Babysitting is a Battlefield

Babysitting is a Battlefield

Tuesday, November 14, 2006 was a day I dreaded like the plague. I was expected to look after several snotty, sticky, sneezing, screaming, icky little parasites otherwise known as the kids at Cabrini’s day care center, Crescent Cradle. It wasn’t my idea; it was for a grade otherwise I would not be doing it. I usually stay as far from that place as possible.

Just as a warning, babysitting isn’t exactly my forte, grant it is an American pastime for girls my age. Don’t get me wrong I am not that Hansel and Gretel crazy spinster lady down the street rumored to bake children in the oven then eat them. I have four little cousins all under the age of five that I love to play with dearly, it is only other people’s kids I have problems with.

That morning all my friends cooed at me how lucky I was to get to spend time with the babies and skip school.

“Good. You can switch places with me,” I replied as dryly as possible. Meanwhile, I wanted to cry.

“It’s not as bad as you think. They’re so cute,” they’d say. I rolled my eyes. So as the bell rang I walked as slowly as possible to the gallows, not yet ready to face my death. As I arrived I was told that I was stuck with the one year olds. They sat there in the play room, no toys, staring at me and the instructor. Am I supposed to talk to them? Do a little dance? Do I smack them over the head? What? Some of the imps mumbled incoherently and came to sit in my lap. My back promptly straightened and I instantly froze in terror. The instructor took down some play dishes and the kids began one by one to stick them in their mouths, up their nose, and of course in the air purifier, subsequently getting them trapped. They burst out crying when they couldn’t get them out again.

“No!” I shouted at them and began to physically remove each slimy plastic plate, knife, fork, and spoon. They looked at me like I was speaking Chinese, kept crying, and sticking more things in places I didn’t want to think of. I knew at that moment my best friend was going to be the bottle of Germex and the bathroom sink. It wasn’t even 8:30.
The rest of the day passed as uneventful as one would expect. I ran around after the children with Kleenex trying to wipe the snot from their faces. They ran in the opposite direction. I watched them eat their own lunch, and then wiped the tables, and then the floor, all the while feeling like a prisoner of war. I’d like to say that I lucked out while changing diapers, never getting a bomb. Bulls eye. I was hit, and it left permanent damage to my senior sweater. 

When nap time came I wanted to scream in ecstasy. I was miserable: my back hurt, my head hurt, I just wanted to go home. I would have given anything just to be in math class. I was too tired to eat my lunch and I was forced to sit in a chair made for a two-inch leprechaun for the next two hours.

The kids were still sleeping when I left at 3:10, and the first thing I did when I arrived home was to take a shower from all the germs that had stained my clothing. I had absolutely no energy after that so I took a nap myself. However, my day was still not done as I had to go to dancing for three hours. I cannot remember sleeping so well since that Tuesday, a day which shall live in infamy.

The reason why I, along with my fellow classmates, was forced to go through such hell as this is to teach me how hard it is to be a parent. I certainly didn’t need this day to tell me I wasn’t prepared. God better help me if I ever have to take care of nine one-year old kids at one time. It certainly didn’t help that I had a negative preconception of the day and no emotional connection to the children. But the most important thing that I learned about myself is that empathy isn’t exactly a virtue I have conquered. Support my future husband and kids; they probably need all the prayers they can get.