by Kimberly Devine

Created on: March 14, 2009

I had been an unwilling sibling-sitter for years when I got the phone call asking if I would watch my new neighbor's children. They had a company party to attend for a few hours. EASY MONEY! RESPONSIBILITY! My 13-year-old heart pumped glad as I bopped out a chipper, "Sure!"

After heart-felt, prepubescent calculating, I felt the right fee would be $1.00 for one child, 25 cents for each additional child. For $1.50 an hour, I would be watching a three-year-old and his two younger siblings from four in the afternoon until 11 at night.

That was great money!

The day started clear and bright as I put together my babysitter's kit. Girl Scouts in the eighties got badges for these things. I set up band-aids and antibiotic cream, then slid in my phone list with emergency numbers. It had a clearly-labelled blank space for a number to reach the parents. I would fill that out when I got there.

I set up the crayons and coloring books, a little homemade play dough and the other things I knew would be essential to my foray into the world of baby-sitting. I was ready!

Arriving at the home, I was told about the children's habits and likes, the food to prepare for dinner, and how to operate the oven. The kids were great and easy to keep happy. We played silly tickle and chase games, then I went to start dinner.

The stove was old. It was a gas oven with a faulty pilot light. I had been supplied with long matches in order to reach into the stove and start the pilot. Of course, I'm kind of afraid of explosions and the mom had said specifically, "be careful so it doesn't blow up." That thought rather distracted me. The location of the mysterious pilot at which to aim my candle had slipped right past me, but I knew it was somewhere on the bottom. There was a prepared casserole for dinner that I needed to get cooking, so after sizing up the stove for a few minutes, I reached for the matches.

It took me three of them to cause the explosion, and that caused each hair of my eyebrows to curl into crisp little corkscrews. It also threw me three feet across the room into the cabinets.

I turned off the gas and called my mother.

She walked in the door while the phone was still in my hand. One look at her face and I began to cry. Mom looked over my injuries, then handed me washcloths of cool water to easy my scorched hands, arms and face. She started the casserole and offered to stay with me, but, then... wouldn't that make her the one babysitting?

No. I had taken a sacred trust and I would fulfill the duty I had assumed. Tears aside, I said good-bye to my mother and started to feed the children.

After baths and bed, the evening was a quiet respite from my own busy family. I was on my own. Master and commander of my domain. I could imagine how it would be when I wasn't the oldest daughter, and I was jumping headfirst into my destiny. The potential made me feel powerful and giddy. I slid "Willow" into the VCR and sat back.

All-in-all, a lovely evening... except... my mother got more use out of my babysitting kit than I did.

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