The Hand that Rocks the Cradle

Andy playing at Soergel's Orchard, Wexford, PA during his grandparents' visit

I do want write about Andy's first experiences in day care, and I will, but first, I must write about babysitters.

Because tonight Andy gets his first one. (We can't include family, here. I'm talking bona fide babysitter... a polite and yet unknown young woman who will have free reign of our home, play with our son for a few hours, and charge us an exorbitant fee for doing so.)

When I was little, I'm sure my parents paid about fifty cents an hour for a teenager to ignore us and watch Solid Gold on TV, while my brother and I, with the children of our parents' friends, got naked and did our own Solid Gold dancing.

When I entered my preteen and teen years, I earned a dollar an hour per child. But I learned from my childhood experiences and did not ignore my young charges. If I may say so, I was Mary Poppins on steroids--I organized treasure hunts, baked cookies, played My Little Ponies, sang lullabies, and pulled the tykes around in Radio Flyer wagons. Of course as a parent, I'm much too tired to do these things, but I did them as a babysitter. No, I wasn't perfect. I did my share of snooping and raiding the pantry, but that was after the kids were in bed.

So, I've come full circle, and must entrust my own little one to someone else's care. But now, the going rate is ten dollars an hour(!), and the babysitter is a professional woman, who teaches at the college level. She comes recommended from a friend who I trust. (First I tried Craigsist, but the only person who responded used the email handle "screams in a box." Call me prejudiced, but that email address was too quirky, gothic, and just plain scary for a potential childcare provider.)

I'm confident that our babysitter will earn every cent taking care of Andy. He tantrums now if his food breaks, demanding: "Mama, fix it!" Frozen waffles must be toasted to a crisp; God forbid a waffle should crumble, or an overripe banana break in half. Such ‘disasters’ turn him into a quivering, stammering mass of rage.

But he says the cutest things. When I say, "It's time to change your diaper," he tells me "Dada do it yesterday." He has a vague sense that "yesterday" means past, but the past can range from several seconds to several hours. Or maybe it means, never. He doesn't like the hairdryer, so when I put it away this morning, he said, "Mama use it yesterday." This is the same child who was comforted by the white noise of that hairdryer as an infant.