We need a new babysitter. The well has run dry; the two girls we’ve used since my youngest was born have grown up. One moved away and the other has several jobs and isn’t always available. I appreciate they need their own lives but I need dinner in a restaurant that doesn’t offer crayons.
I just need someone to come to my house a couple of times a month and act like an adult so my husband and I can go out and act like kids. We also travel for work so they need to be able to occasionally stay overnight. This rules out anyone under 18 with no transportation but possesses zen-like patience to master our son’s 45-minute bedtime routine.
I tried asking friends for referrals and watched as they walked nervously toward their nanny and peed on her leg. I guess that means no.
After carefully interviewing several candidates who I wouldn’t leave a cat alone with, I finally found a gem. She is a Sunday school teacher and has her own wheels. She does not have a boyfriend and I learned, through a slightly unconventional line of questioning, has taken a vow of celibacy.
Shit. Just. Got. Serious.
For anyone who has ever hired a babysitter, you know that this is where the tables turn. The interviewer becomes the interviewed. You find yourself splaying your feathers and flicking your neck to and fro like a rooster in heat. You stop short of regurgitating your lunch directly into her mouth. The display of ass-kissing about to go down will be the stuff of legends.
You casually fling open the pantry to display endless snack and drink options for her consumption, should she choose to join your tribe. If this isn’t the brand of diet soda she drinks, you are more than happy to buy her favorite. See this smile plastered on my face, little girl? For the love of all that is holy, you will BUY HER WHATEVER SHE WANTS.
She states she is laid back so you say you are laid back. “What a match,” you nonchalantly explain, “your family is the definition of chill!” (*Slowly removes color-coded family schedule from bulletin board and places in garbage.*)
“If you were any more laid back,” you say “you’d be stoned. Not that we get stoned! Unless you like to get stoned? I mean, that’s totally rad on your off hours. I mean, the kids probably wouldn’t even notice. Little Timmy’s not the brightest bulb, anyway.”
You need to stop talking and pull your shit together. This is going downhill fast. Suddenly she has all the power and you sound like a needy, drug-pushing stalker. It’s go time. You need to close this deal.
She mentions her record is flawless save for the speeding ticket she got because she did not want to be late to her last babysitting interview. Crap. She’s interviewing with other families. You mention you are not against pulling from your children’s college funds to pay her more per hour.
As you walk her to the door, you provide her with your email address, home and cell number, Facebook page, and Twitter handle. You smooth the evening gown you changed into while she was in the bathroom, hand her the roast you’d been planning to serve your family that evening, and bid her farewell.
You’re now left to stare blankly at your phone, willing it to ring. She’s going to call, isn’t she? ISN’T SHE?!?More On