Babysitting Follies

            by Emma Claudeanos

 

3 ½ going on 13

            The kid was innocent…on the outside. His hair was wispy and blond. He had a cute button nose on which rested a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses were round and could possibly have been the highest prescription pair of spectacles I have ever looked through. On one babysitting occasion I took them playfully from his head and held them up in front of my face. I was BLIND; I swear to God. The world was a blur. Then I gave the kid his glasses back and breathed a sigh of relief as the room came quickly back into focus. He was the perfect three-and-a-half year old geek. It wasn’t until Blues Clues ended on that fated day, that I discovered his true identity. We were in the backyard playing a rousing game of baseball. I was wearing a tank top, but believe me when I tell you that nothing at all was hanging out where it shouldn’t have been. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, BAM

            “You have boobies, “ the kid informed me.

            I was speechless. What the hell is a seventeen-year-old girl supposed to say to a three year old who has just made an obscene comment about her physical appearance? I decided to let it fly and we continued with the game.

            Later that evening after dinner and a few puzzles we were once again on the couch in front of the TV when all of a sudden the kid’s hand flew to his crotch area.

            “Sweetie, do you need to use the bathroom?” I asked.

            “Nope,” he replied.

            “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want you to have an accident.”

            “Someday I’m gonna have one as big as my daddy’s,” he stated.

            Never before had I witnessed as early an onset of puberty as this one. Already this three-year-old had developed the naughty mind of a pubescent teenager, filled with offensive remarks and inappropriate observations. I could see right past those nerdy spectacles into his dirty, rotten soul.

            I knew it was only a matter of time before he let his tongue slip again.

            At around 8:30 it was finally time for bed.

            “It’s time to go to sleep buddy,” I said.

            At this point he began to pout and I could almost see the tears churning behind his eyes.

            “I’ll read you two books,” I said, trying hard to fend off the tantrum.

            “Okay, promise?” he asked.

            “Promise,” I said.

            At that point I walked him to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and washed his face. Then I sent him into his room to pick books while I grabbed his clean pajamas from the dryer. When I walked into his bedroom I found him crouched near the bookcase mumbling something softly to himself. I moved closer so I could clearly make out what he was saying. It turned out he was actually singing.

            “My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump. My lovely lady lumps. In the back and in the front,” he sang.

            I was appalled. How could this be? The little angel with the button-nose and the glasses was truly nothing more than a three-year-old obscenity. My virgin mind was permanently scarred.

            I read the kid a few Thomas the Tank Engine stories, stuck his pacifier in his mouth (I know, isn’t he a little old for that?), removed his glasses and tucked him under the covers. Before leaving the room I turned on his Barney nightlight and wished him sweet dreams.

 

Goddamn Dog

            I love dogs…all kinds of dogs, so it was a surprise to me when I arrived at Traci’s house to baby-sit her two kids, and found their dog to be disgusting. He was a little, stubby pug named Shorty with coarse, beige fur and a squished black nose.

            First off, the dog stunk. I could hardly walk by him without cringing, and the moment he walked into a room where I was I would hold my nose and wait for the sour drift to dissipate. Shorty was also very, very old. He was constantly hacking and coughing. The dog sounded like on old man with a throat full of phlegm and a bad cold.  Most of the time he would plop down onto the ground and then spend the rest of the night trying to get back up. I felt sorry for him. He was sweet enough, never barking or causing any fuss. It was the smell really; I didn’t know how the family stood it.

            One night was especially bad. I had just made dinner for the boy and girl when I heard Shorty whining in the backyard. As I opened the back door to let him in the girl called to me from the kitchen.

            “Emma, he won’t climb the back stairs by himself. You have to carry him,” she said.

            My worst nightmare had finally come true. I walked across the back deck to the top of the stairs. My eyes traced their way down and landed on the dreaded sight. Shorty sat staring up at me with his two squinty eyes, waiting patiently for me to climb down and hoist him up between my arms. I had no idea how I could possibly convince myself to complete the task before me. It would take courage. It would take heart.

