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By Paul Wicker I remember very clearly the first time someone said to me "It's not called `babysitting' if they are your kids". To which I replied, "Huh?" This statement was incomprehensible; like so much gibberish. What in the world were they talking about? They could have been speaking Chinese for all I knew. It took a few seconds for my brain to focus on the words. Okay, it was definitely English, now what were the definitions again? Babysitting - to sit with babies - to watch children. I seemed to be on solid ground. After all, I was feeling quite the martyr. I had volunteered -- at great personal sacrifice -- to watch the kids (I had two at the time - ages 1 and 3) while the wife went shopping. My only stipulation was that she be back before my tee time at 3 p.m. As my wife and her friends drove away, I began my "babysitting" chore. I was feeling pretty good about myself, but this pesky statement kept floating through my consciousness like a kid with a dirty diaper running through the living room. I would get an unexpected whiff and then it would disappear again for a while to percolate. At noon, I extracted a delicious, if slightly well done, lunch from the small mountain of dirty dishes I left in the sink. After all, I was "babysitting"; no sane person would expect me to do dishes too. The house was a disaster. These kids had absolutely zero discipline. Toys were scattered hither and yon. As I was considering whether or not to get the shovel from the garage to clear a path through the toy bits scattered all over the floor, this nagging thought finally came into focus --It's not called "babysitting" when they are your kids. For a second the world seemed to spin a bit faster on its axis. The dizziness passed but I felt a major shift in my perspective. Suddenly the dirty dishes in the sink, the ketchup smear on the table, the toys scattered throughout the house, the little people who were cutting into my game time came into sharper focus. Holy Cow! I have some responsibility here! Yikes! I moved the half-chewed remains of a peanut butter sandwich from the couch in order to sit down. Like a dying man who sees his life flash before his eyes, the last four years of parenthood ripped past in painful detail. All this time, I had considered these little people to be the property of Mom. This meant that all attendant messes and or problems were also her responsibility. Added to that, I preferred when she handled any situations with these little folk quietly, with as little fuss as possible. It was as if she and the kids were moving along in one rowboat while I leisurely followed behind in another. In fact, I realized that it was even worse because I wasn't rowing. My boat was tied to my wife's. I was casually reading the paper while she rowed frantically and tried to keep the kids from falling overboard. That day I got into the other rowboat. I cleaned and sanitized these food-in-their-hair scallywags. When the woman arrived back at the castle, the dishes were done and the toys were at least heaped near the toy box. She had expected the house to be a disaster and the kids to be a mess. She grew more confused when I did not run off to play golf and she nearly fainted when I got one of the kids a drink while she was physically in the vicinity. Life is full of epiphanies. Some hit you like a refreshing cool breeze on a hot day while others come clanging into your life like a frying pan to the skull. This was the first of my Dad-revelations. Watch this space for six more. -------------------------- As father of three, Paul Wicker has experienced parenting from all sides. He recently ended a twenty year career in the oil business to start freelance writing and now he is working from home. He has several other business interests that also keep him busy. Email Paul at pwicker@houston.rr.com Sign up to Mommy's Helper - Mom's Market Ezine for marketing tips, business resources, and much more. Receive Your F R E E Subscription Now! |