By Valerie (Customer Service)
I was a terrible child, really rotten. I can admit that now. Not the kind that would cause trouble in school, or even gets my name on the board. Oh no, I was a teacher’s dream, but a sitter’s nightmare.
I would come up with the most ridiculous reasons to justify my distaste for those tasked with my care. One sitter vacuumed incessantly. I mean, how could one house have that much need for suction? I swear thinking back I couldn’t remember a day she didn’t. Maybe I was messy though, and didn’t realize it. Maybe removing my shoes wasn’t enough and my socks were full of sand or something of the sort. Or she’d make me a tuna sandwich. Mind you, I love a good tuna sandwich, so that wasn’t the problem. Although, after having hers I’m surprised I don’t flat out refuse it still. My issue was with the mayo. I still get defensive thinking about it. She’d mix almost a whole jar in with one can of tuna. The mayo to tuna ratio was just way off in my childhood mind.
These are just a few examples of valid reasons to run away. I would take off down the road to have her patiently follow me in the car. Sometimes I would think myself clever and run into the bean field to be stealthy. I wasn’t taking off without direction though. I knew exactly where I was going, to the place where every grandchild is happy, grandma’s house sans the big bad wolf. She lived so close to home I could see it if the farm field between us didn’t have corn on that year. It was a scant half-mile away and seemed an easy escape worthy of any repercussions of bad behavior and to spend time with an adult that always got you.
One time I made it almost all the way, up her porch, to the farmhouse door, only to find it locked. She had deserted me in my moment of need! Grandma wasn’t on sentinel duty because she was the reason I needed a sitter. My parents had taken her to an appointment, so my mayo lovin’ caregiver let me find out the hard way. I don’t recall running off ever again. If I did, you had better believe I did a bit more homework before heading straight to Grandma’s house!
Why am I confessing my terrible antics when under someone else’s care? Some court mandated rehabilitation or confession being good for the soul? Nah, I actually really like my childhood babysitters now that I’m grown (and don’t have to hear the vacuuming). Just to remind you, someday if you see your babysitter appearing to let your children run wild don’t judge too harshly, the child or the sitter. Perhaps the sitter is teaching your child a lesson. (If they’re making sure they’re safe of course.) Or just maybe a mayo monster is traumatizing your child! 😉