While I never quite relish my job at Childwatch, I can’t bring myself to hate it. Nothing ever happens twice, and the writer in me comes at every day just hunting for story opportunities. Like this one. Again, names are changed to protect the almost innocent.
I often have the dubious pleasure of bringing children into any one of the three racquetball courts at the Y to play. If you’ve ever played this whopper of a game, you know that a racquetball court is an indoor affair, just four high, sturdy walls and a shellacked wooden floor. Needless to say, sound echoes tremendously in the courts. So while I’m able to relax a bit and interject only when there’s a problem, I have to deal with... let’s do some complicated math here...
7 children(10 rubber balls+ 4 hula hoops+2 corn poppers)
divided by my patience
times some figure or formula involving the loudness of a sound, how many decibels are added when echoes are involved, and how much louder all of it is when enclosed in a cube with glass and drywall sides
And all that equals a combined decibel level on par with a jet engine at 100 feet. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Maybe it’s a little less.
Until everybody thinks it’s a wonderful idea to scream at the top of their lungs at the same time.
I digest. Today it wasn’t as bad because there were only three kids in the gym with me: Tommy, Sarah, and her little brother Max. “Attention-deficit Hyperactivity Disorder” does not begin to describe Tommy. He reminds me physically of a hummingbird: tiny, wiry, bright red hair. If you manage to catch him, you won’t be able to hold him for long. The apocalyptic amount of energy contained in that tiny body will vibrate him right out of your hands. So what I’m really trying to say is that Tommy didn’t spend very long in the racquetball court. Then it was just Sarah, five going on a bratty fifteen, and her long-suffering and gentle little brother of three.
For a while they were content thwacking racquetballs back and forth in that awkwardly adorable way that only children with undeveloped fine motor skills are. Then Sarah pranced over to me and (literally) flung herself into my lap. She didn’t like me; I didn’t like her; we both knew it. But Sarah liked being under the seasoned and veteran eye of the Childwatch Overlord even less. So to me she would cleave, as long as Max found entertainment in striking at a ball, missing, and hitting himself in the face with a racquet. Which was, bless his heart, a lot longer than I’d have thought.
Sarah, using me as her personal lounge pillow, immediately began regaling me with stories (how true they were only she knows) about herself, her friends, herself, her family, herself, her dog, oh and did I mention herself. Usually I can get away with only pretending to be attentive, but Sarah must’ve had some sort of radar installed that went off whenever she detected any flicker in my attention. She’d yank on my shirt and bleat “Are you listening to me?”, then ask me to repeat back to her what she’d just said.
Sarah’s mom, pay attention to what your child is learning from you.
In this way we passed the next several minutes. In a moment of weakness, I raised my hands to my face and rubbed my eyes. I expected to hear another shrill reprimand from Sarah, but instead she seized my left pointer finger and shoved it in my face.
“What happened there?”
A band-aid decorated the tip of the finger in Sarah’s grip. To be honest, I don’t know how I’d gotten the bloodless but incredibly painful laceration on the pad of my finger, but I offered the best explanation I could to Sarah, otherwise I’d be fielding questions thrown at me from further and further out of left field.
“I got a cut. It must have been when I was using a knife to cut up chicken for supper last night.”
“Are you a mom?”
Left field; am I right?
“Wh–what? No. What warped and twisted path of logic dropped you at that gem of a conclusion?” This level of vocabulary and abstract idea-making may have been a bit above Sarah, but she has special ways of making one’s life miserable who dares to talk beneath her. So I err on the side of caution. She seems to grasp the gist of it anyway; for all her snottiness, she’s a bright kid.
“Yes you are. You were making dinner.”
“Just because I make my own food doesn’t mean I’m a mom. Your logic is faulty.”
“You make food for you and your kids. Duh.”
Brilliant volley by Sarah. Let’s see if Kate can return the hit.
“Do I honestly look like a mom to you?”
“Ye--”
“Don’t answer that.” I clapped my hand over her mouth.
Ooh, a point for Sarah.
Sarah laughed and shoved my hand away. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Hah! You’re old! You must have like six kids!”
“Yes, no, and you’re very mean.”
Game, set, match, Sarah.
It’s kids like Sarah who keep her own mistaken judgment about me from ever being accurate.
Showing posts with label Childwatch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childwatch. Show all posts
3/31/10
Bill Cosby was right.
Against my better judgment and deepest reptilian survival instincts, I have taken up a volunteer job at the YMCA Childcare center. The children's age range has one leg planted in infancy, its balls dangling over the terrible twos, and the other leg stretching toward five. They have the good sense to rotate who gets to be the spawn of Satan on which days, so it's never overly difficult to handle them. Over the past two months, I have bonded with and now particularly favor a 4-year-old girl named Elaine (name has been changed to protect the probably innocent). Her father, I found out from her mother, is a part-time veterinarian in a neighboring town, and Elaine, bless her heart, loves horses. Now you can stop wondering how I managed not to devour, let alone bond with, a human being less than half my age.
