Why I refuse to babysit for anything less than $400/hr

(moved from previous blog)

Whenever my mom sees me with a pet, she says, “oh you’ll make such a great mother!” To this, I laugh. I’ll admit that I am slightly obsessed with animals; I sometimes cart Buster around the house and pretend that I am very rich and famous and that he is my teacup yorkie with delicate paws. Of course he does not appreciate this, unless I take him directly to his food bowl. Just because I love animals does not, by any means, deem me qualified to shape the minds of the impressionable youth.

There are many reasons why I choose to dog-sit over babysit. For example, when I want to give the dogs some exercise, I play fetch with Fritz until she’s begging to come inside. I’ve yet to see a child fetch like Fritz. Also, when I’m scared at night, I make Fritz take a lap around the house with me to make sure no one has broken in or kidnapped Hannah. I would not trust child to offer me the same protective services.

As desperate as I am for money, I haven’t thought twice about picking up a babysitting job. I think the last time I ever babysat was when I was about 14. I was watching two twin girls (go figure) for an afternoon while their parents were at work. They begged me to let them watch the movie Liar Liar, and since I was tired of playing Fort and discussing Harriet the Spy, I agreed. The father came home earlier than expected. He asked me if they’d had lunch, and I said yes, we all enjoyed ice cream sundaes not too long ago. His reaction to this was my first clue that the girls had been deceiving me all afternoon; earlier, they had told me that they “always” watch Liar Liar, and that having ice cream midday was no big deal. For this, I dub the twins Liar 1 and Liar 2 (formally known as just 1 and 2) for their ironic choice in film.

Mid conversation, the father paused as if he was listening to something in the other room. I cocked my ear towards the living room where the girls were coming down from their sugar high. Of course, he had come home right in the middle of the final courtroom scene. For those of you who don’t know, this scene includes several inappropriate moments, such as when Jim Carrey is interrogating Mr. Falk.

I was sent home shortly after.

My fear of children is so complex and so deeply rooted in my soul that I cannot express my feelings as fully as I’d like to. But when a child approaches me, eyes deliriously wide with sugar high, face covered in what I can only assume to be the sticky residue of his most recent juice box, waving mysteriously damp, Doritos-stained fingers in the air, I am gripped by a panic so intense that I barely have time to plot my escape.

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