled next to The Wife, watching Barney. She was calm and happy, and when the boys were ready to come inside, she was even ready to start playing.

(Special kudos here to The Wife, who had to sit through the Barney video twice. I checked her for side effects and lasting damage today, and it appears she’s just fine.)

The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. The older nephew played a game of Payday with The Wife, while his younger brother nestled down with his Gameboy. Mollie was content to meander around the living room, occasionally picking up a wad of Payday money and lurching off like a drunken divorcee on a spending binge.

Get this: The boys decided by themselves when it was time to get ready for bed. We sent them upstairs to start the process, and changed Mollie’s diaper (The Wife did this, although I was ready and willing), prepared a warm bottle (I did this, overcoming my fear by pretending I was mixing a Manhattan) and wrestled her into her pajamas (uh, it took two grown adults to accomplish this). I went upstairs to direct the showers and dental hygiene for the boys … and then we sent everyone to bed.

The Wife and I stretched out on the living room floor for a little pizza and beer while we listened for the inevitable eruption from upstairs … and it never came. After about 30 minutes, The Wife, convinced that everyone had died, sent me tiptoeing up the steps to check, and I found all the youngsters … blissfully … asleep.

When we woke up Sunday morning, we found that all three kids had in fact survived the night without losing blood or limbs or anything. Mollie seemed happy to see even me. They headed off to the airport and their flight back to Tampa, and we, flushed with accomplishment and the afterglow of a huge breakfast at Bob Evans, headed home.

So. I hereby pronounce Uncle Crappy and The Wife available for babysitting duties. We work for beer.