October 21st, 2010 12:15am - Baby Terrorist

I love babies. Retract that sentence. I love the thought of babies. I take that sentence back too. I would love babies if they were dolls that smiled and giggled. Inanimate objects, preferably.
When I began babysitting for five children, the youngest was nine weeks old. He ate and slept and didn't move. I could bring my laptop into the house and watch porn. Nine months later, Baby was a terror.
Baby crawled, rotated, squirmed. He began stumbling around like a drunken midget. He ate dirt and swallowed sand. He put his fingers in the toilet and then sucked them. He toppled headfirst into the fence surrounding the pool. He would slam his fingers in drawers and scream until someone released him from the agony he caused himself. As a human entity, I assumed that Baby would learn. If you open a drawer, remove all the contents, and then fling the thing shut with your fingers still in the drawer, it will hurt. Baby never learned. Domestic turkeys comprehend objects and pain association more rapidly.
Baby's incessant motion required piercing intelligence from whoever changed his diaper. I changed his diaper frequently and would have to maintain the kid's amusement long enough to strip him, wipe him, and strap him into another diaper.
By early October, I would wrestle Baby to the floor and then hold a toy in front of his face with one of my hands while changing his diaper with the other hand. I would try not to deck him in the head with the toy, and it would hold his interest long enough to swap out diapers.
By late October, Baby would lose interest. Fast. I'd get him half naked and lying on the floor on his back, but in the second it took me to position the diaper under his ass, he'd roll over and crawl away. When he had a diaper full of urine, I'd wipe him down while he crawled. When he had a diaper full of excrement, I'd pin him to the ground, sing into his tiny little face, and work as rapidly as I could. Short of impeding his motion by strangling him, I did all I could.
The past few days, Baby had produced particularly liquid poops. I knew this. I knew I had to change his diaper with a speed that I wasn't sure was humanely possible. I undressed him with the urgency of a sex addict ho, unfastened his diaper, and stabilized his stomach with my hand.
Baby was freakishly strong, and wrassled out from under my grip. He turned over and crawled away from me like a baby on steroids. Though I was tempted, I couldn't give Baby a smackdown. Liquid shit leaked from the diaper on the wood floor, but Baby was headed for the carpet. I abandoned the diaper and boomed towards the infant ass. I got there just before fluid feces dripped onto the carpet. They trickled into my hand.

October 20th 9:14am - October 2010 Quote of the Month

Three-year-old (riding his bicycle in circles in the backyard and screaming): "Move my baby's car, move his big yellow car out!"
Me: "Okay, okay, stop yelling. I'll move it."
Three-year-old (furiously pedaling): "I'm training."
Me: "Training for what?"
Three-year-old: "Being a big boy."

October 16th 2010 7:20pm - Little Boy vs Man

Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning. Boyfriend and I drank a bottle of rum between nine at night and one thirty in the morning. By two, I was tired and drunk and laying spread-eagle on my bed. I wanted to sleep. Boyfriend wanted to go out. I fell asleep for two minutes. Boyfriend woke me up.
"Baby, your snoring sounds like you're cutting down a forest with a chainsaw," he said. "Let's go out."
I knew it was a bad idea, but I was drunk and accommodating. We called a cab. It was two in the morning. New Zealand taxi drivers don't wait out front for you for a few minutes. They don't call your cell phone to inform you that they've arrived. New Zealand cabbies ring the house bell incessantly until someone answers. When Boyfriend and I walked from my pool house, past the main house and to the street for the taxi driver, the mom of the kids I looked after was standing on the balcony of the main house. Waiting for us.
"Your cab driver's been ringing the bell for two whole minutes," she screamed like she was addressing a child rapist. The woman has five kids.
"Oh my God, I'm so so so sorry," I replied.
"It is not okay," she yelled back at me, before slamming the balcony door to her bedroom.
I was shithoused and I shrugged.
Boyfriend and I went to Provedor. We stumbled out three and a half hours later, at five-thirty in the morning. We went to Provedor because it was the bar where we met. He thought it would be romantic. I have since learned that all Aucklanders refer to that bar as Provide-a-Whore. Romantic.
It was a Saturday night, and/or Sunday morning, but regardless, Boyfriend spent the night. The three-year-old woke us up. The pool house is my pool house. Little children that I babysit for were not allowed in my domain. Boyfriend and I woke up to find the three-year-old staring at us.
"Hey Baby, what's going on?" my still-intoxicated self asked the three-year-old.
"You're naked," he responded. The kid's a genius.
"Ah, shit," I said, and regained enough consciousness to observe our situation. Boyfriend and I might as well have been nudists. We were naked and sleeping on my mattress. But my mattress wasn't on the bed stand. It was on the carpet.
I told the three-year-old the location of my chocolate stash downstairs, and without hesitation, fell into a semi-coma sleep.
Hours later, when I aroused myself enough to speak coherently and face daylight, I walked into the backyard. The first person I saw was the three-year-old.
He looked at me and asked, "Is Chris your friend still naked in your bed?"

