When I came over, their little one-year-old was already tugging her hair and balling tired fists up into her eyes. We played a little peek-a-boo, a little tug-at-Lauren's-shirt-and-laugh-'cause-it's-funny, and a little beginner's pat-a-cake, all punctuated by more eye-rubbing and hair-pulling. Hyphenated games and sleepiness indicators: check.
The end of game time might have been unfortunate had it not been for a little sippy cup of baby heaven sitting in the fridge. As I held a paper towel under her chin, she guzzled her whole milk in long, powerful draws, making her dad's summary-- "She likes to knock back a cold one before bed"-- seem pretty darn accurate. This girl likes her whole milk. So, baby hits the bottle before passing out: check.
After winding up her musical mobile and tiptoeing out of her room, I entered real babysitter land: post-bedtime freedom. (Not that this baby is a lot to contend with, but just for drama's sake, I'll pretend it was important.) So why does it seem so much more appealing to watch TV in someone else's house than in my own? Was it the thirteen-year-old babysitter in me reviving, or just the contrast to the feeling that when I'm home, I should be doing something more productive? That need to be productive might have succeeded in making me feel older again, if it wasn't for-- what was on TV?-- The Wedding Singer, release date 1998. The year when I was thirteen. Sluggardly TV watching: check.
So really, once the TV was on and I was successfully ignoring most of the things I had planned on doing in my free time, there was only one thing lacking to make me feel like a real, live babysitter again. Did they have any yummy food?
Most of the stuff in my pantry at home is boring unless you have at least half an hour on your hands, after which time you could end up with some pretty yummy home-baked treats (or rice pilaf). Then again, I haven't looked at it with babysitter eyes. A babysitter can make something out of nothing if forced.
But this is what happened. I looked in my friends' pantry-- stocked responsibly with good, healthy foods and not overly much of them-- and I couldn't use my babysitterly creativity. I couldn't smother their Mini-Wheats with spoonfuls of peanut butter and wash them down with popcorn. I couldn't make a second dinner of pieroghis and dutch cocoa cookies with a tall glass of milk on the side. These were my friends. They worked hard to pay for their food. And a lot of the packages weren't open yet.
So the metamorphosis reversed. I went back to the living room with a tall glass of water and two cinnamon graham crackers in hand, munching peacefully. I'd rather be a 24-year-old with responsibilities and questions and a sense of love for my close friends and the lives they're building than a thirteen-year-old finishing a fresh sleeve of frozen Thin Mints. That deeper recognition-- even if it comes out when I'm looking for junk food in a friend's pantry-- that's something new.
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