The Babysitter

Most people can’t or don’t remember life before their second birthday. According to several scientific studies, a child’s memory does not fully develop until the child reaches 18 months of age. This period of cerebral development is termed “infant amnesia,” a segment of life that is lost to the liver, but despite science and despite the fact that most people lack the ability to conjure up memories from their infancy, I remember being two. Sitting on the living room couch of an unfamiliar apartment, listening to the husky sobs of a disappointed child, these early memories make their way back to me.

I remember throwing fits, lying on the floor, my body convulsing with each sob.  I’d cry until it physically hurt. When my stomach refused to release any more earth-shaking screams but I was not yet willing to give in and forget my disappointment, I’d shudder breathe myself back to calm, spicing up my labored inhalations with an occasional sob. I would drag out the scene, trying to look as pitiful as possible, begging for sympathy.  When my performance reaped no response, I was forced to give up the act and move on with my tragic childhood.

What a life lesson. Isn’t that how it goes, grief and recovery, devastation and reform, war and reconstruction?  There are disappointments in life. There are sorrows, so cry if you need to. Get it all out, but when you’re done, pick yourself up and move on. What a thing to discover and at the ripe old age of two.

My mother was a great parent. Yes, I may have been mad at her, lying on the floor, making a fuss as a two year old, but she knew what she was doing. It was instinctive to her. She had an all seeing almost God-like response to everything and anything I could dish out, and as I remember it, her response to tears, screams, and pounding fists was no reaction at all. She would busy herself in another room and let me cry it out. My mother’s approach to my own past tantrums swims around in my mind as I decide how to deal with the child that’s raging in front of me now.

I elect to let it play out, so my pondering on the subject of temper tantrums is accompanied by a live performance, compliments of Robby Buckwald, the two year old chubby-cheeks who’s having a hard time adjusting to the absence of his mother and father as I babysit him this evening.  If only child services could see us, Robby’s face growing gradually redder and plumper with every scream and me, staring at him some three feet away on the couch, completely indifferent. I would probably be sterilized on the spot.  “No children for YOU!” they’d shout as they hustled me into a straight jacket and shipped me off to wherever it is they send people to be sterilized.

Looking at Robby, I’m not sure how much of a punishment sterilization would be. I’m more than thankful that my mother birthed me, and while going through the delivery alone not to mention providing years of financial and emotional support that a child demands is Olympic medal worthy, I’m not sure it’s something I would either succeed at or enjoy. That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate children. They fascinate me. It fascinates me that I was once a child. 

I realize now how skewed my perception of myself was at age two. I felt like I do now, mature and capable, for the most part. Does Robby think of himself as an equal among adults? I used to. I think that’s what makes children so amusing, the juxtaposition of who they are to the world and who they think they are.

When I revisit that time of my life, I remember feeling like the person I am now. Things were bigger, the countertop higher, but I was still me. Since my years as a child, I’ve grown taller and heavier. I look different than I did then to be sure, but mentally speaking, what’s changed? I’ve learned how to communicate; that was a big step, first speaking, then reading, and writing. I’ve learned how to behave in public, no crying or screaming in public, no picking boogers in front of other people.

As I’ve got older, the lessons have become a bit different: refrain from discussing politics with your friends, avoid sharing your religious beliefs, lie and tell the woman in front of the mirror that the skirt she’s wearing makes her look ten pounds lighter. These are all skills Robby Buckwald has yet to acquire.

But were we so different, me and Robby? Maybe I wasn’t sobbing through streams of tears, maybe my eyes weren’t puffy and red, but inside I was screaming. Inside I was sniveling over the absence of my own parents. There were things that I wanted that no one would give me, and even though I was making an obvious attempt for sympathy, no one was comforting me. 

Just as I’m starting to construct my list of grievances, I notice that Robby isn’t crying anymore. He isn’t even in the room. I leave my place on the couch, and call his name a couple of times, to no answer. I scan the first floor looking for the edge of a pant leg or a lock of curly hair but to no avail. Where had Robby gone?

After another more thorough sweep of the first floor, I declare him missing in action. I sit on a stool in the kitchen for a moment and listen. There is absolutely no noise. I’m all out of ideas, so I decide to check the one place that I had previously ruled out as a hiding spot. The stairs were gated. There was no way he had crawled past, but there he was, sprawled across the cement floor of the basement.