October 14th 10:10pm - Luging in Queenstown

A few days later, the same three children and I went on Queenstown's luge. I had read the Skyline Luge website to ensure that, 1: the children wouldn't die, and 2: I wouldn't die. The website reads:
"From grandkids to grandparents - the Syline Luge is a fun filled gravity ride for all ages and abilities! Choose from two tracks, one scenic and gentle, the other advanced and adventurous. The scenic track is a leisurely ride with gentle gradient, easy bends and dips with several rest areas giving riders plenty of opportunity to stop and take great photographs and enjoy panoramic views... It's safe too. You're in full control!"*

This sounded fantastic. We wouldn't die, and I could take pictures.
We almost died.
The chairlift protected the children as effectively as a ten-inch butcher knife. I rode up the mountain with the three-year-old. I looked down at the forty-foot drop and out at the bar two feet from our bodies, supposedly strapping us in, and I clutched him to me. It was the only thing I could do. Two three-year-olds could have fit in the gap between the seat and the bar.
"I can't breathe," he managed to straggle out halfway up the mountain.
"Shhh, don't say anything," I said. "You might fall."
After we had bought our tickets and stood in line for ten minutes, we boarded the luges. The seven-year-old stepped into her luge and asked me if she could use the toilet after the ride.
"Of course you can," I said.
"Good, because the pee is dripping out," she replied.
"The pee is dripping out?" I repeated. I was just confused. The amount of time between a child's brain revealing that it has need of a toilet, and when the excretions actually come astonishes me.
I pulled the kid out of the luge. When I asked one of the workers where the bathrooms were, he said they were at the bottom of the run. We used the toilet in the staff quarters.
Luges in New Zealand comprise a big piece of plastic functioning as a sled, wheels underneath, and handlebars like a bicycle. Upon pulling the handlebars back towards you, the sled goes. When you release the handlebars, they push down the front of the sled and stop movement. It would have been simple, except that I luged with a three-year-old lunatic. From the beginning, he grabbed the handlebars and assumed control.
"I a crazy driver," he screamed as we accelerated out of the launching point.
"Yes, but you're not driving," I yelled. "I'm driving!"
"I a craaaazzyyyy driver!" he replied, grabbed the handles, and swung them back and from side to side. The luge flew down the track and switched directions faster than a rabid dog. I couldn't see anything but blurred colors. I seized the handles, steadied them from the psychotic swinging, and released them a little, so the luge would slow down.
"I driving," the three-year-old cried.
"I know, and you're doing great, but I need to help," I said. "We can drive together."
The unhinged child clutched the handles, yanked them back, and shouted, "I a craaaaazzzzyyy driver!"
"Oh my God!" I shrieked as we hurtled down the hill and crashed into the rubber-lined track. I gripped the handle in one hand and the child in the other.
"I'm driving!" I said with the authority of someone concerned for the safety of life.
The three-year-old nodded, seemingly accepting that I was the driver. Then he snatched the handles again like a little thief and turned us into the downward slope of the hill. Down we went. I screamed the roar of fatalistic terror while the three-year-old repeated, "I a craaazzzy driver!"
At one point a luge ahead of us swayed back and forth across the track in graceful, languid loops. We hurtled directly for it. As I wrestled against three-year-old strength to steer away from the ninety-year-old woman, we collided, the three-year-old shot forward and almost went head-first into the cement. I threw my arm around his waist and screamed, "Oh my God!" again.
I apologized excessively while the three-year-old smiled as wide as he could. When I sensed that he was about to clap his hands out of glee, I placed my left hand over his but continued saying sorry and looking at grandma. We finally made it to the bottom, my arms and throat aching, my heart pounding palpitations in my ears.
"Time to go back to the house," I exclaimed.
"We have one more ticket!" the kids reminded me and scampered off to the chairlift again. Luging was as appealing as a man's hairy, bearded back. I had to ride with the despot again.

* The link for Queenstown's luging site:
The sentence, "It's safe too," is highlighted in red on the website.

October 9th, 2010 7:05pm - It Smells Pretty

Three of the kids I babysit and I went on a hike a half hour outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. They had wanted to go to the movies. I had been in Australia for over two weeks and hadn't run in a month. I took them on a hike.
New Zealanders refer to hiking as tramping. The first time I heard the term, I had initiated the conversation by saying I wanted to go on an adventure. One of my friends suggested tramping. I assumed he meant we should wander the streets looking for skanky whores. When I hesitated, he insisted we go tramping.
"Really? I was thinking along the lines of kayaking or something," I had said.
"It's sort of the same concept. Let's go tramping," he replied.
"Oh fine, let's go find you a hooker."
"In the trees?" he asked.
Hiking around a half hour outside of Queenstown, we ended up at a golf course. I taught the girls how to make daisy chains. The three-year-old wandered around looking for golf balls. We were on our second daisy chain when I noticed the little boy cupping something in his hands. He seemed to shelter and protect whatever he held. I thought it might be a baby bird. As I walked over to him, he looked up and smiled.
"It smells pretty," he said.
He held black dog shit in his hands. I screamed.
Ten minutes later, the seven-year-old announced that she had to pee. I've learned that when little kids say they have to pee, they generally are already peeing. Little kids are like needy toys. You just have to carry around two spare pairs of underwear and three containers of baby wipes. Per child. When the girl said she had to pee, I snatched one of her hands and dragged her into the bushes. With her other hand, she grabbed her crotch and shook her head. It was my daily moment for feeling exactly like a pedophile.
When we were two steps in, I stopped hauling her and tried to take off her pants.
"No, not here, we're not far enough away from people," she said.
For being seven, the girl has an unfounded sense of propriety. When I looked around, the only people I saw were her younger brother and sister. They don't count. The three of them straddle each other in the bath, but the seven-year-old was too modest to pull down her pants on the off-chance they might glimpse her coochie.
"Please!" she exclaimed.
I towed her around the other side of a tree. As I helped her pull her pants down, a massive horse-stream of urine gushed onto her underwear, her pants, and my hand.

