Adventures in Babysitting

I did it. For the first time ever, I hired a babysitter. Granted, we've piggybacked on our friends' arrangements multiple times, but I've never been the one to call and hire a sitter myself. It was a little surreal. I remember all too well being on the other end of the conversation. It really doesn't seem like that long ago, but apparently it was. 

I didn't love babysitting, but I was good at keeping children alive and even managed to clean the house before the parents returned. (I was pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.)

I can cite a few specific instances that scarred me for life when it came to looking after other people's children. Interestingly enough, the two that make me cringe the most are memories of the same family. They kept calling me - heaven only knows why! 

The first came when we went to play in the backyard. On the way out, I saw Christopher (about 2) fiddle with the door handle, but didn't think anything of it. Until he shut the door behind him and locked us out of the house. Thank goodness we were both out there - it could have been much worse. Although it didn't feel that way at the time when I had to knock on the neighbour's door so I could call my Mum to pick us up. I had to leave a note on the door telling them we'd gone to my house. They were incredibly understanding and didn't let on to how worried they must have been to come home to a ransom note on their front door instead of a happy toddler, busy babysitter and a clean house. I felt so silly.

But I would have preferred to feel silly instead of sick to my stomach. See, a few months later, he was "potty trained". "Oh, he can go by himself," they told me. Famous last words. While I was feeding his little sister, he told me he needed to go potty and was insistent that he have privacy. I knocked a few times to check in and make sure he hadn't fallen in. He emerged after a few minutes and announced, "Ka ka. Chelle. Ka ka."

"Oh, ka ka? Good for you, Christopher!" I went to take him back in to make sure he'd washed his hands when I smelled something terrible. I looked down and his hands were brown. Shoot, I thought. He tried to wipe himself. On the wall. The bathtub. The sink. The door. It was EVERYWHERE. I had to quarantine him while I disinfected everything and gave him a bath. I don't remember how much money I made that night, but I'm confident in saying that it wasn't enough to properly reward someone for cleaning up that nightmare. Naturally, that was the first time he'd done it, so the parents couldn't have prepared me for what came to be known as The Incident. But is it any wonder that I had no desire to be a nanny? So I have a lot of respect and appreciation for girls willing to babysit.

I remember babysitting in a time when people didn't worry as much about sexual harassment and 'he said she said' sort of stuff. I know that I should be the one to pick up and drop off a teenage girl, but I remember riding off on the back of a dad's motorcycle with him. Granted, he was my dad's friend and knew it would embarrass me more than anything else to be seen on a motorcycle with a self proclaimed "geezer". I distinctly remember a particularly uncomfortable ride home with a dad who felt compelled to dole out dating advice to a 15 year old girl without a prayer of being asked on a date any time soon. (It took me asking to get a date on my 16th birthday.) He told me (while gazing out the front window nostalgically) not to lie down at any point on a date. Whether we were playing a game, watching a movie, planking (okay, that didn't exist then) or anything else. Under no circumstances was I ever to lie down on a date. He told me it only led to bad things. "Thanks, Mr. ______. I'll remember that. Anything to confess? Oh, and could you please pay me already so I can remove myself from one of the most uncomfortable conversations of my young life?"

So when I pick her up on Saturday, I'll try to keep my what-not-to-do-on-a-date advice to a minimum, and I won't take the Harley. Even though, apparently, I'm a grown up.