The Diary of Ashley Spencer: Adventures in Babysitting and Abuse

A little extra cash can never be a bad thing, especially since I have no idea how much longer I can tolerate my job. I’ve been taking more and more writing classes and really just want to do something I love, instead of living half-heartedly and doing anything I can to make money. I never wanted my life to be all about money. Mostly, I just want my life to be about the most important thing in the world: myself.

I met a sweet divorced mother who asked me to babysit her kids. I’ve never been a particularly kiddy-loving person; I’d much rather have a conversation with someone closer to my own age, mostly because children speak in four-letter words (and none of the fun ones). But the mother described her kids as little angels. So I was all about it: all about the extra cash, all about snuggling and watching movies and eating popcorn, all about befriending these children and making a difference in their lives, inspiring this next generation to be great, aka to be just like me.

But now, just hours after getting home from my four-hour shift, I have news you won’t learn in high school health class: The best form of birth control is babysitting. Just try it and tell me one of those things—excuse me, one of those little people—still seems like a good addition to your life.

I thought I could put aside everything in my egocentric life and help shape these kids into little adults. I can safely say I did nothing but put them to bed late. (NOTE: for the remainder of this article, I will refer to my babysitting subjects as G and B, standing for Girl and Boy, respectively, to protect their identities.)

When I arrived at the house, I was immediately pulled into the basement for a game of two-on-one dodgeball. I was reminded of 6th grade, when all the boys whipped their balls at me with enthusiasm and the clear intent to kill. But as the 8-year-old B tried with all his might to take off my mean babysitting face with his ball, I deflected each of his shots.

“Hey,” he exclaimed. “You’re too good. Stop catching the ball.” He chucked a ball clear at my face, just missing my big head as I swiftly ducked.

After about 4 minutes of dodgeball, G was tired of the game, as she not only couldn’t throw a ball, but couldn’t catch one either. So we played pillow fight, better known as Hey Let's Beat the Pants Right Off the Babysitter. And G and B had a blast—especially when G knocked her pillow against my chest.

G had discovered that I had, as she put it, “huge boobies.” Though somewhat hurt by her super-honest, uncensored comment, I saw a bright side: any jury would sympathize if I smothered a child with a pillow in self-defense against sexual harassment. Surely some brilliant lawyer could make the case that it is I who have always been the victim of carrying such large burdens on my shoulders. But G was pretty cute, so I did what I usually do to any jealous girl who remarks about my tatas: I called her flat. G struck out her tongue at me, slammed a pillow on my head, and said, “ I don’t like this game. You’re boring at it!”

I looked at the clock. Already, it was G’s bedtime. Her mom had given her an extra early one because she'd had a late night last night, going to bed just after 11:00 p.m. (probably after an evening of wild partying).

And that’s when shizzle got out of hand.

Me: Little girl, it’s time for you to get ready for bed now, OK?
G: No. I don’t think so. Let’s play a game of tag first. I haven’t even gotten to play with you.

At first this was sort of cute, so we played a game of tag. Until I got some small pit stains due to the strenuous activity.

G: Ashley, you’re all gross and sweaty. You stink!

I’m pretty sure G meant this in more than just the literal sense. She was not feeling me and my insistence on following her mother’s directions and putting her to bed early. But I’m a sucker and G had begun to sense my softness.

Me: It’s time for bed.
G: Can I have an orange first?
Me: Now that you’ve eaten your orange, it’s time for bed.
G: NO ASH-A-LEY! (Insert deafening, ear-piercing scream here)
Me: Please, sweetie! It’s time for bed!
G: NO-ASH-A-LEY. STOP SAYING THAT TO ME.
Me: Go to bed, please. Your mom said!
G: THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE! I want you to dance to “Single Ladies" for me.
Me: Really?
G: NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Me: How was that?
G: Just so-so. Now roll over.

Now B was getting pissed, and began to stand up for me. This is how pathetic I had become—I was being owned by a little child not even in grade school yet. Forget “Are you Smarter than a Fifth Grader”; being stronger than a kindergartner is harder, and not nearly as adorably dorky.

B: Go to bed, G. Ashley’s being too nice to you. Mom would never let you do this. I’m calling her!

G: NOOOOOOOO! ( Insert scream that sounds like Mariah Carey’s voice scratching a chalkboard and then dying)
Me: That’s it. You. Bed. NOW!
G: You’re not the boss of me.
B: Yes, she is. When Mom's not here she is the boss.
G: I hate her and never want her to come back.

And that’s when I snapped.

Me: I don’t want to come back either. Now get upstairs.
LG: I HATE YOU!
Me: I don’t care. Hate me if you want!

I picked her up and started to take her to her room. She kicked, screamed, and cried. Each I HATE YOU ASH-A-LEY stung, and she was adding insult to injury with that nasty extra syllable.

LG: YOU SMELL. YOU STINK. Put me down!!! (Insert a sound that makes puss pour out of your ears, before you spontaneously combust.)

I felt terrible that she was so upset, but I didn’t know what else to do. And since these weren’t my actual kids that I birthed, I felt I lacked authority.

I put her to bed, but minutes later I could hear her bawling. Even though I felt like I'd won the war, I didn’t think it was right to let her cry alone in bed. Leaving her brother with a bag of Cheetos on the couch and a thank-you for being such a good boy, I went up to G’s room and tried to calm her down. I told her I didn’t like fighting with her, that I didn’t mean to yell, but her scream was very very annoying, like a police siren that kills bad guys automatically. I read her a book and scratched her back. Her eyes began to close. Freedom. At. Last.

I put B to bed. Feeling victorious, I made my way to the couch to watch Desperate Housewives. I popped popcorn and began to make myself comfortable on the couch. And when I went to get the bag from the mircrowave, the children were on the stairs, licking their lips.

G: Ashley! You made me popcorn! You’re the best sitter I’ve ever had! (scream of pure delight)

Even though their mom would probably kill me, I let them take some popcorn upstairs and I let them sleep in the same bed, mostly because I thought it was cute that they wanted to sleep together (also, because I would have done anything to get them to sleep that wasn’t illegal). When they were in bed, I watched some Desperate and did some brainstorming for some writing projects I am working on. I’m taking a Second City Comedy writing class, (that’s the place all the successful people in the comedy world start out, including Stephen Colbert, Tina Fey, and the Dali Lama [one of these may or may not be incorrect]). And even though that babysitting experience wasn’t the most pleasant, it left me with 50 extra bones and plenty of writing material. Plus, if nothing else, I now realize just how important it is to be intentionally celibate.

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