To every set of parents, their respective child is a perfect, angelic, pure, wholesome and always sweet-smelling bundle of joy.
What they do not realize, however, is that whenever they leave their precious sweetheart in the care of another human being for more than five minutes, it biologically, mentally and emotionally falls apart while causing everything else in its proximity to do so.
Perhaps you too have experienced the wonder and fulfillment of being driven to the very brink of self-mutilation by creatures who seem to be human, but are much smaller, louder and more irritating.
I have spent a good portion of my life watching the children of couples who have decided they might like to have a Special Night Out. They will call me on the telephone approximately 3.6 years in advance to offer me the lifetime opportunity of having a Special Night In with their four children.
The two youngest are still in diapers. The youngest, age five months, is teething. The next oldest, age two, has a mild case of the Violent Vomiting Flu. There is also a 4-year-old who speaks only in gibberish to anyone who is not directly related to her, and a 6-year-old who has recently received his very first Zippo lighter and has the uncontrollable urge to set his siblings' hair, shag carpeting and the family dog, Poopsykins, on fire.
I should not worry, however, because they have left me a lengthy list of emergency numbers including every distant relative and a few randomly selected people from the telephone book who sound sympathetic and hospitable. (Often, their last names are "Stewart" and "Rogers." If the couple has no intention of returning from their Special Night Out, the names are "Manson" and "Kazinski.")
After their parents eagerly scurry out the door to avoid any last-minute emergencies their demonic offspring may create to entice them to stay home, these children will require me to play their Favorite Game in which I, being the care-provider and largely outnumbered, should and will chase them as they stampede about the house like the herd of wildebeests on "The Lion King," which, by the way, I should and will be required to watch a number (eight) of consecutive times because Mufasa just might survive one time.
What confuses me is this: Two adults who are trusting me with their house and their kids also trust me with heat, often in the form of open flame, with which to make hot dogs and macaroni and cheese that has to be specially prepared for each child.
All of the aforementioned, of course, will complain incessantly because I don't cook their meal "like mommy does." I obviously am not their mother, which would account for the increasing urge to remove their limbs via Cuisinart food processor.
Yet, somehow, I cannot find it in my heart to give these parents a simple, "No, I'm sorry, I'm having a kidney transplant that day," or, "The wounds haven't healed from last time."
I have a soft spot in my heart for these parents because I know one day I will have my own ever-fragrant bundles of joy whom I will be more than eager to dump into the hands of an oblivious young person in exchange for monetary compensation.
Until then, I have been thinking of moving to a place far away from couples with children, such as Venus.
If you need me, don't hesitate to look me up. I'll be listed under "Manson."
Write to Aleshia at bari_girl@hotmail.com
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