Today, Elaine ran to me as soon as she saw me, and because I had chosen that moment to foolishly sit down on the floor, she cannonballed into me and sent both of us sprawling. Then she used her wicked signature move that has me convinced she'll end up on UFC one of these days. She pinioned me on my back with both knees actively seeking my bladder and each elbow spearing one of my breasts. This always leaves me speechless, motionless and breathless long enough for her to convince me to do anything she wants.
"Let's play horsies, let's play horsies!" She singsonged. Yes, Elaine, whatever you say, Elaine, now for the love of all that is holy, please get off me, Elaine.
So she let me up and dragged me, massaging my aching boobs, to the red plastic barn and the scuffed yellow bin full of plastic farm animals. With a practiced and studious eye, she searched the bin, then let out a squeal of delight and dove for her quarry. She came up with a twin pair of brown plastic horses, frozen in a high-stepping prance. "You be the mommy and the daddy horsie," she said as she shoved the twins into my hand. "I'll be the baby horsie." She pulled a smaller toy out, this one chunkier, bright yellow, and only a shade behind the exaggerated proportions of a My Little Pony.
Then, Plotmaster Elaine chose the game for us. Usually Elaine's Horsie games involve Mama Horsie falling deathly ill and Baby Horsie must journey over many foreign lands and through many dangers to bring back medicine for her dying mother, while Daddy Horsie stands by helpless. Or an alternate vignette: Mama and Daddy Horsie are trapped in the burning barn and Baby Horsie must cast herself into the flames to heroically rescue them. Mama Horsie always turns out all right, but Daddy Horsie is grievously wounded and needs much care from his wife and invincible daughter. I wondered with mild amusement at her home life, but I kept it to myself.
Today, Elaine decided that instead of Mama Horsie falling ill, Baby Horsie herself would come down with the equine equivalent of Ebola. Baby Horsie groaned, tossed, turned and wept. Mama Horsie and Daddy Horsie worried-- "Oh no, what will we do? Baby Horsie is so sick!" Usually, I take cues from Elaine for my lines, since this show is scripted only in her four-year-old mind. She leaned close to my ear and whispered "Mama Horsie says something's wrong with Baby Horsie's butt!"
I chuckled; said my line. Elaine said "You need to fix it!"
"How do I do that? Is there medicine?"
"Yes!" Elaine cast about her for a moment, then scooped up a play-syringe and dropped it in my lap. I suppressed more insistent giggles, then said, "Okay, I'll give it to her." I brought the syringe to Baby Horsie's mouth.
"Noooooooooo," Elaine cried. "It goes in her butt! Duh!"
After glancing behind me to make sure we weren't being gaped at by 15 other toddlers and 4 grownups, I pretended to insert the syringe into Baby Horsie's bum and inject her with the Enema of Life. Baby Horsie sprung up, fully healed, and shouted "You saved my butt!" Seconds later, she swayed on her feet, told Mama Horsie that she wasn't feeling so good, and fell again. I didn't bat an eye; Elaine loves to repeat the same plot several times. It doesn't get boring, though, because she changes something every time. I couldn't wait to see how she'd alter a game this interesting already.
"Oh no, what will we do? Baby Horsie is so sick!" Mama and Daddy Horsie lamented right on cue. "How will we fix her?"
Elaine handed me the syringe again. "You gotta put this in her penis or she'll die."
She spoke with such candid gravity that I was struck dumb for a moment. My mind pinwheeled and backpedaled in a futile search for an appropriate response. I quickly realized that an appropriate response, to my grownup state of mind, would probably not be an appropriate response to her, and vice versa. While my mind screamed for help like a drowning kitten, my body took it upon itself to get on with it. So I touched the tip of the syringe to Baby Horsie's underbelly where I thought her assorted genitalia might be, to Elaine's (and Baby Horsie's) satisfaction. Baby Horsie once again leapt up, and I cringed, awaiting the exclamation that would surely come,
"Yay! You saved my penis!"
I was unable to hold back any longer; laughter poured out of me and shook me until I fell over. When I finally opened my eyes, stinging with tears, Elaine was standing over me, looking genuinely and adorably puzzled.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked.
"Many things, Elaine, many things, " I responded honestly.
"Are you sick too? Do you need medicine?"
"No, no, no no no, I am peachy-keen, fine and dandy. Let's save the medicine for poor Baby Horsie. It sounds like she needs some surgery."
"No she doesn't. Let's keep playing!"
