Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs

Babysitting horror

Other people's kids

Babysitting as an adult is different.
Babysitting as an adult is different.

I never liked babysitting. Some girls I knew in high School loved to take care of other people’s kids. As we loitered in the hall Monday morning waiting for first period to start, Debi would tell tales of how Mr. Greene’s little girl called her “Mommy.” Michelle laughed about how the Sweeney boys beat her at rummy. I always thought of babysitting as boring, stressful, unrewarding labor. Children you didn’t know particularly well and who had no respect for you did whatever they could to avoid going to bed until their parents came home at midnight.

I remember a babysitting job I had when I was 16. My family lived in the ski resort of Mammoth Lakes. A neighbor of ours, I’ll call him Bob, co-owned one of Mammoth’s most popular restaurants. Bob had two kids: a sweet six-year-old girl and a bratty, hyperactive, eight-year-old boy. One weekend when Bob’s wife was out of town, Bob called our house Saturday afternoon to see if I could babysit that night. I’d never sat with Bob’s kids before. “I hear the boy’s a real handful,” I held my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and stage-whispered to my mom.

“Charge him a lot,” my mom told me, “and be sure he has you home by midnight.” “Sure,” I told Bob over the phone. “But you should know that I charge $5 per hour. My rate doubles after midnight.”

“No problem,” Bob assured me. “I’ll feed the kids before you get here. All you’ll have to do is put them to bed. I promise I’ll have you home by 12:00.”

I walked to Bob’s house at 5:00. Bob already had his coat in his hand when he greeted me at the door. His hair was still wet from the shower, and the smell of his aftershave made my eyes water in the dry mountain air. “Tracy’s in her bedroom,” Bob told me. “She’s a little upset about her mom being gone. She’ll be okay.” I could hear sobs coming from a room down the hall. “Troy’s right here,” Bob gestured at the little boy who ran circles around the living room and pretended to shoot things with a toy gun. Troy stopped long enough to aim his weapon at me.

“Have the kids eaten?” I asked.

Sponsored
Sponsored

“No,” Bob called over his shoulder as he headed toward his car. “Just heat up something from the cupboard.”

“When should they go to bed?” I yelled after him.

“I don’t know.” Bob shut the car door and rolled down the window. “Maybe around 8:00?”

As Bob roared away, I closed the front door and faced my attacker. “Hi, Troy. I’m Anne.”

“BLAM!” Troy pretended to stagger from the gun’s recoil.

“I’m going to go check on Tracy.”

For the next three hours, Tracy cried and Troy tried to kill me. I found some Spaghetti-Os in the kitchen and heated them up. Tracy picked at her food and moped. Troy tried to see how many spoonfuls he could cram into his mouth before the squiggly red O'.s started spilling onto his chin.

Tracy cried herself to sleep around 8:00. Troy refused to go to bed. He finally collapsed in the corner at 10:00.1 carried him to bed so his dad wouldn’t know what little success I’d had getting him to behave.

I watched Saturday Night Live and waited for the sound of Bob’s car in the driveway. Midnight came and went. At 12:30, I began to get nervous. At 1:00, the phone rang. My mom’s voice sounded angry and tired. “He’s not home yet?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll give him another half hour,” she told me. “Then I’m tracking him down.”

At 1:45 my mom called again. “He’ll be home in a few minutes," she said. “I called the restaurant. His partner said he wasn’t there. When I explained the situation, the partner said he wouldn't be able to get in touch with him. Sounds like Bob must have a girlfriend. A few minutes later, Bob called me. He didn’t sound very happy. But he’s coming home.”

Bob didn’t meet my eye when he walked in the door a little after 2:00. His clothes were rumpled and he looked like he’d been asleep. “How much do I owe you?” he grumbled.

“Fifty-five dollars,” I answered. “Fifty-five dollars?”

“I told you the rate doubles after midnight.”

Bob slapped the bills into my hand. “Thanks,” he sneered.

Babysitting as an adult is a little different. Because I have four children of my own, I know more about kids. I still don’t get any respect. A few months ago, I was watching my girlfriend’s three kids while she ran errands. As I slathered peanut butter and strawberry jelly on white bread for lunch, my friend’s second oldest daughter, four-year-old Claire, walked into the kitchen. “Albright,” she said, “I need to make poop.” For some reason, my friend’s children call me “Albright.” Not Mrs. Albright. Not Anne.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “Call me when you’re done.”

A few minutes later as I carried the kids’ plates to the table, Claire bellowed from the bathroom. “Albright, I’m making poop. Bring me books now. ”

I took Claire her books. I finished serving lunch. I called my husband Jack at work. I got his voice mail. “Whatever you’re doing,” I said, “you’re not having as much fun as I am.”

The latest copy of the Reader

Please enjoy this clickable Reader flipbook. Linked text and ads are flash-highlighted in blue for your convenience. To enhance your viewing, please open full screen mode by clicking the icon on the far right of the black flipbook toolbar.

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Roll-over crashes crop up in San Diego and Baja

Nails, beer, Coca-Cola, Mexican pop singer Luis Miguel's stage equipment
Next Article

Steven Richter comes up with $1 million for Lincoln Club

Lincoln Club helps Larry Turner, hits Terra Lawson-Remer
Babysitting as an adult is different.
Babysitting as an adult is different.

I never liked babysitting. Some girls I knew in high School loved to take care of other people’s kids. As we loitered in the hall Monday morning waiting for first period to start, Debi would tell tales of how Mr. Greene’s little girl called her “Mommy.” Michelle laughed about how the Sweeney boys beat her at rummy. I always thought of babysitting as boring, stressful, unrewarding labor. Children you didn’t know particularly well and who had no respect for you did whatever they could to avoid going to bed until their parents came home at midnight.

