Hers and His For Sale: Adventures in Baby Sitting

As we all know, in order to be a valued member of society you must trade services for money. While typically J and myself gravitate more towards selling organs on the black market and charging admission to our world-renown, politically correct minstrel show, this monetary venture came about via the desperate plea of an old acquaintance of J's.

What do two self-respecting mid-20s lovebirds do on a lazy Sunday afternoon, you may find yourself wondering? Lay in bed doing crosswords and dreaming of the future? Have brunch and stroll around the park hand in hand? Play in a sandbox and praise the Lord we are nowhere near childbearing years? Bingo!

The latest “well, what’s the worst that could happen” adventure Z and I took on involved an old boss of mine, a spoiled 2.5 year old and a variety of characters that even we couldn’t make up.

Like most impromptu baby-sitting ventures, ours started in the food court of a Whole Foods. For those of you unfamiliar with the locale, it is a grocery story for people with money who like to think their entire diet consists of organic food. As Hannah Montana and Tiger Lily [names have been altered slightly to protect the undeserving of a shout out in our blog] finished up their lunch of sushi and organic mac and cheese, we arrived to take out pint-sized subject away from her all too eager mother. After a short bit of catching up, it was time to throw out the soiled food containers and diaper, which typically wouldn’t deserve much notation, though seeing as the diaper was removed right there in the center of the food court I thought I should mention it.

Rewind to the Friday night before our mini saga began, Z and I were returning home from a night on the town when we found ourselves behind a mother and her children. She kept chastising her little boy to “walk nice!” and insisted he hold his little sister’s most likely sticky mitt. Z and I laughed at the idea of “un-nice” walking and even did a little impersonation of our best attempt. Little did we know a mere 12 hours later, as monkey girl swung from both of our unsuspecting and weak arms (while we were in the middle of crossing a highway, mind you) that we too would reach for that ambiguous phrase. “Walk nice!” we insisted over and over as we checked our watches for how much time remained. Damn, we were only 10 minutes in.

For those unsure, not-nice walking can consist of:

Dropping to your knees mid-step

Freeing your hand from an adult’s and sprinting away

Running full tilt out of a Whole Foods and into a crowded sidewalk

Becoming dead weight and expecting your hand holding teammates to pick up the slack

Embarrassing wiggle-walking in a crowded area (okay, that one was Z)

Part One of the longest 3.5 hours of my life involved ice cream.

Despite Tiger Lily being quite a good sport even with the whole public bare bottomed-ness, her mother felt it was necessary to sweeten the deal by proposing that J and I take her out for ice cream.

“Hey, grab a cone while I finish up my shopping.” What? We don’t get to use the stroller? Wait, you normally don’t insist she holds hands? (Not on my watch!!!!) Um… can I spare two bucks for the cone?

As we sat there getting the low down on our plans, I could only think of the empty wallet I had come with. Z and I had just spent the last of our cash getting bagels for ourselves. As Hannah Montana told us the do’s and don’ts (mostly do’s!) of watching her child, I zoned out wondering how I could sneak away to find an ATM to afford the teeny ice cream cone she had just been promised. Fake illness and duck out to a store? Busk in the streets for 2 bucks? I bet Tiger Lily could get us at least a buck just based on cute points. As the panic rose in me that I would embarrassingly have to ask for 2 dollars from her mom, out came the wallet and I was very gladly handed the cash. Wait… just two bucks? No ice cream for us?

Suffice it to say, the “ice cream man” looked and sounded much like what you’d picture if you heard that the creepy older fellow from your block just bought an ice cream truck. He sat high up, like the gatekeeper to OZ. Peering out of his service window down at us street folk. The mobile sweets dispenser and all the images of the ice cream man’s creamy and crunchy wares displayed on the side dazzled Tiger Lily.

Tiger Lily’s eyes widened when the small soft-serve-filled cone crossed the open window. The cone appeared like many had before it; cool, delicious and hurdling to a quick and tasty demise by way of a toddler’s mouth and wardrobe. This however was no the fate for this extra small chocolate ice cream cone.

While Tiger Lily did thoroughly enjoy her frozen dessert, it was not nearly with the insatiable and vigorous gusto one might expect from a candy-equipped child. Every lick was methodical, every bite deeply considered before undertaking. J and I felt it was our duty to stand watch on “drip patrol” as Hannah Montana is not the type of mother to be so flippant about a few expectable chocolate stains.

