I’m always in trouble for ‘not noticing’ dirty nappies. It’s one of the reasons Tracey calls me names, like The World’s Worst Babysitter.
Our car was still complaining its way down the road with Tracey behind the wheel when I asked Master8 and Miss9 if they could keep Miss1 busy for a twenty minutes while I tried for a quick power nap. I’d been home sick today, having finally succumbed to whatever nasty bug my kids had last week, and I was shagged.
The kids were drawing and colouring in, so they happily set Miss1 up with her own paper to scribble on.
Less than five minutes later I could hear them wandering through the house searching for Miss1.
“Where are you?” they were hissing into the bedrooms. “Do you want some milk?”
Rather than alarmed, I was amused – the house was locked. And besides, I briefly lose kids all the time. Listening to them panicking and trying to fix the situation while not alerting myself to the fact they’d failed in their babysitting duties was hell funny.
And it was nice to be on the other side of the fence for a change – you see, I’d had my own babysitting ‘issues’ already recently.
“Seriously?” Tracey snapped as she stomped through the kitchen. “You didn’t know this was happening?”
Tearing my eyes away from my laptop, I turned around to find Miss1 was just finishing off her dinner. Actually, I can’t confirm that she’d even started eating dinner because there was so much food on and around her I couldn’t say for sure any had passed her lips.
What is it about supermarket lasagna that it can permanently stain white plastic? Is there a food colouring in it? Paint? I mean, I’ve squashed tomatoes and I’m yet to see a stain from one.
“At least I had her tied to a chair this time,” I said, referring to a recent unfortunate yogurt incident. I carried Miss1, and the highchair, into the bathroom. My plan was to stick them both in the shower and hose them down, but Tracey wasn’t keen so I told her I was joking. I think she was worried the pasta would clog the drains or something.
The long and short of it is, I was hardly in a position to complain about Miss9’s and Master8’s poor babysitting performance. What can I say? It’s in their genes.
My humour at the whole situation lasted a few more seconds, then suddenly I was calling out to them, “hmmhhmmphspmmm….she’s in here! Gawwwk. I’ve got her!”
Miss1 had snuck into bed with me and had just sat down on my face, nearly suffocating me in a move any WWE wrestler would be keen to learn.
But there was worse.
“She’s done a poo, dad,” said Master8, sticking his head in the door and grinning at me.
Tracey will be really pleased with me when she gets back for noticing it. Not that I could have missed this one and lived.
When not typing away over here and checking his stats every two minutes Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his ‘BIG FAMILY little income’ Facebook Page.
’raising a family on little more than laughs’