Post by Ailiana (Onora) on Jun 2, 2007 14:20:07 GMT -5
((okay, this is super long, so grab a bag of chips and a comfy chair.))
So, I babysat yesterday. And I will say that I am NEVER babysitting for this little BRAT ever AGAIN. extreme much? no.
I've babysat for him before. he sat there, played his star wars game on PS3, and I went home at 9 with some money in my pocket. So I was more than willing to give it a shot, seeing as he gave me no problems and it was an easy, even if lackluster, experience.
His mother explains he's been calm all day, so he should be good. She also tells me if he's very good, she's going to give him a reward. She leaves, and he flips on the TV to watch a show on Star Wars.
During a commercial break, he ran up the stairs, saying he was going to get something. I see him at the top of the stairs, and then he proceeds to do a series of flips and cartwheels down. I'm about to have a heartattack. I can just see this kid falling to his death, breaking his neck. "WOAH!" I scream. "HOLD THE PHONE, KIDDO!"
He looks around. "Where's the phone?"
I tell him to sit his butt down and watch his show. He starts channel surfing, then stops. "Can we watch gladiator?! Have you seen it?" I try to think. Gladiator? What was that rated? PG13, I think. At the least.
I don't think so. "I think we should call your mom before..."
But he loses interest at his Star Wars show, watching the shiny light sabers and trying to mimick their moves with his own plastic light saber. As long as he stays away from the furniture, I figure.
He runs toward the leather couch in the other room, doing a flip over it. I tell him to calm down, and he shrugs, then walks over to a large wooden trunk. "Whatcha doing?" I ask warily.
"Getting something," he says. He points to it. "Try to open it."
I do, but its locked, of course. He walks over, does something to it, and it opens. He gets inside. "This is where I sleep." He lies down to prove it.
"You a vampire?" I asked, still trying to be the good humored babysitter.
"No, I'm serious. This is where I sleep. See, I'll show you. Close it." Seeing that I'm not going to obey, he reaches up to try and close it.
"WOAH!" I yell. I can just see him getting locked in there for all of eternity. "Not gonna happen."
He then pretends to die. "Not funny," I snap, poking him in the side. I try to pull him out, but he snatches up a mothball first.
"Watch this," he said, and then VERY REALISTICALLY pretended to eat it.
I believed him for a minute. I screamed at him, told him to open his mouth, threatened to call his mother. I had my phone out, the cafe she was playing piano at dialed, my finger poised over the talk button. He eventually handed over the moth ball, and I put it in my pocket.
He walked away, pretending to choke all the while. I rolled my eyes. Whatever he wanted to do. Grabbing his light saber offf the ground, he began to practice.
"You a jedi?" I asked lazily.
"Yep. I was in the movie."
"Course you were."
"You don't believe me."
"No, I do."
"NO, YOU DON'T!" It was clear this act of rage was all fake, but he began to attack the furniture, hitting the leather couch over and over again with his light saber.
"Calm down," I told him sternly. He turned on my, threatening to club me with the blue plastic. I jumped back, clenching my jaw. "Knock it off," I snapped, taking away the toy.
Losing interest, he strolled into the kitchen and climbed on the counter next to the fridge and said, "I want some beer."
Honestly, did parents think sticking beer on top of a fridge was going to make that much of a difference for a seven year old boy? "Not on my watch," I growl, narrowing my eyes at him. "Beer isn't for someone your age."
"This is kid's beer."
"There is no such thing."
"This is my beer, though," he tries.
"Beer tastes like crap. Trust me. Get DOWN here and I won't call your mom."
He takes out a glass bottle and sticks the top in his mouth, without removing the cap. I pull out my phone again, and he jumps down, putting the beer back. "Can I have something to eat?" he asks.
I shrug, going into the pantry. "Your mom said you could have graham crackers...." I start to explain. I turn around, and hes gone. God, this kid was like something out of a movie!
I hear him scream from upstairs, but I ignore him. "Listen, buddy, you've got FIVE seconds to get down here or I'm calling your mom!" I threaten. Nothing. A door slamming.
"ONE!" nothing. "TWO!" nope. "THREE!" nada. phone comes out, I dial. Push the green phone, put it to my ear. Who said I had to be fair. It rings once.
