If you want to laugh…

My friend Rach is one of the funniest people on earth. She always ends up in the strangest and worst case scenarios, however, they always make for great stories later! She e-mailed this one to me a couple of months ago. I couldn’t breathe by the time I finished reading it…I was in hysterics trying to pick myself up off the floor. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Oh and thanks R! 

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My worst babysitting stories really just include a little girl of seven years old urinating in the family room. Another time the same girl asked to see “my breast.” And yet another time, the same girl (shocking, I know!) cried about her ear, saying it hurt. I was so frustrated that I told her to go to bed and get over it, only to be informed the next day that she was taken to the hospital because her eardrum burst. I felt bad. A little. Once I went to the wrong house.

Other than that, though, I have not been riddled with too many terrible babysitting experiences (which is delightful, considering how much I babysit). But last night…last night is the winner. It trumps over all other stories. It is the king of babysitting nightmares. Rarely do I completely knock a family off my list. The bottom line is that I need the money, so I tolerate people that I can’t stand. But this family…no matter how much money I am offered, I will not go back. I will never return (shudder here).

First, I went to the wrong house (not a first for me, obviously, so I was not too shaken by this little mishap). I walked in to the right house (finally), and the man didn’t even know my name. No hard feelings, I decided, considering I couldn’t remember his little hellions, I mean kids, names. I walk in trying to make a good impression (the nicer I am the more money…maybe…or is it still by the hour?). Anyway, I walk in on my best behavior, and the youngest boy, who was just identified as Nathan, dropped his sippy cup of milk, not spilling any. The man and his two sons finally sat down to dinner while I stood uncomfortably above. I picked up the milk, something a good citizen would do (did I mention that I got the citizenship award twice? I did). But somehow, while in midair, Satan or some wicked element of nature pulled the top of the sippy cup off. Then, still in  mid air, the cup spilled its contents all over the table and the chairs, and the floor, but not me. The man told me not to do that on a date. I told him that I appreciated his advice. He told me to get the whole role of paper towels while he still munched on his pizza, not phased. We cleaned for a very long time.

He finally left. I tried to play with the boys. Soon it was bed time (my favorite part of babysitting besides being paid and leaving). I went downstairs, tidied up, finished a book, and had just turned on the TV, to relax, and forget about my…clumsiness? Then, pitter patter, bang bang bang… I walked upstairs to investigate the noise. I knew it must be the older one, Lucas, because I had just put him to bed. I turned on the light, he was not in his bed. Then I remembered.

The one time that I had babysat for this not right family, Lucas had had a surprisingly large bowel movement—shall we say dump—in his pants, and then hid out of embarrassment. I found him that last time in a fairly obvious place, under the table, dumped out his underpants, and my dinner, and tried to move on.

So I knew, from horrific and scarring past experiences, that he was hiding. From the smell that was permeating the entire upstairs, I knew that the kid had taken another dump in his pants. After walking around for a couple minutes, and being unable to find him, I got desperate. “Candy?” I offered, “Maybe you would like to watch a movie?” I hit it on the head. “Yah, a movie,” I heard from somewhere. I gently inquired where this little four year old hellion was hiding. He pulled himself out from under the bed revealing what I considered and impressively large dump. I decided that it would take me several gallons of ice cream and a lot of grapes not to mention a stomachache, to get that thing out of me. Then I remembered his kind (ha!) father mentioning that Lucas commented that he did not feel well. I’m sure he was feeling better by now. I helped him get out from under the bed with his turd the size of my brother’s basketball in his pants. He dumped his crap in the toilet while I tried to comfort him in the doorway…I was seemed to have some trouble holding my gags in.

Warning: Only those with a tolerant stomach should continue

Viewer Discretion Advised

Although Locust, oops, Lucas wiped himself, I clearly needed to intervene. I grabbed a wet wipe thinking that that would be more effective (it turned out to just be damp, though, so I had to really scrub…gag…gag). Once finished I told Locust, did I say that again? What I meant was Lucas. Anyway, I told the kid to flush the toilet again. Then it happened. The crapper filled up all the way to the top. I was holding my breath thanking God that it did not spill over. I grabbed the plunder from like 1973 that was about the size of my hand and started trying to plunge. Now I had done it. I could just imagine his parents getting home, “Hey folks, besides you, sir, being a total weirdo and sketch wad and me going to the wrong house and spilling milk, your charming little devil of a son took a dump in his own pants and now the crapper’s up the top. So, thanks for having me, pay me one million dollars, I deserve nothing less for this night.”

I continued to plunge reminding myself that not only would I ever be a plumber, or marry one, or be friend’s with one, I would never even where flannel. When the water went down to about halfway and the toilet paper had almost all the way disintegrated and floated around the toilet and got stuck on the plunder, and turd was aimlessly wandering around the toilet bowl, I decided to try to flush it again. But after I hit the cursed little handle, all the water and paper and turd came floating back to top. I screamed in anger. I called my father. He told me to lift the top and turn off the water. Did I mention that I looked cute in my new little sweater? And now he wanted me to stick my hand in that water? He said it was silver. He said it was either on the left or the right. I said thanks. I found something that was gray, not silver, nothing was moving. Then I pushed some lever or something, who knows what I actually pushed (and I will never know, because I will never look in the control room or a crapper again!). All of the water and disintegrated paper and turd came over the edge, onto my mom’s cute green socks, my pants, and the master bathroom floor. I screamed.

I found myself continuing to plunge, almost crying, and cleaning up their master bathroom.

When I left their bathroom after more that a half an hour of misery I left the floor clean, and the toilet halfway filled with water. When they got home, I explained my predicament. It was the woman this time, and she was very understanding. When she handed me the money, I only assumed that all of the bills were $100 dollar bills considering my sorrowful and sympathetic situation. $45. That’s it. $45. $45 dollars for tons of hours and  informing her she might want to get her crapper pipes checked…by a real plumber, one who wears flannel.

So here I sit in a dark corner, afraid of crappers, afraid of children who poop, informing you why Locust and his family have been permanently removed from my babysitting list.

P.S. I am burning my mother’s cute little green socks.

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