Cootersnap!

Last night I babysat for my sister so she and her husband could go out on a 'date'. Heck, I actually *volunteered* for this mission. And I'll tell ya, when I sit for the Did and the Goat, I realize that not only do I NOT want children, but I really don't want to babysit again until I can understand the Goat's special vocabulary. He just turned two about a month ago, and the only word I can discern from him is "NO!" Ok, that's exaggerating just a tad, but the child's vocab is severely unintelligible. Physically, the kid's a dynamo. The exact opposite of the Did, who was speaking in complete sentences early in her Toddlerism, but alas, she got the clumsy gene from my side of the family (in that way, the Did and I are a lot alike).

I pulled into the driveway right around 6 p.m. and my sister was {{HOLY SHIT... my dog just cut the stinkiest fart in the world!! Eeeew!!}} unloading the minivan from a long day of shopping, with the Goat clinging to her leg. At one point (when he wasn't getting nearly enough attention from her), the little slugger started punching her in the choche. So his tiny fist, about the size of a shriveled apple you'd find on the ground in November, was ineffectual, but lawdy! I tried to make him stop; my sister hadn't even noticed... ??? Soon thereafter, the Did came running out of the house, jumped on me and actually grabbed me by the breasts saying, "Auntie Ang, these are your boobies." I responded, "Yes, and they're in pretty much the same place on everyone, so let go of mine." (In other words, go get Mommy's... I don't think she'll mind). We're off to a good start, I'm thinkin'.

Then both of the kids started crying because they wanted to play with the bubble machine my sis had purchased earlier that day. Their mom told 'em "After Auntie Ang makes your dinner." Oh yay. My sister tends to feed these kids the usual kid things, like hot dogs, fish sticks, mac 'n cheese or various forms of really rotten-bad-for-your-kid frozen dinners. My plan is to start cooking fun things for them (yeah...whenever I get the time...) that aren't loaded down all the crap they're currently ingesting. I digress. A quick peek through my sister's very new, very large kitchen reveals not enough food to feed my dog. Ok, I'm going to digress again. She and her husband just built a *monstrous* house that's got all the bells and whistles any modern family would want or need (right down to the plasma screen tv in the *kitchen*). But the cupboard was bare. Sure, there were things like chips (no dip!?), various cans of Campbell's soup, crackers galore, etc. The freezer showed me a neatly stacked variety of Green Giant veggies (at least they're getting veggies, right?), family packs of chicken, and other things that would not allow for a quick fix. The fridge was even worse. A full door of condiments (which reminded me of my sister's just-out-of-college fridge, except that the only other thing in her fridge then was a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream a friend of hers had brought over for her house-warming), a vast array of various grades and flavors of milk, juice and soda, a few tupperware containers I didn't want to investigate, and *blessedly* a drawer full of cheese and another of tortillas. Jackpot!

Now then. My sister had told me to make the kids quesadillas for dinner, but I had the grand idea that I could find them something a little more nutritious than tortillas and cheese. I was wrong. Quesadillas it would be. Of course, with two hungry children, I had to use two tortillas and make a cheese sandwich out of it, cut it like a pizza, and let them feed at the same time. I guess this is important. This I do. The Did, and the Goat in his special language, both start clamoring for 'thour cweam' (or 'uhn kway'). {{Yet again, I digress. These kids LOVE sour cream. Once, when my b-in-l was in charge of feeding the Goat breakfast, he mistakenly grabbed a container of sour cream and fed it to the Goat instead of the Yoplait he was supposed to get. Mmmmm..}}

Dinner's done. Now it's time for "boobles". Toys these days are packaged in such a way as to make it more of a challenge to get it out of the damn box than it is to set it up. This took about 15 minutes with the kids howling, me panicking (and this is less than an hour into my THREE hour mission). Finally, SUCCESS! The bubble machine is free from it's carboard trappings! Alas, I then discover it calls for 6 AA batteries and a Phillips head screwdriver. Great. In their old house, I could have found them. In this one, I have trouble finding the bathroom. Luckily, the Did is a bright little girl. "Auntie Angie, I know where they are." Woo hoo! Saved by the redhead! **But** there's only five batteries in the package. Damn. Things are starting to get dicey. Luckily, I can think on my feet, and borrowed one from the tv remote. So after these many near misses, the bubble machine is operational. We sat out on the screened in deck and the kids chased bubbles like they were butterflies. Very happy. Auntie Ang wants a cigarette in the worst way, and the Did was kind enough to show me where Mommy and Daddy store the ashtrays... in a drawer behind the spices. Odd, but oh well.

After about an hour of "Bubbles, bubbles everywhere; bubbles, bubbles in your hair!", the Did tires of this and wants to watch the Rugrats. The Goat wanted more bubbles. I can't leave him, but it's getting cold and I wouldn't mind going inside. So we took the bubble machine in with us, whereupon the Goat tips it as he's carrying it, the soap solution gets all over the hardwood floor, the Did runs in from the porch and promptly wipes out in this slick, soapy mess. This would normally be followed by extreme histrionics from the Did, but it was so funny all I could do was laugh my ass off, which made her laugh away the bruised ego. Just don't tell my sister... or the fact that the Did then planted her little soapy butt on the Ethan Allen. This would be enough for my sister to banish me from the estate (which would mean no free laundry for the Ang). So don't tell.

Finally, just as I am bemoaning the fact that I'm bored (I hate the damn Rugrats), I'm tired, and I really want a beer, I hear the blessed sound of car doors slamming. Oh thank you baby Jesus! "Howwasdinner? Wasitgreat? What'dyouhave?Thekidsandihadagreattime...BYE!"

In the future, I will not be so ready to jump on the opportunity to spend time ALONE with my niece and nephew. That's what non-familial babysitters are for. You know, the whole: I'll watch your kids, but you will PAY. And I'll tell you, as much as I want to buy a house (because I'd kill to have even just the space of their kitchen/family room area), it was the greatest thing to come home to my dog and two cats. And the bottle of Stoli in the freezer the viking left behind when we were bein' *friendly*. A little vodka, a little grapefruit juice, a few cigs, a little blogging and some stoopid tv on in the background was all it took to ease away the day. How parents do it I'll never know. Especially when you spend the entire day having 2 and 5-year-old child conversations. I couldn't do it. My dog doesn't talk. My cats don't talk. All I have to do is pet them, feed them, and they don't cry, complain OR grab my tits. I like it like that.