Lj Idol Week 12: Barrel of Monkeys

To put it mildly, things are not going well.

The living room looks like a tornado just swept through it, if the tornado had first upended a toy store. The toilet is making weird sounds and is on the verge of overflowing. The dog, who has arthritis and can usually barely move, just practically flew across the room to eat an entire corndog that fell on the ground — including the stick. The three-year-old is hand-painting the table with ketchup. And the baby is screaming in my ear.

This is why people don’t ask me to babysit.

Okay, not really true. But after tonight, it should be true.

In my defense (well, maybe it’s not really a defense), this is the first time I have been left alone to look after my niece and nephew. And also the first time I have ever been asked to look after two kids under the age of four.

Not like I really had much of a chance to before this. My parents, rude as they were, refused to have a third child when my sister and I were younger just so we could have a baby to play with and take care of. And the kids in my neighborhood growing up were all a little on the older side by the time I was old enough to babysit. (Again, rude.)

So my babysitting days consisted more of having tea parties with five-year-olds than it did changing diapers. In fact, I didn’t change a diaper until my nephew was born.

I’m not sure if this should be considered a good thing or a bad thing.

But I do have to say, I did pretty well with my nephew the times I was entrusted to care for him. I learned to change diapers. I learned to feed him and burp him and swaddle him. I could even get him to go to sleep in my arms when no one else could.

James and I had a good thing going on. (I was even the fourth word he learned to say, after ‘Daddy’ and ‘Mommy’ and ‘Brandy’ (the dog).)

And then his sister was born.

Caitlin is the type of child, as my brother-in-law likes to say, who makes you think twice, and then some, about having another kid. She is willful and stubborn and impatient and loud. And on this day, when she is screaming in my ear, she’s not even a year old.

But one crisis at a time.

I check the dog to make sure I don’t need to do doggie CPR, but she appears to be breathing just fine. Hopefully, wood is just like an extra vitamin.

I get James another corndog and warn him not to drop it this time or he doesn’t get to watch TV before bed. (I’m not sure if this is appropriate parenting, but it gets the job done.)

I sit beside him and hold Caitlin and she finally stops screaming, because it’s attention she wants, and she does not like being put down.

And I finally figure out how to clean up a ketchup-covered table and a toy-covered ground using one hand and balancing a baby on my hip. (I don’t even bother worrying about the toilet. There’s more than one bathroom.)

But I’m exhausted. I don’t know how parents ever have more than one child. It’s like trying to contain a little barrel of monkeys.

And the night isn’t even over.

Somehow, though, I manage to avert too many more crises. I give the baby her bottle and get her tucked away in her crib, and I cuddle up with James on the couch to watch the end of The Lion King. Timon is doing the hula, when out of nowhere, James looks up at me and whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure, buddy,” I say.

“I love you, Auntie,” he says, and I think my heart explodes.

I go home that night thinking about it. James and Caitlin might be little monkeys, but I sure wouldn’t trade them for the world.



Note: James and Caitlin are now 4 and 19 months, and I have amazingly successfully cared for them a number of times, although I cannot say any of those times have ever gone super smoothly.

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