I held up UMKC student Krissy’s cell phone in the kitchen window and smirked, the laughs of my siblings and I echoing throughout the house as we dialed in her boyfriend’s phone
number. She was locked outside in the rain. Again. Now, in our defense, we were simply trying to help Krissy out. She seemed to be having some troubles
with her boyfriend and we really wanted to assist her. I am 100 percent certain our phone calls improved her relationships more than any Dr. Phil episode ever could have.
A soaking wet Krissy pounded on the window, begging us to put down the phone and let her inside. This only made me laugh even harder, of course, because nothing gave my 7-year-old self more pleasure than torturing the babysitters. It was not just a hobby, it was a gift. Krissy was just one of the hundred babysitters that went through my family.
That’s not an exaggeration, we just couldn’t keep a babysitter. I wonder if the physical or emotional or mental turmoil we put them through contributed to that fact? Or the injuries that we somehow always made sound like their fault? It’s pretty obvious, though, that the babysitter forced cousin Claire to fly off the teeter-totter and through a glass window. And clearly the babysitter told cousin Stephen to headbutt her but miss and crack his head open on the cabinets instead. So I’d say the blame is pretty evenly split between the babysitters and our family.
Fast forward 10 years and I have found myself in the same position as poor, innocent Krissy. The tables have been turned and I find myself treated the same way I treated my babysitters. Horribly.
Unlike Krissy, however, I am better at handling the spawns of satan. Because at one point, I was the spawn of satan. I know every trick in the book. Heck, I wrote the book. My phone stays locked at all times, and I never step outside the house unless the kids are ahead of me. It’s just common self defense when you’re babysitting.
Energetic little monsters are frequently amazed by my ninja-like babysitter skills, and they should be. I think its earned me some street-cred with the 8-10-year-olds, something I’ve always aspired to have.
This is not to say I am never taken advantage of, or that I keep control of the kids I babysit at all times. Take the Doe* kids, for instance. I would never admit it to them, but they have outsmarted me on occasion. It actually hurt my ego to type that and I am wiping defeated tears off my cheeks.
If someone was to ask a group of babysitters, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by the Doe children,” I’d bet my life that every hand in the room would be raised.
On the exterior they appear to be an adorable and innocent bunch of kids, but once their parents’ car is safely out of the driveway their sweet smiles are replaced with devilish grins and I brace myself for the battle.
The very first time I sat for the Does was a summer night and we were sitting outside on the front steps quietly. I kept thinking about how polite they were and how lucky I was to be getting paid for this.
I probably cursed myself because five minutes after those thoughts ran through my mind, I was being held down by a seven-year-old boy and drowned with the sprinkler by a three-year-old girl. It all happened so fast, the horrific event blurs in my memory.
I’m laying there with my life flashing before my eyes, awaiting my death and struggling to get the evil geniuses disguised as toddlers off of me when finally the neighbor notices and tells the kids to let me go.
After the water situation was under control, I knew the torture had only begun. I was in the process of changing the kids into dry clothes, so I turned around to grab a shirt from the five-year-old boy’s shelf. Literally I turned away for two seconds, tops. Two seconds was too many because he was gone when I turned back around. Children are sneaky and fast and should not be underestimated, people.
He streaked the entire neighborhood before I stopped him. The kid was fast and running has never
been my favorite leisurely activity.
After babysitting the Doe family, I realized older
kids (kids that are old enough to speak and/or run away from me) are generally not my favorite, which is why one of my favorite families consists of three-year- old twins and a seven month old baby boy.
Toddlers are too young to know how to defy my authority…yet. Anyone who knows me has heard me obsess over this baby. It takes restraint to keep me from smuggling him home every time I babysit.
This all sounds great, right? A cute, tiny baby that can’t verbally assault you? Well, most of the time, it is.
But this time was different. I was trying to do one of those stupid games where you lift the baby up a little bit and get into that high-pitched-squealing voice while saying, “Who’s the cutest baby? That’s you, you’re the cutest baby.” Ok, I’m embarrassed now.
He was up in the air smiling and being his perfect self when his tummy got upset. I didn’t have time to take cover and by the time I realized it was
happening I was covered in baby barf. If you have ever been thrown up on by a baby, and I mean really thrown up on, you feel my pain. My eyes teared up, my body started convulsing and I went into some kind of shock I was so disgusted. He went from the reason I wanted twenty kids to the reason I was never going to have any, ever.
Thankfully, not all my babysitting experiences have involved trauma. One of my absolute favorite babysitting jobs is for theology teacher Jessica Hull’s
sister’s kids. The Bowens are the polar opposite of the Does. I actually look forward to spending my Friday nights playing soccer and making chalk drawings. The
three year old worships the ground I walk on, laughs at all my jokes and frequently admires my beauty.
Note: If you admire my beauty or laugh at my jokes I will be your friend no matter what.
The Bowens give me a glimmer of hope in the next generation. They are entertaining, hilarious and genuinely sweet kids. They have never tried to drown me, or lock me out, or made me feel personally victimized. Something that gets major points in my book of babysitting jobs.
Going forward, I will remain eternally thankful for my time with the behaved Bowens and ask for some extra patience when it comes to the Does. In the grand scheme of things, I have to remember that I deserve all the mistreatment. Because of all the babysitters I locked outside. And in a closet. And threw blocks at. And tied to the couch. And called names. And attacked. And got fired. Because of that, I deserve the torture.