We rarely left our boys when they were little. It wasn’t that we were compelled to spend every minute of every day with those little dears. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust anyone with their care or that I felt they would suffer with abandonment issues.
No, sir. It was simply because we could never find anyone willing to sit with our kids for more than an hour.
Four boys was not easy, I’ll give you that. They weren’t out of line, but they did like to throw a few balls, run when the mood struck them, and heaven knows there is nothing like a jab or two to make a night complete.
My sister would do what she could to help out, but wasn’t afraid to tell me that I couldn’t pay her enough to “go through that” very often.
My dear and precious mother would take them when I was desperate, but she didn’t make things easy.
First was her line of questioning and a full-blown inquisition. “Where are you going? What will you be doing? Is this departure necessary? What is so important that you should shun your children and leave them when they need you the most?”
She would classify any time of any given day as the time when they “need you the most.”
She wanted names, times, places and numbers where we could be reached should an emergency crisis arise. I should mention here that she once classified a sad face as an emergency.
Mom put the kibosh on the whole babysitting thing after our young sons handed her the end of a rope and then ran around her with it, tying her to the chair.
Some grandparents just don’t have a sense of humor.
After that incident, she answered every babysitting opportunity by faking a cough and then whispering, “I don’t think I can. In fact, I think I’m coming down with something.”
Area youth came in handy back in the day. We started by asking a couple of neighbor girls to come over to watch our joyful bounty for an evening now and then, but it was usually one and done.
They tried; you have to give them that.
One gal even went so far as to bring along a babysitter’s kit that included coloring books and a puzzle. By the time her night was over, I’m sure the poor little dear was wishing she had added her mother’s cooking sherry to her bag of tricks.
We quickly went through everyone we knew and even a couple we didn’t. The last girl I called to ask if she was up for a night of adventurous babysitting simply replied, “No.”
Not, “No, thanks,” or “Gosh, I wish I could, but …”
Just simply, “No.”
Word had gotten out.
But the hands of time turned. Before long our Vernon was old enough to man the clan and since we offered him an extra $10 if he could get through the evening without incident, he ran the house with an iron fist.
One by one, they reached the age of maturity and upon our return we did not find a disheveled mess or a tied-up babysitter, as in the days gone by. Instead, we came home to young men watching football or playing a game of one-on-one on the drive.
Go us!
Pages on the calendar twirled, years went by, and you will never guess what my beloved spouse and I did last weekend — we went out of town.
That’s right folks, you heard it here first. With only our little Charlie still in the nest and Lawrence home for summer vacation, Pat and I packed our bags and went away for a couple of days, all by ourselves.
“How can you leave them?” my mother asked when I told her of our plans.
“They are 17 and 20 years old!” I said in my defense.
“What is so important that you should shun your children and leave them when they need you the most?” “Maybe,” I suggested as I dropped my voice an octave for drama, “I should bring them over to spend the weekend with you?”
She faked a cough and then whispered, “I can’t, I think I’m coming down with something.”
The pages on the calendar may turn, but some things never change. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].