I love when we have guests; it forces me to clean the rooms that they’ll be in. The rest of the house, however, gets neglected. I guess our next party will have to take place in our bedrooms.
As I helplessly watched the baby roll off of her changing table and head toward the floor, I had a flashback to a similar incident that happened 36 years ago.
Last week, Maggie, the baby I watch twice a week, decided to roll over when I was two steps away from her. She was lying on her table and I told her to stay still. She understands words, even though she can’t speak many yet. She usually listens. However, this time, I turned to grab a diaper from her diaper bag, and when I looked back, she was on her way to the floor. I could see her horrified expression, which probably mirrored my own. I ran to get her and was only able to catch her head. I think I remember some twisting and contortion of the rest of her body, but I was focused on saving her head. After a lot of frightened crying, she finally calmed down. It wasn’t until I tried to stand her up that I realized that one of her feet was hurt.
When her mother got home, she took the accident in stride, telling me that Maggie once flipped off the narrow end of the changing table and ended up in the laundry basket. The mother took Maggie to the doctor the next day for X-rays. The X-rays showed an intact foot, with no broken bones, but, a week later, Maggie is still refusing to stand on that foot, which means that she gets carried everywhere until she heals. I can’t complain, seeing as her injury happened on my watch.
The other incident took place in 1977 and involved an infant named Luke. Luke’s parents lived in a modern, wooden, three-story A-frame house with balconies and backless staircases. I was 17, and this was my first babysitting job with them. It was Halloween weekend and when I arrived, Luke’s parents said that they were going to a costume party and would change into their costumes when they arrived at the party. The little boy, Luke, was a few months shy of a year old. He was totally bald, very pale, and in the crawling stage.
A few hours after his parents left, he fell down 20 backless steps into the basement level before I could get to him. I know this sounds negligent, but anyone with a crawling infant knows how fast they move. We had been in the little TV room and he quickly crawled out the door to the top of the steps and fell down them. I ran down the steps to get him, calmed him down, and called my mother. She told me not to let him go to sleep, in case he had a concussion.
I carried Luke back into the TV room and closed the door, to prevent any more escapes. Luke watched television while I watched him.
Suddenly, I heard a pounding on the TV room door. I opened it and saw Luke’s father covered in blood and holding a large knife. I screamed. He screamed.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” he asked, in a panic.
“I didn’t hear it ring,” I answered. “Are you okay? What happened to you?”
“Why didn’t you hear the phone? I called over and over,” he asked, ignoring my question. This was many decades before cell phones, and home phones were the only means of instant communication. Their downstairs phone was in the kitchen.
“The TV was on and the door was closed, ” I answered. “This room must become sound proof when the door is closed.”
“Oh,” the father said. “It does.” He visibly relaxed, but he was still spattered with blood.
“Why do you have blood all over you?” I asked. He seemed confused, then looked down at himself.
“This is my Halloween costume,” he said. “My wife and I got dressed when we got to the party,” he reminded me.
“Where is your wife?” I asked.
“She’s still at the party. She didn’t worry when you didn’t answer the phone. She said that you probably didn’t hear it if you were in the TV room.”
I looked at him, covered in blood, clutching a rubber knife, wearing a bandanna and an eye patch. “You’re a pirate, ” I realized belatedly.
“Yes,” he said. He looked down on the floor next to the couch, where Luke was asleep on a blanket. “What’re those marks on his head?” he asked, alarm returning to his voice.
“Oh my God,” I said. During the time that I was talking to Luke’s father, large black and blue bumps had appeared on his bald head. “That just happened,” I said. “He fell down the steps an hour ago, but he didn’t have any bruises until now.”
“He fell down the steps?” he asked in amazement. “I’m going to pick up my wife and we’ll be right back. Stay in this room and close the door. I won’t call.” He made a dash for the front door.
When he and his wife returned, the wife was very calm. “Don’t worry about it, Patsy,” she said. “He moves very fast and he’s fallen before. Bruises on his bald head usually look worse than they are. I’ll keep an eye on him tonight and take him to the doctor tomorrow if he looks worse.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you so much.”
She laughed. “I hear that my husband scared you out of your wits when you saw him.” I nodded. “You should go home and relax,” she said.
“Thanks, I will,” I said. “And I’m sorry about what happened to Luke.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
After I was paid for endangering the life of their child, I gathered up my belongings and started toward the door.
“Wait,” the mother called out.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Are you available next Saturday night?”
“Sure,” I said.
A few weeks ago, my husband, Frank, took a week’s vacation from work. He didn’t go anywhere, so it was a staycation, but he christened it a Frankation. I’m not exactly sure what he did on his vacation, but I’m pretty sure bathing wasn’t high on the list. (As soon as he reads this, I’m going to have to take it down, so read fast).
Maybe he did bathe. He actually smelled fine, but he always seemed to be wearing the same two shirts. On the first day of his Frankation, he went to Walmart and bought a neon yellow sleeveless T-shirt and a neon orange one. I was extremely envious. I love neon clothes in the summer. To me, they signify summer, or Department of Transportation uniforms.
Anyway, I didn’t see much of him during his Frankation, since I had to work. Two nights before he had to go back to work, he seemed depressed. When I asked him why, he said that his Frankation was coming to an end. At 10:55 p.m., while I was upstairs playing Word Whomp on the computer, I heard him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hey,” he called. “Doesn’t an ice cream run sound like a good idea?”
I walked to the top of the stairs and looked down at him. He was wearing pajama pants and the ever-present neon shirt. He was also barefoot. I, too, was dressed in total neon from head to foot, but I was wearing shoes. It was immediately apparent who was going to make the ice cream run at 11 p.m.
The funny thing is, I didn’t mind at all. That’s what’s cool about our family. We’re all nuts. So, I got in the car and went to the 24-hour Walgreen’s for ice cream. I picked up several varieties so that I wouldn’t have to make a return trip. Our son, Luke, was also psyched about my ice cream trip, so I didn’t want to let anyone down. I have to admit, I was very surprised at the number of people at the pharmacy at that hour. Frank thinks they were all watching the hockey playoffs, like he and my son were, and needed refreshments.
Anyway, when I got home, I distributed the ice cream and got out the vacuum. As long as everyone was up, it seemed like a good time to get some cleaning done. The dog wasn’t thrilled, though, until I put some vanilla ice cream in his bowl. Once he saw the ice cream, I could have vacuumed him without his noticing.