Okay, as you have probably figured out by now, it’s a miracle I manage to dress myself most days. I was a smart kid in school if you ask my teachers, but I was one of *those* smart kids — I could recite pretty much anything I’d ever read, but I might have forgotten to wear pants. I like to think I’ve grown, but I’m pretty sure I just tell myself that to keep the despair from becoming lethal.
So it probably won’t come as a surprise to you that I am not a good babysitter. Let me stress this: if you ever need a favour from me, I am happy to comply — including watching your kids. But if you leave your kid with me — and really, let me stress this again: don’t leave your kid with me — it makes you a bad parent. Automatically.
See, I have a nephew and this nephew has managed to survive my bumbling for, like, 10 years now. Almost 11. And I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s part Amazon and part Chiapet. Water him occasionally and he’s pretty much good to go. But unless your kid has been genetically modified to be 30% cat with opposable thumbs and a tendency to announce things they need without provocation, it’s a really bad idea to leave him, her or them with me.
I’m not a mean person and I even like (some) kids. It’s just that I’m that kind of absentminded person who will forget to, you know, feed them. I can’t keep plants alive. I have a dog, but I pretty much remember to feed her because she barks when it’s time. (She’s smarter than I give her credit – but not much. It’s a total survival instinct. Total.)
Anyway, and I can’t stress this enough, it’s not that I mistreat kids. It’s kind of that I forget that they’re not necessarily going to forage for food or enlist my aid if they, I don’t know, catch fire. (Do kids catch fire? OMG ARE THEY FLAMMABLE?? I DON’T EVEN KNOW!)
If, however, you still doubt my fitness and think leaving your offspring with me is just the best thing ever, then I have to show you this. I didn’t want to, but you’re kind of forcing my hand here. The following is a photo of a true incident occurring at my house Friday, Sept 2, 2011.
To your left, you will see Exhibit A. Yes, he’s asleep. And upside down. In a chair. Without a shirt. With shoes on and the Wiimote nearby (in case of, um, zombies? I don’t know. That’s what they’re for, right? Zombies?).
I *thought* I was doing really well. I fed him, got my butt kicked in Wii Baseball, even taught him something interesting about wombats — THEY ARE TOTALLY NOCTURAL — he was unimpressed, but I know he’s secretly about to wiki the crap out of those things.
He even helped me wind some yarn.
Then he sat down — right way up, I swear! — to watch something on Netflix. I sat down to check email and possible write about how I can’t drive or why the ghetto Sonic scares me and I hear snoring.
I didn’t think anything of it.
Later, I saw this. So what did I do? Snapped a picture, texted it to my mother and then woke him up and put him in bed.
Seriously. Don’t leave your kids with me.