Babysitting Grandchildren

I’m babysitting two of my grandchildren this week.  And I would like to say this about that.

First, I would like to have a chat with whomever it was that coined the phrase ‘babysit.’ Unlike a wicked step-mother that might be a character in a fairy tale, I do not sit on babies.  Not ever.  Nor do I even have a desire to do such a dastardly deed.

And, whomever thought that the baby caregiver might have an opportunity to sit has never taken care of children.  Sitting is not in their genes — and  they don’t let anyone taking care of them sit down on the job.  Unless it is after the little chickabiddies are sound asleep in bed.  But then, the caretaker is probably sound asleep in her bed, too.  Sitting is just so not a viable activity.

I have forgotten how many times I swept the floor when I had little children.  I have forgotten how many diapers I changed, how much time I spent feeding them, what 2:00 a.m. feedings were like, and how many time I read the same book over, and over, and over.  (I still love you anyway, Tyler . . .)

On the other hand, I had also forgotten what it was like to have a blue-eyed sweet little boy smile innocently at me and tell me he loves me.  I had forgotten what it was like to get warm hugs and slobbery kisses. I had forgotten the sparkly bright eyes of a baby and her cooing and singing.

It warms the cockles of my grandma-heart that I get to spend time with my grandchildren.  (Kaylissa, I promise not  to scrunch you in a little ball while you are staying with me . . .)