First of all, I’d like to disclaim the notion that could be evoked from this piece that I am particularly averse towards children. This is not true. Rather my intention with this article is to shed light on the comical — and perhaps slightly questionable — means by which a sarcastic college student takes on the task of disciplining and entertaining three young children.
I walked into this job thinking it would be one of the easiest things ever. What, parenting? I think I got this. On my first day I walked in the door, a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “This Side of Paradise” in hand, foolishly thinking I’d have the day to read and process this much anticipated work while making contemplative and full annotations. I have yet to get past even the introduction.
A friend who had watched these three kids, two boys and a girl, before remarked casually that the job was simple: “Just make sure they don’t kill each other, really”, was her only instruction. Great, how close could it ever come to that?
Pretty close, as it turns out.
I had pictured in my head that all children outside of infancy were perfectly docile and, you know, mature. My senseless trajectory of a child’s progression towards adulthood was, I’ll admit, flawed and based on close to zero personal experience. Oddly enough, the rising second grader responds to neither my banter regarding the gender dynamics in “Star Wars” nor my comments on James Comey’s testimony to the Senate Intelligence Committee. Strange. He will, however, sputter through tears how mean I am for waking him up from a nap at the pool when it’s time to leave or for “wrecking” — cleaning up, you’re welcome — his three-day old fort.
I thought I could handle the middle child especially well being that she is a girl — frankly a misguided sense of ease, founded on the assumption that all of us females are relatively the same. Thinking that my days of “let’s pretend” were long gone, I was woefully unprepared on the first day when she asked me to play school with her. My first obstacle with this game was the logistics of her setup — myself being the student and she being my instructor. The Dwight Schrute in me silently said, “False, that’s impossible.”
Then she wanted me to be a puppy, crawling around on all fours. I complied. I figured it was preferable to bark than to raise my voice several octaves to emulate that of a young school student — she’s a stickler for accuracy in these games.
“Doggies also stick their tongues out,” she pointed out, my impersonation having fallen short of her expectation.
“Not this doggy”, I replied.
The final piece to this series of imaginative scenarios included my own original storytelling.
“Oh, um ok. Like a princess story or something?”
“No. One you make up on your own.” I got as far as “Once upon a time…” before my mind spiraled into thoughts of Hume’s theory of empiricism —
“Well technically it’s impossible to make up a truly original story because it’ll be based on a recombination of things that I’ve already seen or heard of before.” She stared at me wide-eyed, annoyed, and then walked away.
The youngest was probably the least determined to like me at the start. He’d most often toss around a “leave me alone” or respond with a biting “no” when I’d ask him to play. When a 30-minute long fit of crying would follow his mother leaving the house, I would try to reassure him that she would indeed make an eventual return. I tried to reason that this was definitely not the day she decided to leave him. Pragmatically, she’d pick a day when he was really misbehaving, pushing her to the edge. This came as no comfort to him, and his screams only augmented in volume and grew more profuse.
But what would make him even remotely inclined not to hate me? I’m essentially a stranger who refuses on numerous accounts to let him have cookies for breakfast and whose immediate response to his screams of pain from falling off the couch or stepping on a Lego are “Come on, there’s no way it hurts that bad” — I’ve learned saying this only makes them insist their wounds hurt with all the more intensity.
It was a rocky beginning — I’d been out of the game of childhood for a while is all. I came to the realization of time’s effect on my ability to connect with kids as I drove to their house one morning listening to the radio. Two talk show hosts shared in a segment the top five words that have become pointedly uncool to use. Apparently, if you say these five words you’re on the downhill, not in the know, an adult.
I use all of these five words — totally, sweet, cool, bummer and awesome. Regularly.
Sinking into the driver’s seat I felt a wave of denial come over me. No, I’m not an adult. I’m cool, and I’m definitely hip — ironically the very words my mom would use to argue her coolness when I was growing up. And if there’s anything that could vouch for my unadultness, it’s how very childish I can be.
“So, uh, who’s the grown-up I can call to make this problem go away”: a habitual frame of mind I have if something has malfunctioned in the apartment. I make weird — truly bizarre — noises and talk in strange, imperfect accents. I laugh at crude jokes. I eat like a child — the true challenge of this summer has been making a box of Eggo waffles last a whole week. Tantrums? I know all about them, they just happen in my head now and in lower pitch. Ha yes, I am a child!
They may not be able to understand me, but I can certainly relate to each of them. So there is a lot of tickling, lots of tag or hide-and-go-seek, and so many “let’s pretend” scenarios — so many.
To my employers, you’ve entrusted the health and safety of your children to a college student who let a succulent — maybe the most low-maintenance organism on the planet — crumble to pieces during her first year. Please don’t fire me.
And lastly, to my own parents who dealt with the several manic years of screaming in six-hour-long car rides and fist fights which ensued over who could push the button in the elevator, God bless you.
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