Babysitter No. 5: The One I Could’ve Punched

This is the last part in a series about my experiences with babysitters between 2002 and 2003. All were hired to work two four-hour mornings a week. It’s all in the past, so I don’t need any babysitter advice. But thanks, anyway!

Let’s bring this saga to an end, shall we?

The Set-up
After three failed babysitters followed by one year of babysitter bliss with Sheri, I found myself, in September 2003, again scheduling interviews and evaluating candidates.

By this time, the boys were 3 and 1½. The physical work of caring for them had increased with their age. Ben liked to roundhouse John. John liked to stick his head in the toilet, climb the book shelves or eat pennies at every opportunity.

Meanwhile, I was a tightly wound ball of anxiety. I’d taken a sizable writing contract with an educational publisher, with work to begin in September. Brian and I had hired a man to paint the house, who was in the process of teaching us why not to hire the lowest bidder. Ben was starting preschool, which should relieve stress, but I’d made the rookie parenting mistake of choosing a preschool that didn’t do pull-ups. At all. Ben’s toilet and underwear phobias peaked anew with each passing day. We’d scheduled a week at Lake Winnipesauke during what should have been Ben’s first week of school (to get a cheaper rate), and God help us, we would potty train him then.

The Interview Process
While interviewing candidates, I explained the finer points of keeping the boys alive, so there would be no surprises about my expectations. Three key elements to this lecture were:

• Do not leave them alone together. Take the one-year-old in the bathroom with you, separate them by gates, do whatever you have to do. But DO NOT LEAVE THEM ALONE TOGETHER.

• I have zero tolerance for hitting. When Ben hits his brother (or inflicts some other physical punishment), he gets a time-out.

• The boys and I just lost our beloved babysitter, Ben is starting preschool, and I am picking up more work. There will be an adjustment period, and it may not be pleasant.

"Lucky"
I hired Darlene, a short woman who looked like a teenager but had a few teens at home herself. She wore no makeup, baggy t-shirts and jeans, her long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She had cared full-time for triplet boys, from babyhood through to kindergarten, and had a long list of references from before that. She was a single mom to two boys, which alone inspired a kind of awe in me. Her oldest was headed to the local prestigious prep school on full scholarship, and that also left me starry-eyed.

I felt lucky that Darlene could work two four-hour shifts before our vacation, so when I came home our new sitter would be trained and ready.

Mediocrity in Action
When she showed up for work, Darlene exhibited a marked lack of energy. (See, now I sound like a babysitter archaeologist.) She kept piping up with conversation starters, about her sons, my house, anything. But I didn’t hear much out of her mouth directed at my kids. She stood there, arms folded, mouth slack, staring at them.

• Her slump-shouldered silhouette on my couch, emanating a single, monotone command: “No, Ben. No, Ben. No, Ben. No, Ben. No, ...”

• Me, in the fridge, trying to grab lunch. Both boys at my legs, pawing at me, begging for my attention. Her, standing behind me, watching, arms folded. Does she look ... disgusted? Is she ... judging me? Nah, couldn’t be. But why the hell isn’t she taking over, so I can eat my damned lunch?

• John, my 1½ year old, sobbing whenever he saw me -- very out of character for him.

• A messy diaper from Ben that told us he wasn’t feeling that great.

Midway through her second shift, I had to go to the doctor. When I came back, she chatted amiably and said the boys were “better” after I’d left. The next morning, we packed the van and headed to the lake for some much needed R&R.

The Break-up
Standing on the deck of our rental house Tuesday morning, sipping coffee as I looked out over the lake, I called my answering machine. Darlene’s voiced droned into my ear, with an eight-minute message pontificating on the various reasons why she wouldn’t be back.

To paraphrase:

“I’m calling to let you know that I won’t be back. Your older son is extremely abusive to your younger son. At the table, he hit John with his cup. Then later, when I was in the bathroom, he hit him again. You must see it [condescending chuckle]. How could you not? Your older son just does not know how to listen. I knew when I saw him with you. If he won’t listen to you, he certainly won’t listen to me. I’ve never seen a four year old not know the meaning of the word ‘no.’ Maybe you can get some kind of counseling, someone to handle problem children ...”

I don’t know what else she said. I listened to the message twice and couldn’t do it again. The rage started in my chest and reverberated through my arms and legs. I struggled to breathe, to set the phone down on the railing of the deck.

What was I going to do? Work started that Monday! But, more importantly, how dare she? How soon could I get to her house to punch her in the face?

I immediately called Sheri and told her what Darlene said. “Is that the reason you quit?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “You can tell me. Are my boys horrible?”

