A very large part of my early to mid-teens was spent babysitting for various families, much like most American girls I guess.  I was a decent babysitter.  It wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but I took inspiration and advice from the pre-teen bible of babysitting, “The Babysitter’s Club.”  Most of the kids I sat with were your typical kids just trying to test your boundaries but responding with a certain level of humanity when they found how far they could push.  Most of them.

It was a hot summer.  There were three of them.  All of them hated me.  Even though I brought books and activities.  Even though I spent 8 hours a day with them and fed them two meals and a snack.  Even though I let them do whatever they wanted.  They hated me with a passion I imagine warring tribesmen in rural Africa hate each other.  They wanted me gone.  It was a very white trash situation.  The youngest was the white-trashiest of them all and had a thing with peeing.  Peeing in the backyard to be specific.  The family was rebuilding their deck.  It was in skeleton form.
Two-by-fours stretched out behind the house in a dangerous death trap
that of course the littlest one was convinced he could conquer.  I was instructed to make sure Little Asshole was using the bathroom instead of peeing outside because the deck was so dangerous.  Yeah, you read that right.  Not because peeing in the back yard is something civilized 5 year-olds should be discouraged against, but because they didn’t want him to hurt himself getting to the great big toilet outside, also known as the backyard.  And while I didn’t go into the bathroom with him, I was feeling like he wasn’t sneaking outside across the death trap of a deck to piss in the grass.  That is until I walked into the bathroom one particularly awful and trying day of “I HATE YOU I WISH YOU WERE DEAD,” being screamed at me in three different angelic voices and found a puddle of urine not even close to the toilet.  Not even in a sprinkled fashion near by the toilet.  He didn’t miss.  He was PUSHING.  MY.  BROKEN.  BUTTONS.  I sternly told him to get in there and clean it up, I didn’t even yell.  I was firm with him.  He pushed me away, ran out the back sliding glass door and tried to balance along the treacherous balance beam network of planks so I couldn’t grab him and kill him make him clean up his own urine.  Of course, he fell.  He whined and complained and I told him he was fine, and that he wasn’t getting out of the urine duty.  His mom came home and I told her what happened.  She was pretty mad at me.   I was pretty unphased.  If you want me to take care of your children for 8 hours a day, I expect that they are going to follow rules and clean up their own messes.  Also, I expect that for their own safety they’ll listen to me when I give them instructions.  He apparently kept whining all night about his stupid arm so they took him to the doctor.  It was broken.  Little fucker.  I’m not one to say any old kid deserves to get his arm broken, but this kid, he totally deserved it.  Does that make me a bad person?  Maybe a little.  A bad baby sitter?  Maybe a lot.  I didn’t break his arm, but I certainly wasn’t sad about it.

That hideous summer (that I’ve almost all but blocked out) finally ended.  You know what I got paid?  I don’t really remember but I think it was along the lines of $75.00 a week.  8 hour days.  3 horrible children.  That’s not even $2.00 and hour, people.  I wonder what ever happened to that little asshole.  I bet he’s either a serial rapist or a crystal meth dealer.

Which brings me to the real reason I’m writing this entry.  Fussy wrote today about stalking Googling her former babysitting charges on-line and finding out what they were up to, and if there’s anything I like, it’s a good internet stalking Googling session.  I found one of the girls who was the middle child in a family of three who I babysat for a long time, from the infancy of her youngest sister until I pretty much retired from babysitting in favor of drinking and doing drugs on Friday nights, my senior year.  She was my favorite of the three.  They were all awesome though. She has a Myspace page.  She is at ASU.  She looks like she’s “having a good time.”  Since ASU has been known to turn out a good person or two *cough*me*cough* inspite of the drinking and kissing boys *cough*her*cough*, it made me smile.  And then I realized, she’s 19 years old, in college, and I’m really old.  I just hope the boy she was kissing wasn’t the Little Asshole.  Arizona is a very small state.