Babysitting
Since I was the youngest of two children I grew up never being around babies. Until I had my own kids I was afraid of humans under the age of ten: I was totally clueless as to what to do with them. Once Sharon was born in 1971 that all changed, and I think I was a pretty good father. I enjoyed it. Strangely enough the fear had disappeared without any effort on my part.
Today, though, I found myself reverting to my earlier fears. We're babysitting my son's three kids while he and Misty are on a long get-away weekend, and I once again feel unprepared to deal with the little ones (ages two-and-a-half and one). Fortunately Misty left detailed instructions taped to the refrigerator door.
I did pretty well changing diapers and feeding them Eggo waffles. They weren't interested in juice—drank water instead—and then we played for an hour until the babysitter arrived. The poopy diaper brought back memories of many previous ones from thirty-some years ago. It's like riding a bike: once you get on it all comes back to you.
After a make-shift supper of Bird's Eye frozen Chicken Teriyaki mix (looked good but had a nasty chemical aftertaste) I participated in the mandatory suburban ritual: soccer practice. I drove Xavier to the field, parked and waited in the car for an hour and a half. My PT Cruiser seemed pretty insignificant among the Lexuses (Lexi?), Envoys, Explorers, Expeditions, Tahoes, etc. I'm just happy no one called the North Royalton police to report this strange older guy sitting in his car at the soccer field.
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