They Can Smell Fear

The kids have an innate ability to sense weakness in a babysitter within the first thirty seconds of meeting them, and an equally honed ability to exploit that weakness at every opportunity.

First there was Amy (not Hitler, above. I just liked the picture.) The daughter of CC’s accountant, she was a geeky, shy, fearful girl with heavy glasses to whom #1 taped a “kick me” sign. Yes, all the kids then proceeded to actually kick her, repeatedly, until we came home.

There was Pamela, whose greatest liability was that she just wasn’t all that smart. That’s a problem when you’re taking care of kids who are hell bent on creating a psychological obstacle course that you must successfully pass in order to move on to their next realm of torture. On her third scheduled shift she simply didn’t come. No call/ no show. Can’t say I blame her.

Let us not forget Rebecca, who dragged me into innumerable discussions about What Was Truly Wrong With The Children, and how she could help- all projections of her own issues. It would have been a kick in the pants had she been a psych major or something, but alas, she was merely a girl who was incredibly offended when she picked up and smelled the pile of dirty wet kitchen towels that I pile in a heap on the stairs rather than walk all the way up to the washer. Why would you smell a goddamn pile of dirty towels? Who does that?

Rebecca left after she cornered #2 and grilled her until #2 finally admitted that she didn’t like her that much. Rebecca called me in tears when I was in the Lincoln Tunnel on my way to a two-show day. She could barely get the words out. “I just (sob!) can’t. . . stay here (gasp!). . . when they don’t (sob!) like meeeeeeee”.

More than one sitter has lost track of more than one kid. Not because the sitter isn’t paying attention, but because the little heathens plan it that way. They scatter with timed precision like some kind of roller derby play.

They gang up. They misdirect. They sneak.

They lie.

My worst parenting has come out in these situations. The kids are pleased as hell when they get rid of a sitter they don’t like. We get pissed, not only because the inmates aren’t allowed to run the asylum but because at times, the ones they hate were the only option. We’ve grounded. Withdrawn privileges. Given extra chores. Spanked. Yelled. Without a single lasting effect.

The hyenas sense the weak wildebeest, work together to separate it from the herd, and attack. You can take the hyenas’ video games away, make them clean the garage, and give them an earlier bedtime, but they’re still going to attack when the moment is right.

It’s in their nature.

But the hyenas always have each others’ backs. The kids are never more united than when they’re trying to get rid of a sitter they hate. When you get down to it, I respect the hell out of that, and I’m finally a little bit proud of it.

How To Get Left Alone

Long ago, in a land far away, before there were stepchildren.

I had this awesome apartment in Hoboken. There was very little in it. Some Ikea furniture and two kitchen chairs I rescued out of the trash. Brick walls, hardwood floors, and ceiling fans.

Endless uninterrupted thoughts. No one eating my cookies. Nobody in the bathroom when I needed to get in there. My world was far smaller and far less rich than it is now, but I was blissfully ignorant of that.

It’s been four and a half years since we got the kids and I moved in with CC. I have almost nothing from that apartment in Hoboken, with two notable exceptions. For some reason, those two kitchen chairs that I saved from the trash remain the sturdiest pieces of furniture in my house.

Just a pair of dinked-up wooden chairs that refuse to die. I sit in one to write. It isn’t terribly comfortable. In my house, we need a lot of chairs. There are a lot of butts.

Lately, I’ve been putting a throw pillow on the seat. I keep thinking I’ll get a chair cushion for it, but really, I can’t be bothered. #4 came in my room recently and noticed.

#4: Why are you sitting on a pillow?

Me: I’ve been trying to lose some weight and I’ve actually lost some and you know, I think my butt just isn’t as cushy as it used to be because there isn’t as much fat on it now? And so the chair sort of hurts? And I use a pillow sometimes?

She looked at me for a long time indicating her regret at ever asking. Then she said, “Why is my family so weird?” and left the room.

Being weird gets you privacy.

Pi Day Pie

Sunday Night:

#3 just came running in to remind me that we need a pie for tomorrow. A few weeks ago she gave me a sheet from her math class. It was about Pi Day (March 14) celebrations, and they were asking for, among other things, some pies.

Last year I saw a picture of the most badass Pi Day pie ever made. I just searched Google images and can’t find it, which can only mean that I must know the person who made it and saw the picture on Facebook. It was homemade, crust and all, with the symbol Pi cut out of pie crust and placed on top in the center, and then the numbers cut out of pie crust, placed all around the edges of the pie. This was the first I’d ever heard of celebrating Pi Day. I was an instant believer.

I am a geek at heart and that pie thrilled me. This memory is what welled up in me when #3 handed me her math sheet, and it was what took over and compelled me to yes, volunteer a pie. I was going to make her a homemade pie, crust and all, and decorate it with as many decimal places of Pi that I could fit around the circumference.

Then I went to Berlin and we had some crises at home and I forgot all about it until she just now came to me, and I am jetlagged and cranky and the last thing I want to do is leave the house and make a goddamn pie happen.

This is what happens when I try to be a better parent.

But.

I said I would.

I am now off to the store to see how I can remedy this with a half-assed solution without totally crushing my geek spirit, or completely letting down #3 and her math class.

I asked CC for input. (Foodies, you can stop reading here). He suggested frozen pie crusts and canned filling. Hot damn!

*********

Back from the store. I assemble the pie parts and then proceed to use an additional pie crust and cut out numbers freestyle with a blade. I am way too into this. The kids keep coming by and looking, and they comment on how cool it is and how unlike me it is. It takes a long time. I do not read #5 and #4 stories tonight like I usually do on Sundays. I do not even tuck them into bed. I am Baking a Pie. Leave me alone.

I signed up to give a pie to try and be a better parent. I end up being a worse parent with a nifty pie.

Nifty, except it had an accident in the baking process. The color is uneven. And it ripped, and now it looks like it’s bleeding.

Doesn’t it rock?

I had hoped that some superior mom would be envious of my pie and erroneously attribute me mad parenting skills. That was before my Pi pie turned into sweet vampire protection.