Adventures in babysitting, indeed.

Last week, I dipped my toe in the babysitting co-op water. I responded to an email from a woman (who I had not met) looking for a Friday night sitter for her six year old son. The Ex had an event to attend that Friday anyway, and so it seemed like a good opportunity for me and G (as we would otherwise have been sitting at home).

The woman seemed nonplussed by the fact that she had not met me before, since every new member is vetted by the co-op before joining. In fact, when G and I arrived at her house, she barely acquainted herself with me before she and her husband headed out to the theater. She clearly had more confidence in my babysitting skills than I did.

A side note: Prior to last week, the last time I babysat was in high school. And, while I am a mother, it is so different interacting with your own child. I was quite nervous that I would be a bad babysitter.

Anyway, I brought G along for the sit because I thought a 4 year old and a 6 year old would play well together. (And because I had sold the co-op as the “Friends Come Over and Play Club.” It’s all about marketing.) Boy, was I wrong. The boy I was sitting for - we’ll call him Andrew - had zero interest in G. And, upon realizing this, G, who was so excited to go to “the Club,” promptly had a meltdown. He stood in the doorway with his head down, whimpering that he wanted to go home. Meanwhile, Andrew tried to get me to ignore G and play a game with him instead. He called G “weird” and I had to remind myself that I was also Andrew’s sitter and it would not be appropriate to lambaste the monster for making fun of my poor baby.

After 30 minutes of coaxing, I got G to return to the playroom where Andrew was building a train track. Andrew wanted me to build it with him and actually passed the pieces around G to give to me. Awful. That sent G back to the doorway for another 15 minutes.

Finally, it was time for Andrew to go to bed. After he was asleep, G and I built a big train track of our own and read a bunch of books. I promised myself I would only bring G to sits where the children were his age or where I had met them before.

When the parents came home, we concluded the sit experience with a discussion of points transfer (aka my “payment” since co-op use points, not money). I was to email the co-op secretary and inform her that I was due 17 points - 6 for traveling to the sittee’s house, 4 for each of the hours Andrew was awake, and 1 point for the hours thereafter. I did this as soon as I got, unable to keep from wondering incredulously if there was not a better way.

Last week, I attended my first babysitting co-op meeting. It was quite an experience. Although I was the only new member and the other six people in attendance ostensibly knew each other, the group had a somewhat clinical feel to it. The entire meeting felt very forced, very prescribed. There was a chair and a secretary - the chair ran the meeting and the secretary documented everything. Had I been a member of the Babysitters’ Club (anyone? reference? did I just date myself?), I imagine Kristy Thomas would have conducted a similarly effective meeting. (On a side note, I always fancied myself more of a Claudia Kishi - artsy, creative, sporting fancy shoes. Though, I was much better at spelling. But, I digress…)

The meeting started by handing out a sheet of paper with each member’s points. Then, the chair read this sheet, line-by-line, aloud. She read each of the twenty-five members names and their respective points, while the rest of us followed along, as though we were somehow unable to read the sheet of paper for ourselves. After the reading of the points was complete, we discussed ideas for social events. Among the suggestions were: playgroup and get-together at the park. I had to wonder how many times these social events had been suggested before, as they seemed rather obvious. Didn’t the group already have such activities on a regular basis?

Then, the icing on the cake. The old secretary (who had completed her two-month term) handed The Book over to the new secretary. The Book was a 3-inch binder that contained all the sittings that had occurred in the co-op. When a member completed a sit, she/he called the secretary and reported it. Then, the secretary recorded the sit and the points in The Book. The Book was the official source of record.

I was flabbergasted that none of this -save coordinating sits, on occasion - occurred online. How antiquated and archaic the methods for what otherwise would be such a great idea. Granted, I have not yet coordinated a sit myself and I am looking forward to doing so and to finding out how this process works, firsthand.

No one ever told me that parenting a toddler was a full-contact sport.

When my son was born, my friends showered me with gifts of cute little onesies, baby bjorns, and stuffed animals galore. Had one them been a parent themselves, I remain certain they would instead have given me full body armor and a helmet.

You see, I am writing this post on the eve of my septoplasty. For those of you who don’t know, a septoplasty is a surgical procedure done to repair a damaged septum. I was not born with a deviated or damaged septum. No, my injury occurred at the hands - err, the diapered butt - of my three year old son.

Two months ago, I was very innocently lying in bed on a Saturday morning. Gavin, thrilled that it was a weekend day (what he aptly refers to as a “Mommy-Gavin Day”), bounded into my room and threw all 40 lbs of his toddler self upon me. In his pure elation, he did not consider neither his takeoff nor his landing, and he landed, diaper first, right onto my face.

My nose wasn’t broken, so I assumed all was okay. The only thing I found strange was that ever since the nose-landing incident, I suffered an unusual amount of congestion. Finally, I took myself to see a doctor who quickly assessed the situation. My septum was bent and the only way to repair it was through surgery. (He assured me that this was a very common injury, especially for those with large dogs and / or small children.)

So, tomorrow I will have my surgery. The sympathy from those around me is truly wonderful, though. When I told my Jewish mother what had happened, her reaction was, “So you’re having a nose job?” My Ex is having even more fun telling people that I am “having my nose modified.”

FML.