I Was a Bad Child

Yesterday I went to a surprise birthday party for a friend of my father’s who turned 80. While there, I had the chance to speak with all sorts of people I haven’t seen for years and years. Let me tell you it was interesting to watch the reactions after I answered the question of what I was doing these days. I guess my response of writing erotic romance novels and working at a halfway house wasn’t what was expected.

Two of the ladies I chatted with were among my first babysitters. Seeing them brought up all sorts of memories. One of my mother’s which surprised me was that their services were often required not because I was bad and made to stay home as punishment but because I refused to go along. It turns out I started that at three and was so stubborn that my parents gave up forcing me to do something once I made up my mind I didn’t want to. It seems I’m consistent with that one.

Another memory that surfaced yesterday was about a babysitter that I honestly did not like. No, she wasn’t at the picnic. She rarely played with me and often simply ignored me. I tried to tell my mom this but for reasons of her own, she wouldn’t believe that it was as bad as I said it was. After all, who takes the word of a four-year-old over a supposedly responsible young adult?

Well, one day I was left to my own devices and I decided to do something about it. I found a red marks-a-lot marker that I was not permitted to play with since they are permanent and colored my entire hand and arm up to my elbow before she noticed what I was doing. When my mother returned, the babysitter had me on a chair by the sink and was using some sort of household cleaner in an attempt to scrub it off. Yes, that was the last time I saw her. And it only took the rest of the summer for the red to wear off.