Worst Babysitting Experience Ever

I spent a very good portion of my adolescence and teen years babysitting. If I do say so myself, I was quite the A-list babysitter. There were mothers who would cancel on other babysitters if they found out I was available. At the time, I thought I was just really good with children. In retrospect, I realize that, really, I never broke into the liquor cabinet and there was no boyfriend to have over once the kids were asleep.

Most of my clients were lovely people, and I had primarily good experiences. I once was humped by the family’s standard poodle, which is kind of traumatic when you’re barely 5’2”, but there was little to complain about. I usually spent at least one night per week and weekend babysitting, I was mostly home by midnight and this “career” provided a lovely cash flow for my ever-deepening love of clothes shopping.

There was, however, one glaring exception.

One of my clients liked to stay out late, and I mean the kind of late that I can’t even make now. I’d fall asleep on their couch, and usually get woken up around three or four a.m. so the dad could drive me home.Other than my being very sleepy, this didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Except for one night.

I went over to the X’s around six, and it all started to go downhill when I found their little boy putting strand upon strand of Mardi Gras beads down the drain of the bathroom sink.

After I fished those out of the pipes, around eight o’clock, a neighbor started calling about the barking dog. As the babysitter, I had been advised to never go near the dog, since it “only liked certain members of the family.”

“I’m very sorry about that,” I said to the neighbor. “I’ll try to make him stop.”

I went outside, and keeping a very healthy distance from the dog, tried to reason with him that maybe he could be quieter. “Please,” I said, “please, please, please be quiet.”

Even with all of my pleading, two more hours of barking went by. The neighbor called a few more times, and I finally told her I was just the babysitter and didn’t know what to do. (Of course, this was followed by the guilt of breaking the #1 rule of babysitting: Never admit that you are home alone with a small child/children. However, I was a little desperate and figured I could justify it this one time.)

When the neighbor called back for the fifth time, she said, “I know this isn’t your fault, but if that damn dog doesn’t shut up, I’m going to come over and shoot the Gd thing.” (Only, she didn’t abbreviate her swears.)

Did I neglect to mention that I was all of 12 at the time?

I can’t remember how the barking dog situation resolved itself, but there was no canine murder. I think the poor thing finally just wore himself out. Regardless, I was relieved, and after an hour of arguing with the bead-flusher about his bedtime, I was more than happy to lay down on the couch, turn on Saturday Night Live and sleep until whenever the parents were ready to come home.

Around 3:30, they finally did. I climbed into the car with the father, and we started towards my house. Ten minutes into the drive and five minutes from my house, we both heard the siren.

Mr. X was getting pulled over.

"Hello sir,” the cop said.

“Hello,” Mr. X said. “Is something wrong?”

“You seemed to swerve a little over the median back there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”

“Have you been drinking tonight sir?” the cop said.

“I may have had a beer with dinner,” Mr. X said. (A lawyer or two has always told me to give this same answer if pulled over because it’s better to tell part of the truth than a bold-faced lie, but I think that “beer with dinner” is a whole lot more difficult to pull off when it’s almost four o'clock in the morning.)

“I think you should get out of the car sir.”

Well, to say that that didn’t go over well with dad would be a bit of an understatement.

“I’m just trying to take the f&*%ing babysitter home,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re harassing me while I try to take the f&%*ing babysitter home.”

Even at 12, I knew this was not the most advisable approach with law enforcement.

“You need to step out of the car sir.”

While I sat hunched in the passenger seat, I watched through the rear view mirror as Mr. X went through a battery of DUI tests including walking a straight line and having to close his eyes and touch his nose. Or, so based on my knowledge of L.A. Law, those seemed to be the tests his actions most resembled.

Also, this being in the days before cell phones, I thought a lot about whether or not the cop would drive me home if he decided to arrest Mr. X or if I’d have to wait at the station for my parents to come get me. Drunk or not, I really just wanted a ride home.

After a few minutes, Mr. X climbed back into the car, slammed the door and we were off. Needless to say, there wasn’t much conversation after that. He took me to my house; I climbed out of the car, thanked him for the ride and went inside to tell my parents I was home.

My parents were obviously groggy from being woken up. “So you’re home?” my father said.

“How was it?” my mother added.

“Oh fine,” I said. “The neighbor threatened to kill the dog, and Mr. X got pulled over on the way home, but other than that, it was fine.”

It was not my smoothest goodnight, but I was a tad stressed and sleep-deprived. And strangely enough, after a few phone calls the next day, I never babysat for the Xs again.