She said no way, Ben is a normal three year old and not at all hard to handle. She also agreed to come back and work until I found someone else, thereby cementing for all time her title as the Best Babysitter in the World. My attentions then moved to Darlene.

Brian and me, alone on a canoe in the middle of the lake, beneath a crystal blue sky and warm sun. Gentle breezes glide across the lake and over my skin, cool and refreshing as a glass of lemonade. Yet there I am, hunched over, seething with rage about Darlene’s message, composing various one-liners I will use when I get her on the phone.

After about 24 hours, I regained my composure. But I remained hell-bent on telling her off.

"Punishment is not for revenge, but to lessen crime and reform the criminal."
Back at home Sunday morning, I called and got Darlene's answering machine. I left a message asking her to call me. It occurred to me that she may never call, and that she wouldn’t listen to me even if she did.

After a few days, I decided to write her a letter. I pulled out her resume to find that she didn’t include her address on it. I knew the town, but I had no idea where she lived. I had hired a babysitter, and I had no idea where she lived.

After an exhaustive search featuring Yahoo! People and multiple calls to 411, I had to give up. I didn’t know where she lived, and I never would. I considered leaving her a long-winded voice mail, but I figured she’d just delete it without listening. I was running out of options.

Finally, I remembered. She told me her mom, to whom she was very close, owned a farm. She told me the general location of it. I went back online and – voila! – I had her mom’s address.

This is where I kind of lost it. I spent a long time writing a letter. But as I wrote, I realized the odds of her reading the whole thing were slim.

That’s why I decided to tell her off in as few words as possible. On a postcard. Mailed to her mother.

(Sigh.)

I remember sitting at my kitchen table with a black felt-tipped pen in hand, printing my message in block letters on a plain postage-paid postcard. As I wrote, I fantasized:

Her mom in her country kitchen, flipping through her mail, a look of horror crossing her face as she reads my postcard. She picks up the phone to call Darlene, reads my words to her. On the other end, Darlene’s mouth hangs open in expressionless disbelief. Her mom demands an explanation; Darlene cries, “You never believe me!”

The handwriting said: Insane person who may hunt you down and shoot you. My words said: Logical, intelligent woman who is clearly right while Darlene is an incompetent brat who knows nothing about kids.

Nestled in my computer’s “My Documents” folder, I found two word files dated 09-14-2003 and named “Uugh” and Uugh 2.” They contained the longer letter I wrote to Darlene as well as the postcard message.

Some Lines From the Letter That Didn't Get Mailed
"My son's name is Ben. You didn’t mention his name in your voice mail, so I wasn’t sure you remembered it. You said, 'If he won’t listen to you, he certainly won’t listen to me.' That’s quite a judgement considering you saw Ben in my care for 15 minutes.

"The rest of the time, I was paying YOU to take the lead with the kids and keep them occupied. You didn’t. I never saw you smile or act the least bit enthused about anything.

"I think blaming Ben and me is your own personal cop-out. That’s how you make yourself feel OK about not trying. John and Ben are a handful, and you couldn’t handle it.

"I took the time to explain that this would be tough for Ben, because of many changes to his routines. Instead of empathizing and helping us, you judged us and added another hardship to our lives."

The Postcard I Mailed
"Thank you for having the insight to see that ours was not a good match, and that you couldn’t manage my boys. Although I was home most of the time, I didn’t know Ben was being 'extremely abusive' to John, as you said in your message. It surprised me that you never told me about any hitting during your 8-hours in our home. Ben should have gone to his room – I did explain that we have a zero-tolerance policy for hitting and he needs timeouts for that. I’m disappointed that you let it get to the point of 'abusive' behavior, and that you left John alone with him when he was behaving that way!

"You say you’ve never seen such a defiant 4 year old. Ben recently turned 3; and anyone who knows abut kids knows defiance is a hallmark of that age. You saw one side of Ben in your brief stay, and you are not in a position to judge his listening skills or my parenting skills. Yes, we are both very lucky that John did not get hurt. Although I am glad that things worked out as they did, I do wish you’d done me the courtesy of speaking to me directly."

The Happy Ending
In the end, Sheri decided to stay on as our beloved babysitter for another year. By that point, I was unemployed and couldn't afford her anyway. She still babysits for us from time to time, and if I ever get some steady writing work, she'll be the first one I call.

Postscript About Kerri
A few of you asked about Kerri. I never did hear from her again, even though I called her a few times. Strangely, a year later, her name came up on my caller ID. I immediately called her back, but got her answering machine. I left a message saying "I'd love to hear from you," but she never called again.