Sitting on Babies

I agreed to babysit Caden and Colin last night, the children of my good friends the Norwoods, and two of my favorite little'uns. Since Caden is five years old and Colin 8 months, I imagined that the night would be simple: make some food, walk around the neighborhood and put Colin to bed shortly after, since babies need so much sleep and all. And heck, Caden would probably pass out too if I let him ride his bike long and hard enough and then I could have an hour of unobstructed babysitter time to browse through the coffee table magazines and the back of the refrigerator. I looked forward to a quiet evening.

When I arrived, Colin was fussing in mom's arms. "He seems to want to be held today, " she apologized. "How bad can that be?" I thought to myself, "He weighs about 15 pounds and is darling." Mom and Dad left, and our quartet-- Colin, Caden, myself and Luna-the-dog-- began fixing dinner.

I set Colin in the high chair with the hopes that I could heat the black beans on the stove and preheat the broiler for our nachos. Wrong. After 15 seconds and approximately three stirs of the black beans Colin began wailing in a high-pitched and uncomfortable way. Meanwhile Caden wanted to show me his paints, his light sabers, his sunglasses, his bike, his sock monkey, his Robin Hood hat. Luna, perhaps out of nervousness, wrapped her forepaws around my upper leg and began gyrating on my shin.

With baby on my hip, dog on my ankle and a wooden spoon in hand I gingerly stirred the black beans and enlisted Caden to sprinkle cheese and cilantro on top of the tortilla chips. By a minor miracle I slid the nacho plate into the oven to broil and melt the cheese, saying to Caden, "The key to good nachos, my friend, is to check the oven often. Otherwise they burn real fast."

"Oh," said Caden with his forehead wrinkled intently, "Well, are they burning now?"

Perceptive boy.

There was smoke pouring out of the vent in the left burner. The smoke alarm started screeching. The dog ran out the back door to take cover in the bushes. Caden hid behind the bar stools. Colin mewled piteously from his perch on my hip and grew furious when I put him down to extract the nachos and fan the smoke.

"Wow, those are kind of black," observed Caden.

Like I said, he is a perceptive boy.

Somehow our party made it to the back porch for a burnt-nacho picnic. Still no luck with the high chair for Colin, even though I tried to shovel hummus into his mouth -- supposedly his favorite food--at at alarmingly fast rate. He didn't seem to find it fast enough. There was hummus in his ear, on his eyebrow and dribbling down his chest. Soon there was hummus on my shoulder when picked him up to calm him. Meanwhile Caden wanted a dollop of sour cream and a splash of chipotle hot sauce on each chip.

With one hand I cleared the mess from the table and entreated Caden to help grab a cup or two. "Can we play the, 'Don't Pick That Up' game?" he asked.

He explained the rules: I would insist that he NOT take the bowl of grapes into the house, or that he NOT clear the hot sauce from the table, and then while my back was turned he would do the opposite. I believe at this point that I blankly started at his eager face and shrugged my consent.

Twelve trips and much reverse psychology later the table was cleared and we made a successful lap around the neighborhood with Caden on bike and Colin in a tiny stroller. I forgot to put pants on the baby so his legs and feet got pretty cold long before Caden was ready to abandon his bike, but I thought that if we could get back to the house and feed Colin a little warm milk he might just fall asleep.

Colin still refused to be left in a high chair, so with him wrapped around my neck and Luna trailing behind and Caden now attempting to squirt acrylic paints onto a palette for paint-by-numbers, I warmed up some milk and then sat in the rocking chair to emulate that motherly action of rocking and feeding baby.

Baby didn't like it. He voraciously sucked on the bottle and then alternately pushed it away with frustrated hands. I tried tilting him back in my arms and tried standing and nothing seemed to satisfy. The standing was eventually successful in getting the milk to come back up. My shirt and somehow my jeans had spit-up on them. Colin didn't look better. It seemed an opportune time to clean the little guy up, seeing as he was encrusted with milk and hummus and vomit.

As he sat on the changing table Colin swiped with surprising dexterity at diapers and wipes and finally at the baby powder, giving it a good whack, and sending fine, white powder into the air. I tried to tug the dirty clothing over his head while he wailed at my inexpert attempts. When the shirt was finally off, I looked at his face covered in a dusting of what looked like cake-flour and wanted to cry. Colin cried for both of us. Caden peeked his head in the door and wondered when I would come paint with him? Luna mounted my leg again.

So this was it, I thought. Mom and Dad would come home at 10 pm and neither child would be asleep. The dog would be frantically humping my shin, the baby would be neither clothed nor clean, I would be covered in vomit and Caden would be strung-out on peanut butter ice cream. Did I mention that I pacified the five-year-old with a bowl of peanut butter ice cream an hour past bed-time?

At 9 30 pm, I lifted Colin into my arms and patted his tiny back while pacing the living room. He gummed my shoulder and grunted.

"I think Colin is making his sleepy noises," whispered Caden hopefully.

Without ceasing my movement across the floor I nodded wearily at Caden, certain that Colin would start crying soon enough.

Then, without warning, Colin's downy head fell onto my chest, his fine hair tickling my neck. I glanced wide-eyed at Caden, who mouthed soundlessly to me, "His eyes are closed!"

One minute passed. Five minutes passed. I sat in the rocking chair and still Colin's head lay heavy on my collarbone. Caden stretched out on the couch and said, "I am feeling sleepy like my brother."

At ten minutes I tentatively stood up and walked with Colin to the bassinet where he slept. He only sighed and snored when I placed him in his bed.

Caden's eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling gently on the couch.

"Let's get some spider-man pj's on, Caden."

He nodded and let me lead him to his room.

The dog was curled up under the window and merely lifted an eyebrow at us as we passed.

Within ten minutes the house had gone from chaos to peace. The two little ones were asleep and I looked the picture of domesticity. The parents would never know about the burning and the alarm and the crying and the peanut butter ice cream and the humping dog! I imagined how they would ask about the evening I would say airily, "Oh, just fine. The kids are great."

They walked in the door as I flipped through a magazine and stood to greet them with a nonchalant toss of my limp ponytail over my shoulder...

"Sarah," asked Tom quizzically, "Do you have flour all over your face?"