The World's Worst Baby-Sitter
The World's Worst Baby-Sitter
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published December 24, 1981
9/27/2015
Sometimes I think over the various areas in my life in which I have definitely failed, and foremost among them I have to admit is baby-sitting. If a national championship were held for the world's most incompetent babysitter, I believe I would have an excellent chance of winning first prize. The reason is that any child can readily outthink me. Or perhaps it is that they have more imagination than I; more boldness in thinking of ways of getting into trouble than I have in devising schemes for keeping them out of trouble.
I have a pretty wide experience of baby-sitting, being the father of six — two girls and four boys. In the battle of wits, child versus father, the child has always won.
I will quote you an example, not particularly memorable perhaps, but illustrative of the struggle. There is a black stain on the carpet in my study, covering a considerable area and one which cannot be removed. It dates from July 20, 1951; the time being about 2:30 in the afternoon by the Pacific Coast method of reckoning. (Well, in a fuzzy world, it is nice to get as many details correct as one can.)
My wife had announced at midday that she was going shopping, and I would have to take care of 18-month-old Kevin until she got back. I announced that I planned suicide at 2:30, for I was hopelessly entangled in a piece of writing which could not be unsnarled and life had no further meaning for me.
“Kevin has had his bottle,” my wife said. “His pants have been changed and I'll put him in the playpen in the corridor where he can't get into any trouble and will take a nap.”
“I’ll do in the bathub,” I said, “so as not to make a mess. The blood will go down the drain. We had it fixed last week.”
My wife left. I went gloomily up to my study, read the last two pages I had written (five hundred words of frustration, sweat and tears) and threw them into the wastepaper basket. Then I started writing again, and the stuff went reasonably well so I forgot about killing myself and typed on for a while. A couple of times I went down to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Each time I passed by there was Kevin wistfully through the bars of his playpen. He watched me pass, sad as rain in a graveyard, and in the end I couldn't stand it.
So I picked him up and carried him to my study, so he would at least have company. I threw a few toys around the floor to keep him interested — some piston rings from an old MG, a couple of discarded exhaust valves and a teddy bear that wouldn't squeak any more — keen stuff. Then I went on with my work.
Gradually I became aware that Kevin was very quiet. I looked about and found him in a corner of my study. He had ignored the piston rings, etc., and found a bottle of India ink from which he was taking an occasional swig. He was sitting in a pool of India ink, and his whole front was black with the stuff. So were his hands and his bottom.
I lost my head immediately. Instead of leaving him there for my wife to fix, I rushed off to the bathroom, and spent the rest of the afternoon washing him. It took about six rinses before his tongue turned purple. After perhaps ten washings (he bit me twice) he looked fairly good except for certain leprous areas about which nothing could be done.
When my wife came home she said, “You should have left him in the playpen.” The calm wisdom of women is one of the crosses under which men have to stagger around.
Well, it's a small incident out of many such, selected to support my text. But now my three grandchildren are staying with me and my daughter-in-law, Janet, said she was going shopping at midday and could I take care of Deidre, who is a highly competent 6-year-old.
“I plan to commit suicide at 12:30,” I replied.
“Then I'll take care of you, grandpa,” Deidre said.
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