October 8th, 2010 10:45am - Little Nipples

I've never been concerned with the size of my boobs. Men have bigger knockers than I do. Ten-year-old girls have more pronounced bazongas. If I had juicy juicy mangoes, I'd accidentally hit them. I'd trip over them. I'd run them into walls. My mom's offered me breast implants because she wants me to be happy and confident.

If I had hooters, all of my shirts would be slutty and inappropriate, and I guarantee that within two years, the silicone would rupture, deflate, or explode. I'd get hit directly in the milk wagon by a baseball, a goat would jump on me, or I'd run into a tree attempting to snowboard. I've repeatedly replied no thanks to the fake ta ta's. It wouldn't be a good investment. They just wouldn't last long.

While my mom and I frequently discuss my fun bag deficiency, we have never reviewed my nipples. We were in Queenstown, and my mom asked me to rub lotion into her upper back. As I smoothed the cream between her shoulder blades, she turned around and placed her hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?"

"I think you have little nipples, and you probably got them from me. I'm sorry. My mom had such beautiful large ones."

October 6th, 2010 12:37pm - Queenstown, Mom, Bar, Boys

I stayed in Sydney at a friends' place on Bondi Beach for almost a week. It was fantastic. Except that when my mom and her friend arrived in Australia to meet up with me at the end of the week, I was in the process of shedding my fourth layer of skin. Like a snake. From now on, I'm restricting myself to traveling through countries that have an ozone layer.
My mom and her friend are babes. Twice men referred to my mom as my sister. And they weren't trying to flatter or be funny or clever. They were serious. Both times, while in stores wandering around, I raised my head to locate her, and was told by employees, "If you're looking for your sister, she's over there." My mom wasn't even in earshot.
My mom, her friend, and I ambled through the
QVB, Sydney's Queen Victoria Building. I left them for three minutes to find a bathroom. When I returned, they had moved. Fifteen minutes, two phone calls and a text later, my mom said that they'd gone out for a coffee. They were at a pub three blocks away. The pub didn't serve coffee.
When my mom and I cruised on over to
Queenstown, New Zealand, we wanted to hit up the bars. A few nights ago, we went to the Ballarat Trading Company. The lighting was dim and the atmosphere old school. There was a piano, guns and animal heads on the walls, and framed black-and-white photos everywhere. The country of New Zealand does not have bears. Regardless of the fact that the Trading Co. boasted a stuffed bear standing up, there were maybe six people in the bar.
My mom and I sat on stools at the bar sipping on our second glasses of Chardonnay when two guys in their late twenties staggered in. Each one's weight supported the other as they wobbled through the doors. They were wrecked and it was awesome. They each had handfuls of cash. They stammered next to us at the bar, threw their bills into a pile on the bar's counter, and then emptied their pockets of money. Fives, tens, and twenties blasted from their bodies.
Whadday wanta drink?"
"Chardonnay, thanks!" my mom exclaimed.
We danced. I don't just mean me and one of the guys. I mean, one of the guys started swaying, my mom mistook it for dancing and began dancing. The other drunkard smiled and almost fell over. I joined in because I felt awkward.
The guys rocked out. They sang, they laughed, they screamed. They amused me. After they paid for four drinks for us, I announced that it was my round. The guys wanted whiskey, my mom and I wanted wine. I turned around to the bar and ordered two whiskeys and two glasses of wine. The bartender asked if the whiskeys were for the guys.
"Yes," I replied.

"They're cut off from the bar. I'm really sorry, but I can't serve them. You can't get them drinks."
"Awesome, saves me money!" I said and turned back around with the two wine glasses. The guys were gone.
"What happened?" I asked my mom. "Did you scare them off?"
I was joking, but my mom replied, "maybe..."
She had lectured them and verbally abused them for allowing a girl to pay.
"I never ever ever pay," she had said to them. "I'm a girl, and girls don't pay. You never make girls pay. What kind of men are you? Seriously, what kind of men are you that you make girls pay? Do you have balls?"
They ran away. I attempted to explain the concept that after taking advantage of guys and their drinks, it's only polite to reciprocate. Girls should buy one round after the guy has paid for two or three. My mom had none of it.
"Girls never pay," she repeated.