The Dirt Field

In case you were wondering where I found the child and the French Mastiff pictured in the post below, I babysat on Saturday night. That should also explain why I was trying to get the dog to eat the little boy.

When I was a teenager, I hated babysitting. The children would climb on me or show me something they fished out of their baby sister’s ear, and I’d paste on a huge smile and coo happily until they turned around, at which point my grimace of disgust would nearly incinerate the children on the spot. The moments would crawl by painfully, and the second the parents would return, I’d sprint home and scrub myself with Lysol.

Perhaps it’s just because I’m paid a lot more than I used to be, or maybe because I’m getting older and actually experiencing periodic maternal urges, but I don’t find babysitting nearly as painful as I did back then. Sure, I’d still rather sit in the dark and grow mold, but there is actually something slightly enjoyable about being the “cool” babysitter who lets the kids make brownie sundaes with anything they wanted on them (ice cream, frosting, whipped cream, motor oil), who reads stories in fun voices, and who explains the fine art of standing on the back of the couch and touching the ceiling. And who knew children that fall from high places generally bounce?

There are still moments, however, when the kids push my buttons and I start thinking of ways to sell them. On Saturday night, the little girl saw the end of Ice Age: The Meltdown as the perfect opportunity to try and have as much physical contact with me as possible. I highly value my personal space, and if you are a person that has eaten your buttery pasta and chicken nuggets almost entirely with your fingers and a person that has questionable hygiene at best, I would prefer that you not bury your grubby fingers in my hair and snuggle your sticky face into my neck. In short, it makes me want to elbow you in the face or put you in the garbage disposal, qualities that are not exactly admirable in a babysitter.

But I think I’ve gotten to the point in life where children seem to be less like the plague and more like a slight case of the flu. When I’m out running errands and I see an adorable toddler dismantling the tuna fish display in the grocery store, I actually smile now, and hope that someday I can bring a destructive, sticky force of my very own into the world. And around my fiftieth birthday, I might just do that.