I remember a babysitting job I had when I was 16. My family lived in the ski resort of Mammoth Lakes. A neighbor of ours, I’ll call him Bob, co-owned one of Mammoth’s most popular restaurants. Bob had two kids: a sweet six-year-old girl and a bratty, hyperactive, eight-year-old boy. One weekend when Bob’s wife was out of town, Bob called our house Saturday afternoon to see if I could babysit that night. I’d never sat with Bob’s kids before. “I hear the boy’s a real handful,” I held my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and stage-whispered to my mom.

“Charge him a lot,” my mom told me, “and be sure he has you home by midnight.” “Sure,” I told Bob over the phone. “But you should know that I charge $5 per hour. My rate doubles after midnight.”

“No problem,” Bob assured me. “I’ll feed the kids before you get here. All you’ll have to do is put them to bed. I promise I’ll have you home by 12:00.”

I walked to Bob’s house at 5:00. Bob already had his coat in his hand when he greeted me at the door. His hair was still wet from the shower, and the smell of his aftershave made my eyes water in the dry mountain air. “Tracy’s in her bedroom,” Bob told me. “She’s a little upset about her mom being gone. She’ll be okay.” I could hear sobs coming from a room down the hall. “Troy’s right here,” Bob gestured at the little boy who ran circles around the living room and pretended to shoot things with a toy gun. Troy stopped long enough to aim his weapon at me.

“Have the kids eaten?” I asked.

Sponsored
Sponsored

“No,” Bob called over his shoulder as he headed toward his car. “Just heat up something from the cupboard.”

“When should they go to bed?” I yelled after him.

“I don’t know.” Bob shut the car door and rolled down the window. “Maybe around 8:00?”

As Bob roared away, I closed the front door and faced my attacker. “Hi, Troy. I’m Anne.”

“BLAM!” Troy pretended to stagger from the gun’s recoil.

“I’m going to go check on Tracy.”

For the next three hours, Tracy cried and Troy tried to kill me. I found some Spaghetti-Os in the kitchen and heated them up. Tracy picked at her food and moped. Troy tried to see how many spoonfuls he could cram into his mouth before the squiggly red O'.s started spilling onto his chin.

Tracy cried herself to sleep around 8:00. Troy refused to go to bed. He finally collapsed in the corner at 10:00.1 carried him to bed so his dad wouldn’t know what little success I’d had getting him to behave.

I watched Saturday Night Live and waited for the sound of Bob’s car in the driveway. Midnight came and went. At 12:30, I began to get nervous. At 1:00, the phone rang. My mom’s voice sounded angry and tired. “He’s not home yet?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll give him another half hour,” she told me. “Then I’m tracking him down.”

At 1:45 my mom called again. “He’ll be home in a few minutes," she said. “I called the restaurant. His partner said he wasn’t there. When I explained the situation, the partner said he wouldn't be able to get in touch with him. Sounds like Bob must have a girlfriend. A few minutes later, Bob called me. He didn’t sound very happy. But he’s coming home.”

Bob didn’t meet my eye when he walked in the door a little after 2:00. His clothes were rumpled and he looked like he’d been asleep. “How much do I owe you?” he grumbled.

“Fifty-five dollars,” I answered. “Fifty-five dollars?”

“I told you the rate doubles after midnight.”

Bob slapped the bills into my hand. “Thanks,” he sneered.

Babysitting as an adult is a little different. Because I have four children of my own, I know more about kids. I still don’t get any respect. A few months ago, I was watching my girlfriend’s three kids while she ran errands. As I slathered peanut butter and strawberry jelly on white bread for lunch, my friend’s second oldest daughter, four-year-old Claire, walked into the kitchen. “Albright,” she said, “I need to make poop.” For some reason, my friend’s children call me “Albright.” Not Mrs. Albright. Not Anne.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “Call me when you’re done.”

A few minutes later as I carried the kids’ plates to the table, Claire bellowed from the bathroom. “Albright, I’m making poop. Bring me books now. ”

I took Claire her books. I finished serving lunch. I called my husband Jack at work. I got his voice mail. “Whatever you’re doing,” I said, “you’re not having as much fun as I am.”

Comments
Sponsored

The latest copy of the Reader

Please enjoy this clickable Reader flipbook. Linked text and ads are flash-highlighted in blue for your convenience. To enhance your viewing, please open full screen mode by clicking the icon on the far right of the black flipbook toolbar.

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Kaylee Daugherty, Pinback, Chorduroy, Moondaddy, and Mr. Tube & the Flying Objects

Solos, duos, and full bands in Mira Mesa, Del Mar, City Heights, Little Italy, East Village
Next Article

Vista imagines car-free downtown

Following Encinitas and Pacific Beach
Comments
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed Big Screen — Movie commentary Blurt — Music's inside track Booze News — San Diego spirits Classical Music — Immortal beauty Classifieds — Free and easy Cover Stories — Front-page features Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts Feast! — Food & drink reviews Feature Stories — Local news & stories Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore From the Archives — Spotlight on the past Golden Dreams — Talk of the town The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it Letters — Our inbox Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news News Ticker — News & politics Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated Poetry — The old and the new Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers Reading — The hunt for intellectuals Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds SD on the QT — Almost factual news Sheep and Goats — Places of worship Special Issues — The best of Street Style — San Diego streets have style Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves Theater — On stage in San Diego this week Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads Your Week — Daily event picks
4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs
Close

Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

This Week’s Reader This Week’s Reader