Shumtimes I Get Home and Talk to My Babyshitter Like Thish…

I started babysitting when I was like six.  I’m telling you – that’s seriously what I remember. I think I had just mastered potty training when a neighbor down the street deemed me fit to care for her infant. And my parents thought it was just fine, too…bring home that bacon, baby. I was dead weight for five years at that point — time to cut those apron strings. I look back at how different the times were back then, as I remember getting $20 if the couple was gone an hour, or $20 if they were gone ten hours. It seemed to be some sort of flat rate.  And, because I was so young, the parents would have to drive me home at the end of the night. Sure, it was only a few blocks most of the time, but can you imagine how schnockered some of them were? I’m sure the parents tried to hide their inebriation, just as I tried to hide the drool on my shirt from when I fell asleep watching Skinemax. Hey, I was curious.

Which brings to me to my point – the drunken payment of the babysitter. I’m no spring chicken anymore, so I no longer chase an Irish Car Bomb with a Slippery Nipple, but I do like to raise a glass of wine or three when at dinner with the hubs. Usually I keep my wits about me, but recently we went out when my brother and sister-in-law were in town and I may have overdone it just a wee bit. Our babysitter is a grown woman with two kids of her own, so it’s not like the good old days when you could pull the wool over some naïve kid’s eyes as you teeter like a toddler in six inch pumps.

The hubs and I had to strategize in the driveway. Drunken strategery is never a good idea, right Bush? Anyhoo, he was going to create a diversion as I excused myself to go to the bathroom so he could pay. Of course, the all-but-brilliant plan was foiled, as she rose from the couch as soon as I walked in, and greeted me like a kid on Christmas. I don’t remember how it all went down, but I do believe I said something like, “How were the kidsh? Any problemsh?” And then I hiccupped and nearly seared her eyebrows with the smell of alcohol. Our eyes locked in a moment (cue the Western duel music) and, as she grabbed the money from my hands, an unspoken agreement passed between us – thou shalt never speaketh of this moment again.

Of course, the next time she showed up, I was going through the routine, pointing out the emergency contact numbers and the all-organic vegan meal she was to serve my children (yeah, right), and I’m pretty sure I saw a bit of a smirk hit the corners of her mouth. You smug little bitch. Well played, me’lady. Well played.

someecards Mom

Just when I was THIS close…

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Comments

  1. Amy says:

    Yeah, I remember babysitting and a time or three when the parents came home a little schnockered and then proceeded to drive me home. One time though, it was so bad that I ended up calling my dad to come and pick me up….never, ever babysat for that family again!
    Thanks again Marnie for the HI-larious blog posts – Happy Friday!

  2. Nash says:

    So incredibly funny. Just knowing the both of you makes it even better.

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