Adventures in Babysitting

Oh, what I wouldn't do right now to know that somewhere, in her bedroom filled with the latest fashions, Claudia Kishi was sitting and smacking her bubble gum, waiting for my phone call. And that Kristy, Stacey and Mary Anne were all with her, holding a club meeting (in Claudia's room, of course, since she was the only one with her very own phone line).

And that the four of them were eager and ready with their Kid Kits to come and babysit my children.

Sigh. How the mightily-blessed-with-quality-childcare have fallen. One of the hardest things about the move has, oddly enough, been going to a situation where we are the first, last, and only line of defense between our children and the dangers of the world that threaten to overtake them if only the slightest chink in the armour appears. Our "emergency contacts" on the school forms consist of our parents - fabulous people to have around in an emergency, of course, but they would have to be faster than extremely speedy bullets to be of any real help in a playground emergency.

So far we've limped along. Our neighbour girl is absolutely fabulous, but she (like most girls her age) is a busy beaver with sports and friends and all those other things with which teenagers occupy their time. Before Christmas we hit up one of The Girl's school friend's parents for an evening, but one can only play the "pity me - I'm new in town" card so often.

My work holiday party is this Friday and, despite our best efforts, I had given up on going since the neighbour was busy and I just didn't feel up to doing the Craigslist "send-me-your-references-and-we'll-do-a-background-check-and-we'll-meet-in-a-public-place-so-we-can-hire-you-and-pay-you-exorbitant-rates" thing.

But it's amazing what happens when you start to beat the bushes; my boss handed me the list of possibilities she had gotten from her church's youth pastor. When those girls also declined (but not before assuring me that they're happy to be on our list), I hit up the neighbour girl for any of her friends that might be interested. No one available there, but got another name for the list of possibilities. Finally, my coworker saved the day by asking his neighbour and she, miraculously, is free.

Well, not so miraculously. She's only 13 (i.e. has a limited social life), which is much younger than anyone with whom we've ever trusted our brood. But, she assures me, she has completed the babysitter's course, CPR training and has experience with our kids' age group. So, we shall see.

(I'm also feeling better because after googling The Babysitter's Club, I discovered that Kristy et. al. were 13. Somehow I'm feeling quite comforted.)

Goodness knows, I was babysitting at 13. Heck, I cared for much younger children than The Girl and The Boy when I was that age.

Of course, my employers got what they paid for (at the time the going rate was usually about $2/hour but went as high as $3/hour for premium nights like New Year's Eve).

I lost a child once (in my defense, he didn't stay where I put him). I left the oven on after removing the night's supper, which was only later discovered by the parents the next morning. I fell asleep on the couch one evening so deeply that I didn't wake up until the parents shook me - now that must have inspired confidence that I would have been of any help of an emergency.

Then there was the time a quick mid-evening-job visit from the parents ended up in the administration of a couple of spankings. (To my charges, not to me.) On another occasion with the same family, I locked us out of the house.

Oh, and I usually ate the entire bag of chips.

Those were some pretty tough years where my only alternative to penury was spending 20 minutes coaxing Robert G. into that day's sweatpants, despairing at midnight that my employers were already an hour late and likely to be even later despite my exhaustion, and trying desperately to make conversation with whichever strange gentleman was driving me home.

Which makes me all the more grateful for my new club membership list, brimming with six (count them - six!) names that I can call. Hmm - maybe if I give them each other's phone numbers, they'll start their own Babysitters Club.