Babysitters Club

My sister was an avid collector and reader of Babysitters Club books. She devoured just about every volume in the series and when finished, would add them to the line up on the shelf n sequential order from #1 to #60-something, alighting it with the books' bright array of colors.

Being the non-reader that I had chosen to be, I only made it as far as their covers. I did stare down #1 a couple times, debating whether or not it was worth using the precious time I had reserved for my imaginary friends to read it - after all, my sister had seen the benefit. But the internal deliberation didn't last long for I believed that the picture on the front told me everything that I needed to know.

Those tween girls with sassy names like Stacey and Kristi were extremely cool and I really, really wanted to be a babysitter, like them. 

In about seventh grade, despite my inability to achieve the chic look of the cover girls, I got my chance. I became eligible, according to some unwritten notion of maturity, as the back-up neighborhood babysitter for my sister. The only problem was, there were no babies on my block, just kids. So basically, I never did any baby watching. Instead, I played the role of paid friend to a kid who was three or four years younger than me. And honestly, I probably had more problems with this age group than I would  have had with babies

I had to deal with projectile vomiting - not spit up - I'm talking chunks; the fiercest kind of uncontrollable sibling fights that people would have lined up and paid to watch; kids who were way too old to continue having an affinity for going through life without pants; dogs trained to hate me, glare at me, and stalk me on my way to get myself a bowl of ice cream; parents who were late, later and latest; and kids that knew and used language that I hadn't even heard in the suite of PG-13 movies I wasn't supposed to watch. Sometimes, I wondered who was watching whom. Perhaps I should have read those books after all.

By the end of my sitting gig, I was always disheveled, frustrated, and certain that the next time the family called, I would pass the request to my sister.That is, unless there was a baby, 2 or under, involved. There never was. In fact, in all my years of babysitting, I never once got to watch a baby. I never even got to watch a 3 or 4 year-old.

That is, until last night.I finally got to babysit. And with it, I finally gained admittance into my own little babysitters club. Right now it only has two members - Peter and I - and we tag team any job. Last night, job #1, we watched our little godchild, while her mom and dad went to the movies.

And just as I had thought, babysitting was far easier than kid-sitting. There were no fights and no tears; she ate all of her dinner and nothing exploding out of either end; she stayed up a little later so she could dance to Glee with me, but when Peter said it was bedtime, she went right to bed; Roscoe didn't judge  me for loading another helping of spaghetti onto my plate after Ellie went to sleep; and her Mom and Dad were right on time. It was all that I had imagined it to be and more, and I was still in bed by 9:30 PM. (Phew.)

Now, I'm left thinking that volume #1 needs a sequel. Perhaps Lyla will take us up on it ... 

Lo