A fresh pair of Converse shoes can throw off my whole month; one of my worst experiences was babysitting my nephew when I was twenty. There is something about a young twenty-year-old who sleeps till noon and can barely manage feeding and cleaning himself. This young twenty-year-old does not scream, “world’s greatest babysitter.”
I of course had to wake up at the crack of dawn to babysit my nephew so my older sister could go to work. Apparently children are people too. Despite the fact that I rarely count them when claiming the amount of family members I have. I just figure the mom and baby are one, until the kid is at least able to carry a conversation with me. In any event, my nephew did show human emotions.
He cried when I changed the channel from the hypnotizing Baby Einstein DVD. Honestly I felt like I was doing him a favor turning off the movie. If you haven’t seen this crap, consider yourself lucky. The DVD is like something a cult would play before a meeting to wipe your mind clean of thought. It is complete randomness with colors and creepy puppets. I found myself losing about an hour of my life without even knowing it. It was as if I was stuck in a trance. The worst thing is that you have the option to play the DVD on repeat. So you could hypothetically get stuck on the couch all day staring at the TV screen.
When I babysit I lounge on the couch and keep the kid alive. As long as he is breathing, the day is a success. I would probably even let him cry if the sound wasn’t so annoying. Eventually the child will get so tired of crying the kid would just pass out. Have you ever heard the ear-piercing scream of a child? For Christ’s sake, if you take away his or her pacifier, you’d think someone stabbed Janet Leigh while she was showering.
Sometimes though the kid will just cry. I feel like they cry because they hate me. It’s the child’s way of giving the middle finger. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for not entertaining me more than putting on this crappy DVD. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for not letting me out of this highchair. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for feeding me this crappy vegetable diarrhea looking mush. Then there is my favorite, “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” now change my diaper.
The smell of a baby’s fecal matter smells like death. I occasionally watch the documentaries of WWII when there’s an interview with a war veteran. The former sergeant is describing the horrible smell of bodies laying on the beach and he say’s, “I cannot describe the awful smell, you wouldn’t know unless you’re there” all I can think is, “Oh sergeant, I feel your pain.”
The smell of poo vapors flying off my nephew crushed my soul. I couldn’t come within ten feet of him without the overwhelming feeling of nausea. I would dry heave as I tried entering the room where he was balling his eyes out. I think he could smell himself too. I had to do something, more for my health than for his. I held my breath and ran into the room I would soon have to fumigate.
I grabbed my nephew and threw him in the back seat of my car. It was October and a little chilly but I needed to role down my windows or the smell would overwhelm me. I took the little poo factory to the only place I could think, my mom’s work. I frantically tried to call my mother as I speedily drove through Joliet. She never answered so when I get to her office I parked in a handicap spot, held my nephew as far away from my body, like he was a bomb about to explode, and ran into the building.
I knew the receptionist at the desk and she recognized me right away. Hastily I spewed my words at her, “I need my mom right now,” she ran like someone was about to die. Quite frankly, I thought the smell would steal my life soon. When my mom walked over she saw me holding my nephew like an un-athletic girl holds a football and started to laugh. I had to remind her that it was not funny and I needed help.
She took the little guy off my hands and I sat down in a chair because I needed some serious rest. I looked at my shoes and for once, I was happy that they were clean. If for some reason they had smelly baby poop on them there was a good chance I would be scared for life.
No comments:
Post a Comment