Dear Babysitter.
It’s one Friday night.
Your knock is gentle, yet still rouses the pups.
You wait for us to open the door, although you’re like family now.
You always enter the house excited with a smile on your face.
We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival.
You show patience with the barking dog and accept the wildness ahead.
Your kneeling invites insatiable face licking rather than kid hugs. Their eyes are glued to the TV.
Sorry.
We exclaim your arrival to stir the kids’ attention away from the glow.
You jump up with enthusiasm, yet are met with tears from the little one.
She knows.
She knows this means we are leaving and refuses to let me go.
I promise it’s not personal. You insist you know, yet I still see a glimmer of defeat from within.
You want so desperately to have a warm reception. Right now she’s not ready. She will be soon.
The big kid turns to you and smiles. He, too, knows.
He wants us to stay, but still allows you to say hello.
He doesn’t want to admit that he has fun with you.
He’ll warm up much faster than the little one, for that retains your excitement.
You’re patient while we finish getting ready. We’ve done this a thousand times, yet preparing for an evening out – just the two of us – still feels unsure.
You talk with the kids. She cries.
I finish my makeup with a tearful babe at my side.
My heart aches.
Dear Babysitter.
The notes on the kitchen counter repeat the same instructions from the time before. And the time before. And the time before. Little bedtime at 7. Big bedtime at 8. Pacifier. Milk. Potty. Pajamas. Teeth. Fans. Sleep.
You got this.
I don’t know why I worry; I always do. It’s not personal.
You got this.
We put our shoes on, the final reminders given.
Kisses to kids.
The TV turns on again to distract the little. She’ll never let me leave otherwise.
It works, we sneak out the door. See you soon.
Dear Babysitter.
We know your night ahead well.
You’ll watch some TV, chatting with him. That is, until SHE notices.
We’re gone.
She wanders around the house crying for mama.
You extend your arms in comfort.
She declines.
Her cries continue until she surrenders. She finally allows you to pick her up.
You cradle her head as she cries for her mama.
You’re patient. Loving. Kind. Forgiving.
You fill her milk as she lies down for the night.
You play LEGOs and read stories and kick the soccer ball.
He giggles in delight.
Eventually you tuck him in with his special blanket.
The house is quiet now. You wash dishes. You play with the pups. You settle in for the night.
Relax.
Dear Babysitter.
You watch our children as they are your own.
You allow us a break with each other. To reconnect. To have conversation. To reestablish the foundation of this family you’re so involved with.
It’s one Friday night for you, but it means the world to us.
You’re always gracious when we arrive home.
You never count the money when we hand it to you.
You trust us, as we you.
You recap the evening in all its glorious details. She cried. He played. You accidentally lost track of time and he stayed up later than usual. Oh well. They both went to sleep easily. Not a peep since.
You’ll sneak out the door, closing it gently as to not wake the kids.
Your thoughtfulness resonates.
Thank you.
Dear Babysitter.
The next morning, he always asks where you are. You’re at home, sleeping.
Not realizing the impact you have on these kids.
Not aware of the significance you bring to your household.
Not knowing the role model you are.
You see,
It’s one Friday night for you,
But it means the world to us.
Thank you, dear Babysitter.
