MCs better start chattin’ about what’s really happening
I have, in the last three days, found myself in the rather startling position of being a parent. My no job situation has inexplicably lead to the 9-5 position of pseudo-parent of three children, ages 6 and under, as both my own parents and everyone else seems ineligible for three days because of prior engagements, to take care of my sister’s children on a visit to New York State. Somehow, the reduced circumstances have lead to the completely insane idea that I would be an adequate babysitter. I do research beforehand, contacting friends I know who have kids, and write things down on a pad of paper. “What am I supposed to do?” I ask. “How do you do this?” I want to know, as though I’m confused by the literature of a VCR I’m learning to operate. They shake their heads compassionately and then give me the unsettling advice. “Do yourself a favor,” I am told by one person, “Save some money and send them to daycare.” While this may seem like a facetious attempt at humor, I quickly realize how serious this person may have been. Within the first hour of my time alone with the kids, things are out of control. Imaginary fishing in my parents’ swimming pool has segued rather quickly into the removal of clothing and splashing feet in the water, despite continued attempts to convey that it is not a good idea to do this. They are climbing on the ladder, naked, and splashing, and there is no regaining control thereafter. I have not yet perfected the tone of voice which conveys warning and danger, and the transparency of that voice has lent to doing whatever, as the kids laugh out loud when I tell them not to kick water at me, please. I decide to alter my approach thereafter, enacting the anything goes-style of babysitting, which they seem to prefer.

Inside, there is nothing which does not go. The house is a total catastrophe, as toys, clothing, and books are strewn all over the living room floor. Additionally, anything with sugar content is discovered with staggering immediacy, and is soon spread over every countertop (which may or may not in some way correspond to the contents of the living room floor). Sugar cookies, Capt n’ Crunch breakfast cereal, and candy are discovered first; soda is consumed with no clear restraint, and the ensuing art projects which occur are incredibly succinct. I erroneously destroy the art for art’s sake concept right off by telling my 6-year old niece, Alex, that maybe she could sell one of her pictures for enough money to afford the ice-cream truck for the duration of the week. This creates an unending supply of pictures, with plastic tea-cups and all manner of other things incongruously pasted in there, churning them out, mass-production style. She holds one up, telling me it’s for me, glitter glue falling all over my pants and shirt. Thank you, I tell her, but I don’t have any money, which causes all production to come to a halt.

Shortly, I receive word that there is a crisis in the bathroom. It really is just the fast-motion montage of things gone awry, cued up with an alarming sense of alacrity. I go to the bathroom door and am granted entry inside. The recently potty-trained Sophie is struggling with toilet paper, holding up a sheet for me to take in my hand, as she gets up off of the toilet, which produces a small turd to fall at my feet. She laughs at this turd production, as I just stare down at it shaking my head. She then instructs me to take the toilet paper, and motions toward the turd on the ground, telling me to pick it up. My hand wavers out in front of me as I reach down to pick up the turd and put it into the toilet, watching as it spins in the mini maelstrom of the flushing toilet and disappears, away.

I begin imagining myself in some kind of David Eggers scenario, where I am left in charge of these three children. Some disaster has occurred, elsewhere, and now the children are my responsibility (which is not a hard illusion to maintain). It is only the first hour and already I’m having an anxiety attack. My well-conscripted plans of how easy this would be—the myriad possibilities of culture and museums and food which has not been prepackaged in some sort of way—have all quickly crumbled, as there I am, with a turd in my hand. How do people do this, I wonder? I do not know. Even the big questions do not go un-addressed. The first day I find myself being asked questions about god and life and death and all manner of things. I stammer with an answer to these inquiries, wondering about the indoctrination which has already been foisted upon them through cartoons and Capt n’ Crunch commercials and god knows what. And what exactly, I can get away with. Would it be appropriate to send them away with a permanently altered worldview? And how exactly would the family unit react to the children’s now illuminated position on the fascist overtones in Saturday morning cartoons?

Kids, when you break it down, are basically little invalids, being programmed any old way. It seems like you should need to pass a training course in order to have a baby. Because it doesn’t take more than a cursory glance around to realize how many weird people there are out there, raising little robots, with more or less of an accurate description. I am crushed by the weight of the responsibility implied by even an hour’s worth of time spent with my nieces, and it seems unreal to me that I have friends who do this everyday. It seems like these people deserve some sort of medal, or at least a reward of some kind.

One activity we manage to successfully navigate without destruction of property not our own is a trip to the goldfish pond, which is on the periphery of a cemetery. We have a little bag of bread, and schools of goldfish come to the surface to eat the handfuls of breadcrumbs that we are throwing into the water. The kids are wowed by this experience, and it’s nice. In the cemetery they are having a funeral for some kind of state official or something, with bagpipes and a marching band. The kids quickly make note of this. “When you die, you have to go in the ground?” I am asked with requisite inquisitiveness. I have to explain. “—Uh, yeah,” I produce, not knowing exactly what to say, “some people do.” You watch as they soak in this information and contemplate all of that for two seconds, before throwing more breadcrumbs. They accept these facts so plainly that it seems strange to me. Death is not even really a concept for them yet. And it makes me think of all the other information which has yet to materialize in their 6-year old minds. An entire galaxy of horrifying things. But they are accepting of the easy answers, and that’s good. We throw more breadcrumbs, which turn into soggy cubes that are devoured quickly by the goldfish. And somehow, in this moment, being alive seems radiant and beautiful, tiny glints of sunshine cascading off the water and blinding you with a curious splendor. It feels OK.