June 9, 2005
Babysitting the Nephs
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Recently, I “volunteered” to baby-sit for my two nephews—an overnight—allowing my younger brother and sister-in-law celebration of their wedding anniversary; which, come on, was celebration of being childless for a night.

I brought a secret weapon: one of my fourteen-year-old sisters, which is like renting a baby-sitter while you’re baby-sitting; so, okay, I cheated.

As a parent, my brother is becoming our father. Hearing him say, “Only one hour of television” and “Make sure they drink their milk” really made me laugh when I reminded him of the time I allowed him and his high school friends to have a party, and helped clean up all the puke and glue back the broken-legged furniture before our mom got home.

Becoming a responsible parent and having to recount your own life lessons, doubtless retold daily in your memory via your parents, must be a living nightmare.

I built turkey sandwiches for the kids, with sides of Colby cheese and corn-on-the-cob. My mother’s voice kept nagging, “I taught you that each item of food should be a different color—those are all a shade of yellow, dear.”

Thanks, Mom, thanks a lot. Food guilt is a horrible affliction.

In twenty-four hours I prepared six square meals, which is more than I’ve made for myself in seven years. I doled out five snacks; filled twelve “sippy cups”; changed eight diapers; did five loads of laundry and read ten Golden books.

Run the numbers.

Snacks in their house were as I suspected they’d be. In full control, very near a can of whipped cream, my brother helpless to my whim, I asked, “Kids, what terrible, high-fat snack might you like to help ruin your dinner?” The oldest boy exclaimed, “Edamame!”

Oh, my sister-in-law, she’s a health stickler.

The boys have no problem with Cookie Monster declaring cookies a “sometime food.” In fact, at daycare, when the other rugrats “belly-up” with the sad self-discovery that they’re obese, my ‘nephs’ probably chide, “Well, duh.”

A fairly good average, I only lost my youngest nephew (who’s practically two-years-old and a natural-born survivor), once. He sneaked out the backdoor; we discovered him minutes later standing by the gas grill—alive and smiling, so calm down.

The boys did everything I asked them to do, and I never got a chance to raise my voice or threaten them, like my parents did with us.

When I put them to bed they whispered “I love you” to me, then to each other.

So sweet are life’s simple pleasures.