10/17/97

Goodbye, Freedom!

Until I was 29 years old, I could go out my front door anytime I wanted.  Then came the "blessed event," all eight pounds and four ounces of him.  We were ecstatic.

Ecstatic, that is, until the first morning we ran out of milk.  Baby was asleep; Hubby was at work; and I wanted cereal.  So I bundled up Baby and headed for the nearest Wawa.  Naturally my bundle was wailing by this time, and I was beginning to wish I had settled for eggs and ham. Such a hassle for a little milk!   Goodbye, freedom.

That's right.  Spontaneity was history.  Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, one of us had to stay home.  Unless, of course, we could find a babysitter.  So, with telephone in hand, confident but naive, we entered the babysitter market.

Friends steered us down the teen aisle.  We even tried an occasional pre-teen, only to discover that anyone under twelve years old will raid the refrigerator, talk non-stop on the phone, and ignore the kids. After all, they are only kids themselves.  Thirteen and fourteen year-olds are perfect.  Then they hit high school and buy date books, which they promptly fill to overflowing until they graduate.

One year we hit the babysitter jackpot.  A house was sold in our neighborhood to a family with four children, the oldest a senior in high school.  She resented leaving her old friends, so decided not to bother making new ones until college.  She was always available to babysit. What's more, she loved our kids.  A year of freedom was ours!

When I decided to go back to work part time, we had to shop the adult babysitter market.  Not lucky enough to have relatives closeby and reluctant to send our kids to a daycare center, we decided to advertise for someone to come to the house.

The first woman we hired was the grandmother of five.  She had unruly, white hair and no teeth, but our children thought she was absolutely beautiful.  Several peaceful days passed.  Then one evening a neighbor told me she found our four-year-old up in her son's treehouse that afternoon, unwatched.  Grandma was home playing pat-a-cake with the baby, I guess.  Farewell, grandma.

The next woman came highly recommended, with three-year-old son in tow. A perfect arrangement, I thought.  The boys could play together while she attended to the baby.  One winter night, as she prepared to leave, she helped her son into his parka, tied the hood, and put on his mittens.  As we stood by the front door chatting, her son waited patiently for awhile, but started getting hot, so undid his hood and took off his mittens.  When she noticed this, she grabbed him by the hair and started screaming at him!  So long, lady.

We still suffer babysitter-from-hell flashbacks of the woman who told us she always carried a pistol in her purse to protect the children she watched.  We never hired her.  Then there was the boy who locked the doors and fell into such a deep sleep we had to call from next door and let the phone ring for twenty minutes to wake him ... and it was only 11 pm!

So, just remember, all you teen-agers and young couples out there who romanticize parenthood.   Think twice and be prepared.  Because when you say, "Hello, baby!" you simultaneously say, "Goodbye, freedom!"

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.