THe door to their backyard opens. "What?" he asks innocently. I narrow my eyes at him, press the red phone that signals the end of a phone call, then follow him out. "I'm gonna show you a magic trick," he explains eagerly. "Trust me, I'm not gonna lock you out."
He walks inside, then closes the door. "Put your hand here," he says through the glass. I obey, and the click of a lock is heard and he laughs and runs away.
The little brat had locked me out. "JORDAN!" I yell, pounding on the door. "LET. ME. IN! I'M CALLING YOUR MOTHER!"
Pause. He opens the door, then falls on the ground. "I'm dying!" he announces.
"Uh huh," I say, rolling my eyes and standing over him.
He crawls to the phone. "I'm serious! You need to call 911!
"Not gonna happen. Sorry."
"I'm dying!"
"Yep."
His finger reaches out to point at the 9 button. I watch him like a hawk. He grabs his own phone, then pushes the 9 himself.
"Do that and I swear I will call your mother."
He seems unaffected. only stares at me. I scroll through my phone book, looking for the number.
"What're you doing?" he asks warily, eyeing me.
"Texting my friend," I say. He relaxes, then tenses once I put the phone to my ear. His mom picks up, and I ask her what I should do about his behavior.
After several apologies from his mother, I hang up and send him to his room. "Ten minutes," I snap.
"What?!" he yelps.
"Your mom said ten to twenty minutes. I'm doing you a favor."
He shuffles up the stairs, and five minutes later the garage door opens. His mother stomps in, her heels clacking dangerously. Not good.
She told him if he had so much energy, he could run up and down the stairs for five minutes. To my surprise, he didn't try to talk her out of it, but obeyed. Her eyes fanned to the TV.
I decided to ask about Gladiator then. "Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "No."
With that forgotten, she left once he was finished his excercise with 20 minutes programmed on the microwave to beep when his sentence was up. I called a friend, asked for advice, then let him come down, eat his lunchable hot dog while watching cartoon network, told him to go upstairs and go to bed. I read him two stories, and went downstairs. His father came home at 9:30, and apologized, then paid me.
So, that's Nora's rant. Now for a question: should I babysit for this family again? I'm thinking a no, but then how would I tell them their child has scarred me for life?
So, I babysat yesterday. And I will say that I am NEVER babysitting for this little BRAT ever AGAIN. extreme much? no.
I've babysat for him before. he sat there, played his star wars game on PS3, and I went home at 9 with some money in my pocket. So I was more than willing to give it a shot, seeing as he gave me no problems and it was an easy, even if lackluster, experience.
His mother explains he's been calm all day, so he should be good. She also tells me if he's very good, she's going to give him a reward. She leaves, and he flips on the TV to watch a show on Star Wars.
During a commercial break, he ran up the stairs, saying he was going to get something. I see him at the top of the stairs, and then he proceeds to do a series of flips and cartwheels down. I'm about to have a heartattack. I can just see this kid falling to his death, breaking his neck. "WOAH!" I scream. "HOLD THE PHONE, KIDDO!"
He looks around. "Where's the phone?"
I tell him to sit his butt down and watch his show. He starts channel surfing, then stops. "Can we watch gladiator?! Have you seen it?" I try to think. Gladiator? What was that rated? PG13, I think. At the least.
I don't think so. "I think we should call your mom before..."
But he loses interest at his Star Wars show, watching the shiny light sabers and trying to mimick their moves with his own plastic light saber. As long as he stays away from the furniture, I figure.
He runs toward the leather couch in the other room, doing a flip over it. I tell him to calm down, and he shrugs, then walks over to a large wooden trunk. "Whatcha doing?" I ask warily.
"Getting something," he says. He points to it. "Try to open it."
I do, but its locked, of course. He walks over, does something to it, and it opens. He gets inside. "This is where I sleep." He lies down to prove it.
"You a vampire?" I asked, still trying to be the good humored babysitter.
"No, I'm serious. This is where I sleep. See, I'll show you. Close it." Seeing that I'm not going to obey, he reaches up to try and close it.
"WOAH!" I yell. I can just see him getting locked in there for all of eternity. "Not gonna happen."
He then pretends to die. "Not funny," I snap, poking him in the side. I try to pull him out, but he snatches up a mothball first.
