Our friends with kids don’t seem to believe it when we offer to babysit. A task usually reserved for surly teenagers, and here we are offering to give up our perfectly pleasant, non-diaper-filled night for it. That apparently borders on insanity. Not for us. Maybe it’s because our friends have produced the most delightful progeny imaginable. It’s their fault for making it so damn appealing.
Last night we babysat for little Henry the First. (We know of two baby Henrys, and Jill and Brian’s arrived first.) I’m proud to say that the kid had a blast with us, and vice versa. So much in fact that despite exhausting himself in the first half-hour from all the running around, he forced himself to stay up well beyond his bedtime in order to continue playing with us. This combustible decision resulted in a riotous hour of kiddie bipolarity, swinging from giddy playfulness to wailing and back again within a matter of minutes. Note for next time: don’t ingratiate ourselves so much.
Fourteen months is a great age. Active enough to play with toys and engage in simple games, but too young to understand curse words. He seemed to take to the computer when we brought it out, which bodes well for his prospects as either an international superstar multimedia artist or office drone. Hard to tell yet. Next time I think I’ll bring over the poker chips and get him started early on learning his Hold ‘Em hands.
It had been more than a decade since either of us had last babysit, and I think we forgot the rules. After finally getting him down to bed, we neglected to a) talk on the phone long-distance for hours, b) raid the liquor cabinet, c) hunt for porn or d) make out on the couch. Instead, we camped out in the dining room working on our computers. We apparently still have a bit to learn.