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Sparkle (8)
Peering over the dashboard of Mike’s great blue hoopdee, I marveled over its girth. The hood seemed to take up both lanes, digesting the yellow centerline dots like a Hungry Hungry Hippo. Our big plans for the evening included viewing The Exorcist while eating stir-fry at Mike’s bachelor pad, situated atop a neighborhood bar. This may not seem like the makings of the perfect Saturday night, but I felt giddy with anticipation.
I was nine. I was riding in the front seat. Mike was my babysitter.
Mike, the college-aged son of my parent’s friends, watched my siblings and I regularly. He even stayed at our house with us for extended periods while my parents vacationed. We adored Mike. Goofy and kind, he always made things more interesting. Watch TV? Absolutely! Let’s bring the other two sets in here too. Mike pioneered the concept of multi-screen viewing right in our family room. He kept us stocked in Pudding Pops, and more importantly, he kept us happy and well cared for.
Then there was Brian. Ahh…Brian. Camp Counselor extraordinaire and highly crush-worthy, he took me to my first rock concert. My brother remembers going as well, but my memory holds dear the idea of just Brian and I, and the The Nylons. Perhaps a Nylons show -- an a capella doo-wop quartet of middle-aged guys -- don’t exactly qualify as a rock concert, but it was the loudest and latest concert I’d ever attended, and my first without my parents. Tragically, I had terrible gas pains throughout the concert -- probably due to nervous excitement. I tried to smile through clenched teeth and a furrowed brow any time Brian looked my way, resulting in a veritable comic/tragic mime face. Ever the caring baby sitter, and not the actual date I imagined him, Brian eventually asked me if I was okay.
“Why,” I asked.
“Because every time I look over at you I see this.” He grimaced.
Memories of Brian and Mike evoke in me a combination of warm nostalgia and a bit of melancholy. These guys made having sitters fun. Knowing that one of them planned to stay with us when my parents went out, made it an event to look forward to, rather than a trial to endure. Now I’m the parent-employer with my own precious charges that occasionally need tending, and this responsibility feels heavy.
I envy the ease with which my parent’s generation hired neighborhood kids, as opposed to the cross-examination required for me to feel I’ve adequately “screened” my potential babysitters. Do you know CPR? Do you have three excellent references? Would you ever leave my child alone for one single solitary moment unsupervised, even though I do so myself several times per hour? How adequately would I have answered these questions when I began babysitting at age twelve?
Do you have any experience caring for children? No.
What makes you qualified to care for our children? What?
Do you know CPR? I take Hebrew twice a week.
Do you know what to do in case of emergency? When I’m sixteen a toaster oven will burst into flames at the table right next to where the kids are sitting. I will throw a wet washcloth into the fire and for some reason the fire will go out, instead of engulfing the entire apartment building. I guess I was supposed to throw flour on it or something.
Do you have your own transportation? I have a ten-speed but I’m not very good at the turns. My parents might drop me off if you pick me up. Usually they tell me to take the bus during the day. It’s so weird when the Dads drive me home and we have to talk, but can we take your Mercedes with power windows? I chose the name Mercedes in Spanish class.
How do you handle discipline? What?
What will you do if our children are misbehaving? Turn on the TV.
What if they refuse to settle down? I will give them ice cream.
How much do you charge? $2.50 per hour is what you will end up paying me. I’m way too embarrassed to answer this question directly.
Are you interested in working for our family? Ok. Do you