Side note: If ever tasked with watching a child, bring ten fold the number of napkins you expect to use. And a hose.

Part Two of our adventure took about an hour. It involved the following:

Hannah Montana: Change her into her “park outfit.”

Tiger Lily: No!

Us: Please?

Tiger Lily: No!

Repeat as needed for one hour.

I may not understand this yet because I am not a parent, but what are with all the costume changes? I’ve done plays with less quick changes than the average toddler goes through in a day. I still don’t get why the first outfit was not park approved, but maybe one day I’ll figure it out.

It took me one hour to figure out how to get her to change on her own accord. Luckily it also took Z one hour to untangle the kite he was assigned to untangle by Hannah Montana. I am so proud of my process I almost don’t want to share, but in case you moms and babysitters need the help one day (though I don’t support your waste of clean clothes!)… “My First Spanish Words Board Book” has 2 pages listing off all the items of clothing a child would need. One by one I asked Tiger Lily which item was her [insert poorly pronounced Spanish word here] and she would point to it on her and I would make her take it off.

Nalgas, lol.

One by one until each article had been changed and I felt like a dirty perv. But… success! Off to the park! Oh, did I mention which shirt we were given to change her into? It read, and I quote “DAMN it feels good to be toddler!” Now I am all for supporting the rights of little people, but the expletive seemed a little unwarranted. And why put your child in profane clothes when sending them out with strangers? We were already being glared at as the helpless destitute parents who had no control over their adopted looking child, why add to the fire with judgment for clothes that only encourage potty mouths?

Oh and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m quite certain a “babysitter” is someone who acts as a temporary guardian for a child, not a temporary assistant. It is not “baby receptionist” or “baby’s yes man.” When given the task of getting the kid out the door nowhere in the qualities of servitude that defines babysitting is maid to, you know “clean up whatever toys she pulled out in her room.”

I mean, DAMN!

Part Three: The Scooter of Death.

What do you give a child who can’t even hold your hand long enough to stay close to you on the sidewalk? A scooter!!! Because there’s nothing better than watching the child you were just assigned to keep alive for the next few hours dart off into the horizon going 90 miles an hour with a helmet wobbling all over the place because “that’s ok, she likes it loose.”

Oh how sweet it is, being on the Hudson. The air is filtered, the nature carefully landscaped and the water looking so good you could land a plane on it. After passing one awesome playground after another, we finally arrived at the complex designated for the 2 – 3 1/2 year olds.

Z and I flipped for it and he won stroller-pushing duty while I was on scolding duty. I like to call it tough love but I think it more resembled a bad episode of 16 & Pregnant. When we reached not the first, not the second but the third playground Tiger Lily was so excited there was no time to remove her scooter helmet. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, she could have hopped back on that death trap at any second and I wanted her prepared. Also, I didn’t want us to have to go through the ordeal of putting it on her again. So what if I knowingly turned her into the “Helmet Kid” on the playground? Maybe a little innocent teasing will humble her a bit.

I honestly was so busy chasing after her and saving her from certain death that I didn’t notice how everyone thought she was so advanced for being so “special.” “You know, I think making kids where helmets all the time is a great idea,” one yuppie mom coddled. I think the “Oh crap, did I leave her helmet on” face gave way that this wasn’t a tactic, just sheer incompetence on my part. Her neighborhood safety watch radar probably went off as she then asked “How old is she?” I shrugged and said “I think 3.” To which the alarm on her face was quite entertaining. I let her worry for a minute that Z and I were just really nice baby snatchers who brought their captives to sand boxes in the richest neighborhoods and then said “Oh, she’s not ours, we’re just watching her.” She gulped and asked “How’s it going?” I winced and replied “Not good” as our little dear dumped sand in the eyes of the lady’s son.

I could appreciate Tiger Lily’s ability to play competently in the sandbox. While sharing may have seemed like an abstract concept to her, she at least could muster the motor skills to not break the colorful plastic shovel, and the presence of mind not to then attempt to use the broken tool, like the poor putts sitting next to her.

One boy was more than delighted to prove that this was a socialist sandbox, as he gleefully handed off all of his worldly belongings to anything nearby with hand to receive them. “Here have my shovel that my parents so diligently labeled with my name.” “Here have this truck that that other boy is no longer playing with.” I’ll just help myself to some of your water here…” “Oh that’s not okay? That’s cool, that’s cool I have my own.” “Here would you like some?”