Later on I talked myself out of telling her mother what had transpired. I thought if nothing else, it would make a good story to tell her husband later. But what happens at Childwatch stays at Childwatch. Until I blog about it.
Today, Elaine ran to me as soon as she saw me, and because I had chosen that moment to foolishly sit down on the floor, she cannonballed into me and sent both of us sprawling. Then she used her wicked signature move that has me convinced she'll end up on UFC one of these days. She pinioned me on my back with both knees actively seeking my bladder and each elbow spearing one of my breasts. This always leaves me speechless, motionless and breathless long enough for her to convince me to do anything she wants.
"Let's play horsies, let's play horsies!" She singsonged. Yes, Elaine, whatever you say, Elaine, now for the love of all that is holy, please get off me, Elaine.
So she let me up and dragged me, massaging my aching boobs, to the red plastic barn and the scuffed yellow bin full of plastic farm animals. With a practiced and studious eye, she searched the bin, then let out a squeal of delight and dove for her quarry. She came up with a twin pair of brown plastic horses, frozen in a high-stepping prance. "You be the mommy and the daddy horsie," she said as she shoved the twins into my hand. "I'll be the baby horsie." She pulled a smaller toy out, this one chunkier, bright yellow, and only a shade behind the exaggerated proportions of a My Little Pony.
Then, Plotmaster Elaine chose the game for us. Usually Elaine's Horsie games involve Mama Horsie falling deathly ill and Baby Horsie must journey over many foreign lands and through many dangers to bring back medicine for her dying mother, while Daddy Horsie stands by helpless. Or an alternate vignette: Mama and Daddy Horsie are trapped in the burning barn and Baby Horsie must cast herself into the flames to heroically rescue them. Mama Horsie always turns out all right, but Daddy Horsie is grievously wounded and needs much care from his wife and invincible daughter. I wondered with mild amusement at her home life, but I kept it to myself.
Today, Elaine decided that instead of Mama Horsie falling ill, Baby Horsie herself would come down with the equine equivalent of Ebola. Baby Horsie groaned, tossed, turned and wept. Mama Horsie and Daddy Horsie worried-- "Oh no, what will we do? Baby Horsie is so sick!" Usually, I take cues from Elaine for my lines, since this show is scripted only in her four-year-old mind. She leaned close to my ear and whispered "Mama Horsie says something's wrong with Baby Horsie's butt!"
I chuckled; said my line. Elaine said "You need to fix it!"
"How do I do that? Is there medicine?"
"Yes!" Elaine cast about her for a moment, then scooped up a play-syringe and dropped it in my lap. I suppressed more insistent giggles, then said, "Okay, I'll give it to her." I brought the syringe to Baby Horsie's mouth.
"Noooooooooo," Elaine cried. "It goes in her butt! Duh!"
After glancing behind me to make sure we weren't being gaped at by 15 other toddlers and 4 grownups, I pretended to insert the syringe into Baby Horsie's bum and inject her with the Enema of Life. Baby Horsie sprung up, fully healed, and shouted "You saved my butt!" Seconds later, she swayed on her feet, told Mama Horsie that she wasn't feeling so good, and fell again. I didn't bat an eye; Elaine loves to repeat the same plot several times. It doesn't get boring, though, because she changes something every time. I couldn't wait to see how she'd alter a game this interesting already.
"Oh no, what will we do? Baby Horsie is so sick!" Mama and Daddy Horsie lamented right on cue. "How will we fix her?"
Elaine handed me the syringe again. "You gotta put this in her penis or she'll die."
She spoke with such candid gravity that I was struck dumb for a moment. My mind pinwheeled and backpedaled in a futile search for an appropriate response. I quickly realized that an appropriate response, to my grownup state of mind, would probably not be an appropriate response to her, and vice versa. While my mind screamed for help like a drowning kitten, my body took it upon itself to get on with it. So I touched the tip of the syringe to Baby Horsie's underbelly where I thought her assorted genitalia might be, to Elaine's (and Baby Horsie's) satisfaction. Baby Horsie once again leapt up, and I cringed, awaiting the exclamation that would surely come,
"Yay! You saved my penis!"
I was unable to hold back any longer; laughter poured out of me and shook me until I fell over. When I finally opened my eyes, stinging with tears, Elaine was standing over me, looking genuinely and adorably puzzled.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked.
"Many things, Elaine, many things, " I responded honestly.
"Are you sick too? Do you need medicine?"
"No, no, no no no, I am peachy-keen, fine and dandy. Let's save the medicine for poor Baby Horsie. It sounds like she needs some surgery."
"No she doesn't. Let's keep playing!"
Later on I talked myself out of telling her mother what had transpired. I thought if nothing else, it would make a good story to tell her husband later. But what happens at Childwatch stays at Childwatch. Until I blog about it.
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