My summer job took me by surprise. While I was in the midst combing Craig’s List, applying for jobs as a veterinary assistant, coffee slinger, dog groomer- basically anything that didn’t involve much counting or moving heavy objects- I got a call from my friend Jennifer. I was her children’s babysitter when they were in diapers, but now they’re both pre-teens, which is confusing to me. I don’t understand how time continues to advance for those kids, while I’ve barely aged a day. It must be one of those paradoxes they talk about in the Star Trek movie.
I’d really appreciate it if you just let me go on believing that.
Anyhoo, Jennifer was looking for child care for the summer, but can’t call it babysitting because the very idea of being babysat makes her twelve year-old apoplectic. After quick negotiations and scheduling, I got back into the “manny” business. It’s really a fantastic way to spend the day. I am simultaneously reminded of why I love kids, and why I have no intention of ever having any of my own.
It’s fairly easy to entertain them when they’re young. My nephew is three, and pretty much anything you come up with is compelling to a preschooler. You can put a piece of Scotch tape on their hand and they’ll keep busy for fifteen minutes. The trouble with age ten and up is that they stubbornly insist upon having their own interests, and you’ve gotta get on board.
My mother says one of the happiest days of her life was when I quit playing clarinet in the school band, and she never had to suffer through another student concert slaughtering the likes of “Louie, Louie” and “Wild Thing.” Despite the claims of many, no adult has ever had any genuine interest in kids’ activities or performances. They go to basketball games, concerts, and school plays out of love for the child, and hope the experience will be mercifully brief. It never is, but one can hope.
So that’s why I’m in the back yard today, playing catch with ten year-old Jackson.
“That’s not bad, but you’re hesitating on your release and losing speed. Just power through the pitch,” I instruct.
Oh wait, I didn’t say that. HE said that. Because Jackson can actually PLAY baseball, whereas I am just one giant bag of suck. The last time I played baseball, I was eight, and I was terrible. My coach kept me in the outfield, where I would sing to myself and chew on my glove, enjoying the musky taste of leather. Occasionally the ball would manage to land in my general vicinity, which would fill me with dread, because I’d never see where it landed. I would meander around, scanning the grass for the ball like I was in an Easter egg hunt, never terribly invested in how this enterprise turned out.
I lasted one season before being allowed to return to the fudge and Murphy Brown episodes I’d been longing for the whole time. The only thing I missed was the uniform, because I liked costumes.
“Jeez, Mister Topher,” shouts Jack as I evade another pitch. “It’s like you’re TRYING not to get near the ball!”
That is exactly what I’m doing. I’m also resisting the urge to start chewing on my glove.
“Jackson, with all the things I’m good at that we could do together, do you realize how huge it is that I’m willing to do stuff with you that I’m terrible at? That is true friendship, pal.”
“I know that, Mister Topher,” he says. “But I really think you can get better.”
That thought hadn’t occurred to me. I had long since crossed out baseball on the list of things I’m capable of doing without humiliating myself. That list also includes, but is not limited to: Dancing, dribbling a ball, and wearing a swimsuit. But this kid believes I can improve, which is a stark contrast to the kids on my little league team. I am lifted by the belief of this child that I can learn. So we continue to toss the ball, and I actually manage to catch it a few times without flinching.
It’s probably for the best that Jackson and his sister won’t let us call this babysitting, because right now I’m not certain which side is benefitting more from it. I wonder if this kid can teach me to dribble a ball.