Did I mention her son’s name was Rocket? Like, legitimately, Rocket. And in case I worried I had misheard her and her husband calling to him, I noticed all of his toys had been clearly labeled “Rocket.” I thought they were just challenging (or should I say “Challanger”ing) him by naming all his sand tools after a spaceship. “Shovel?” No, rocket. “Rake?” No, rocket. But instead, they had turned their son into a new age hipster victim, who along with Apple, Maddox, Pilot, and Blanket joined the ranks of children who will one day despise their parents.

Speaking of spaceships, (no really, best segway ever) there was a child on this playground who made our Helmet Kid look like Stephen Hawking. I didn’t catch his name, but we can call him Buzz, he was sporting an all out full body space suit. “I like your space suit buddy” I said as his dad rounded the corner. “It’s my costume!” he proudly stated, hands on hips, just missing the plastic fishbowl atop his head. His father’s pride was lacking as he prepared himself for a lifetime of more costumes, and perhaps even some high heels.

J overreacts! Buzz may enjoy wearing costumes as a kid, but who doesn’t?? I know, I sure spent a fair share of time as a child dressed like a Ghostbuster, and look at me; I have a pretty sweet life with a beautiful woman! Cross dressing only occurs when I’m out of clean laundry, or it’s dark when I get dressed, or I have been spending too much time with John Jameson, or it’s a Thursday. Purely happenstance.

We all took turns shoving our respective kids down this crazy twisty slide, Z was at the bottom to be the catcher and Buzz’s dad went down with his child. Why not? I thought as I flew down after Tiger Lily had just completed her turn. Well geez those slides are dangerous! I skidded my way down, leaving half my elbow on the slide and just wanting Z to kiss my boo boo better. But before I could whine too much, it was time to color. And nothing gets between me and my coloring.

I had come prepared, though I did not know what “prepared” meant until I saw the suitcases that Hannah Montana had packed for us to constantly occupy Tiger Lily with. Maybe I’m old school, but I think plain paper and crayons will get you a lot further than 12 different bubble blowers and Frisbees and kites and scooters. And sure enough, she loved it. Wore down every last one of my new crayon tips to sheer nubs. (I never said it wasn’t a lesson in sharing for me too!)

Tiger Lily proudly carried as many of the pictures as she could all the way home, clutched tightly in her little paws. When we got home to present our pretty pictures to her mom, her first words were “Oh, was there an organized event?” Um, no. “So you just, drew?” Um, yes. “Because often they have people there doing big organized things, it’s pretty great, maybe next time you should see if they have that going on.” Sigh.

As J squared away the most awkward of dealings as to “well how much is your Sunday afternoon worth to you?” I kept an eye on the little ragamuffin who was enjoying the snack we were supposed to have brought for her. Considering this profile I’ve compiled of Hannah Montana and her brood, you would think that she would know of some sort of brainiac video series that would inject knowledge and proper behavior directly into a kid’s brain, but alas no, Dora’s pompous cousin Diego was all there was. Even with the knowledge that the show goes far enough to teach remedial bilingualism but then falls flat on it’s face when any questions arise.

Well all our worries are over! Diego cleaned up the major oil spill in the ocean!!

…with a vacuum. Man, BP should have thought of that.

Before parting, J took one last opportunity to instill some useful knowledge in the developing mind of a child. Tiger Lily sat at the kitchen bar, attempting to sneak some chocolate from a small colorful dish, after being enticed by Dora and images of a giant tree made of chocolate, you know, where chocolate comes from. Not wanting to pass up on the concept of a child sitting at a bar

J insisted, “Ask mommy for two fingers of milk.”

Tiger Lily “Two fingers of milk please!”

After a shared enjoyment of youth spouting an inappropriate phrase Hannah Montana went on to give in to the candy fix. But amidst her delight, little Tiger Lily let out a pint-size fart.

Hannah Montana “Now what do we say when we pass gas?”

Tiger Lily "Two fingers of milk please!”

Overall the day was pretty good. Z and I had earned every last penny we were given at the end of the evening. We took the hour-long train ride home, looking as if we had just survived the running of the bulls. I brought home enough sand in my pants and shoes to recreate our own little sandbox here in Astoria, but we’ll only invite people who share their toys. After an hour of scrubbing and anti-bacterializing, we had washed away the hard parts of the day and left only the feeling of relief. Relief that we have a cat who behaved himself all day and didn’t get into any trouble while we were gone. A cat who would love us no matter how long we left his helmet on.