            I took a deep breath in, held it and rushed down the steps. I grabbed the dog with my fingers and, holding him out in front of me, turning my face to the side, I raced up the stairs two at a time. I dropped the dog carefully onto the doormat and coerced him gently into the house.

            I held my hands out in front of me in a desperate attempt to keep the contamination to a minimum and ran to the sink. I washed my hands for two minutes straight using three times my share of antiseptic soap. I finally felt properly cleansed and I went to find the kids who were on the couch in the living room. Shorty sat serenely in the center of the rug.

            It had been about fifteen minutes when from the depths of the canine came an unearthly sound. It was quiet but unmistakable. The foul stench that ensued was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I plugged my nose fanning the air in front of my face. The kids fought fits of laughter as their dog continued to pass the offensive gas from his body. My eyes began to water as the room filled with the odor. It finally grew to be too much. Choking, I stood up and ran for the front door. Throwing it wide open, I lurched outside into the clean air and gasped for oxygen. It was freezing cold and raining, but I didn’t care.

            Later that night we decided it would be best to lock the dog in the den and let him torture his own nose.

            To top it all off, as I was leaving down their front stairs at 11:30 PM my flip flop clad feet flew out form under me and I fell flat on my ass, hard, on their wet steps. Two days later I had a black bruise the size of a small dog on my right butt cheek.

 

Burning Bridges

            I had driven all the way to San Francisco for this job. It was a good half hour across the bridge and through the maze of freeways before I finally pulled up in front of the blue house with red stairs crushed between two other homes in the typical SF neighborhood.

            I was excited about the kids, a nine-year-old named Evelyn and her newly adopted ten-month-old brother Leo. He was pretty much the cutest thing I had ever seen, and luckily wasn’t the fussy type so he kept the crying to a minimum. The evening started out smoothly enough. Leo and I played with blocks on the living room floor while Evelyn finished her homework and practiced the piano. The house was small so the baby was easy to keep track of and there was practically no mischief to deal with. Little did I know I would be the one to cause all the trouble.

            After I fed Leo his rice-cereal-mixed-with-smashed-banana-that-kind-of-looked-like-vomit dinner it was time for me to fix something for the girl and myself. We decided on pasta, easy enough. Their stove was this huge, industrial, brand-new appliance to which my own meager stove paled in comparison. I chose a burner and put a small pot of water on to boil. After about a minute Evelyn walked in, glanced at the stove, and told me to move the pot to the burner on the right. Apparently it was bigger and would boil the water faster. I moved the pot over and turned the burner on high. Flames shot out from under the pot, licking the bottom and outside walls of the pot. It didn’t look too dangerous so I thought nothing of it and we waited for a few minutes. Leo meanwhile was playing quietly on the kitchen floor.

            By the time the water was boiling Evelyn was on the floor entertaining the baby and I was searching for an oven mitt to lift the lid of the pot with. I couldn’t find one anywhere and opted for a cloth napkin that I spotted folded neatly in a drawer. I carelessly grabbed the napkin and dropped it over the lid so I could grab the handle. At that second, I failed to realize that the fringe and half of the cloth were dangling in the flames dancing out of the burner. The napkin instantly caught fire and I nearly screamed as I threw the cloth on the counter and stamped it out with my fist.

            “Oh shit!” I said.

            “What happened Emma, did you burn yourself?” Evelyn asked me.

            “Um, yeah, I did. I burnt myself. Don’t worry, I’ll just put some cold water on it,” I answered.

            I turned on the faucet and ran my hand under it. Nothing really hurt, but I was definitely shaken up. I was also very embarrassed.

            Meanwhile, the room had taken on a distinctly smoky smell, and the blackened napkin lay suspiciously on the counter by the stove.

            “Uh, could we open a window? It feels really hot in here,” I asked Evelyn.

            I needed a way to get the smell out without telling the girl that I had nearly set fire to her house while trying to make her dinner. Surely she would tell her parents.

            “Okay,” she answered and opened the kitchen window.

            After the fiasco I dealt with the pasta carefully and buried the burnt evidence in the trashcan.