"Watch this," he said, and then VERY REALISTICALLY pretended to eat it.
I believed him for a minute. I screamed at him, told him to open his mouth, threatened to call his mother. I had my phone out, the cafe she was playing piano at dialed, my finger poised over the talk button. He eventually handed over the moth ball, and I put it in my pocket.
He walked away, pretending to choke all the while. I rolled my eyes. Whatever he wanted to do. Grabbing his light saber offf the ground, he began to practice.
"You a jedi?" I asked lazily.
"Yep. I was in the movie."
"Course you were."
"You don't believe me."
"No, I do."
"NO, YOU DON'T!" It was clear this act of rage was all fake, but he began to attack the furniture, hitting the leather couch over and over again with his light saber.
"Calm down," I told him sternly. He turned on my, threatening to club me with the blue plastic. I jumped back, clenching my jaw. "Knock it off," I snapped, taking away the toy.
Losing interest, he strolled into the kitchen and climbed on the counter next to the fridge and said, "I want some beer."
Honestly, did parents think sticking beer on top of a fridge was going to make that much of a difference for a seven year old boy? "Not on my watch," I growl, narrowing my eyes at him. "Beer isn't for someone your age."
"This is kid's beer."
"There is no such thing."
"This is my beer, though," he tries.
"Beer tastes like crap. Trust me. Get DOWN here and I won't call your mom."
He takes out a glass bottle and sticks the top in his mouth, without removing the cap. I pull out my phone again, and he jumps down, putting the beer back. "Can I have something to eat?" he asks.
I shrug, going into the pantry. "Your mom said you could have graham crackers...." I start to explain. I turn around, and hes gone. God, this kid was like something out of a movie!
I hear him scream from upstairs, but I ignore him. "Listen, buddy, you've got FIVE seconds to get down here or I'm calling your mom!" I threaten. Nothing. A door slamming.
"ONE!" nothing. "TWO!" nope. "THREE!" nada. phone comes out, I dial. Push the green phone, put it to my ear. Who said I had to be fair. It rings once.
THe door to their backyard opens. "What?" he asks innocently. I narrow my eyes at him, press the red phone that signals the end of a phone call, then follow him out. "I'm gonna show you a magic trick," he explains eagerly. "Trust me, I'm not gonna lock you out."
He walks inside, then closes the door. "Put your hand here," he says through the glass. I obey, and the click of a lock is heard and he laughs and runs away.
The little brat had locked me out. "JORDAN!" I yell, pounding on the door. "LET. ME. IN! I'M CALLING YOUR MOTHER!"
Pause. He opens the door, then falls on the ground. "I'm dying!" he announces.
"Uh huh," I say, rolling my eyes and standing over him.
He crawls to the phone. "I'm serious! You need to call 911!
"Not gonna happen. Sorry."
"I'm dying!"
"Yep."
His finger reaches out to point at the 9 button. I watch him like a hawk. He grabs his own phone, then pushes the 9 himself.
"Do that and I swear I will call your mother."
He seems unaffected. only stares at me. I scroll through my phone book, looking for the number.
"What're you doing?" he asks warily, eyeing me.
"Texting my friend," I say. He relaxes, then tenses once I put the phone to my ear. His mom picks up, and I ask her what I should do about his behavior.
After several apologies from his mother, I hang up and send him to his room. "Ten minutes," I snap.
"What?!" he yelps.
"Your mom said ten to twenty minutes. I'm doing you a favor."
He shuffles up the stairs, and five minutes later the garage door opens. His mother stomps in, her heels clacking dangerously. Not good.
She told him if he had so much energy, he could run up and down the stairs for five minutes. To my surprise, he didn't try to talk her out of it, but obeyed. Her eyes fanned to the TV.
I decided to ask about Gladiator then. "Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "No."
With that forgotten, she left once he was finished his excercise with 20 minutes programmed on the microwave to beep when his sentence was up. I called a friend, asked for advice, then let him come down, eat his lunchable hot dog while watching cartoon network, told him to go upstairs and go to bed. I read him two stories, and went downstairs. His father came home at 9:30, and apologized, then paid me.
So, that's Nora's rant. Now for a question: should I babysit for this family again? I'm thinking a no, but then how would I tell them their child has scarred me for life?
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