My daughter’s attitude toward child rearing has grown altogether too cavalier in recent years. Also, I think her memory is failing.
I base both these assumptions on one fact: she’s asked me to babysit my youngest grandson for a couple days. Aubreii’s boyfriend is going into the hospital for surgery and she understandably wants to be by his side.
Still, that’s no reason to put my grandson at risk.
Ari is a cute kid. He’s going to be two in a few months. As I recall from raising my own daughter, son and step-son, two is a tough age.
Kids that age are like rabid wolverines. They’re little engines of destruction that move from one “no-no” to the next with the vengeful capriciousness of a Kansas tornado. This is not something I want to turn loose in my home.
Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. I loved every moment that came with raising my own monkeys, even though for much of that time I was a single parent. I liked hanging out with them, preparing snacks, laying out their clothes for the next day’s school, all that parenting stuff.
I coached T-Ball teams, gave driving lessons, took them fishing and camping. I attended Christmas pageants, parent-teacher conferences, piano recitals, gymnastic competitions.
I was so into it, in fact, that when they were toddlers I took a couple parenting and child psych classes, just so I’d be ready for whatever was coming as they grew into teenagers and adults.
But that was a long time ago. I was young then and found the sounds of breaking glass and inconsolable juvenile wailing more tolerable. These days, not so much.
When I visit my daughter’s home, I’m always amazed at the way she coasts through her day with unruffled feathers as all around her chaos reigns. Ari, see, is just one of four grandkids living under that roof. And another is on the way.
To me, this seems like overkill. Barring an asteroid strike, my precious gene line is secure, already! Time to quit.
During visits, I spend a lot of time around the corner at the coffee shop “working” on important stories, stories that just can’t wait. If I didn’t, the guys with the long-armed jacket would be carting me away to the hospital within 24 hours.
So what am I going to do with Ari, this adorable but Tasmanian Devil-like child, for two days?
I remember nothing from those long-ago parenting and child psych classes. Even if I did, I’m sure that information would be outdated by now. (For instance, I’m pretty sure pediatricians no longer recommend applying leeches to boo-boos, right?)
I’ll probably take him to Chuck-E-Cheese, assuming that place is still around. It’ll kill a couple hours and hopefully tire Ari out. Maybe the zoo? The park?
I dunno. My daughter has assured me that simply locking him in the guest room for two days (after removing all sharp objects, obviously) is not an option. Likewise, putting him in a Velcro shirt and sticking him to the living room carpet also got a big thumbs-down.
Frankly, my daughter’s being awfully persnickety about the whole arrangement. Seems to me if she really cared about what happens to the kid, she wouldn’t be leaving him in my custody in the first place.
Oh, I told her I’d watch him, of course. She’s my daughter and I love her. I’ll do my best to deliver the kid back to her alive.
But, if ten years from now my granddaughter asks me to babysit my great-grandchild (incredibly, this is a very real possibility) I will be bringing in professional help. Or a Velcro jacket.
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