Babysitter for Sam

So we needed a sitter on Thursday night. Responsible moms put lots of care and organization into finding and training their childcare. They are appropriately picky, anxious, and thorough. My plan was not marked by these features, and as the day wore on towards evening, I began to feel more and more like an utterly lousy parent. Where was my double-checked strategy involving an experienced sitter, lengthy safety instructions, a typed out schedule, and extra phone numbers? Was I being careless with my son?? ack!

My plan was to take Sam over to the Montagnard family’s apartment, who are my refugee friends that I visit. Despite language and cultural barriers, we would leave him there. Sam knows the place and the kids. However, I’ve never just walked away and left him there.

Thirty minutes before Danny and I were supposed to be at a restaurant, we showed up at the 3-bedroom apartment where 9 of them live. A mere 99 children were bouncing off the walls. Sam immediately disappeared into the fray. I explained to the oldest girl, Han, how to use this stuff I'd brought for her skin. By the look in her eyes, you would have thought I'd delivered a Porsche. On the spur of the moment, I decided to use Danny as a model for how to use cotton balls and moisturizer. Streams of giggles emanated from behind couches and corners. Having a real American white man in their home was clearly awe-inspiring and had changed the dynamic. But when he submitted to women's facial rituals, the squeals and gasps went through the roof. (Danny was a good sport.)

Then I explained the new word "babysitting" and they stared back at me with blank faces. Danny asked if 10 p.m. would be okay and inquired when they went to bed. Han shrugged and said with a very shy smile, “Nine, ten, or eleven.” Still uncertain, we waved bye-bye to Sam, who glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder and went back to tackling another boy.

Three hours later we returned. The population had dwindled to a mere 7 children and the atmosphere was hushed and sweet with the beautiful staccato texture of their language. Sam was drinking their apple juice in their kitchen and did not run to me. (This always mortifies me as a mom.) He eyed us suspiciously as if we were about to kidnap him and drag him home, which is true. Eventually Danny had to pick him up to get him to come. This made the kids laugh and exclaim to each other and to us, "Sam like us! Sam like us!" I said, "Sam like you too!"

Maybe I am not always a lousy mom. Maybe .00001% of the time, I might even arrange a fun, safe babysitting for Sam.