A babysitting job I’ll never forget was for a man higher up in my mom’s office. He was in his early thirties, married to a model of a wife, and had two sons aged five and seven.
One summer, he announced in the office that he needed a babysitter for two days, from early morning till just after lunch. My mom, who hunted for any job she could find that would train me to be the perfect housewife and mother, volunteered me before asking me.
She dropped me off first thing in the morning. Their house was on the outskirts of the good part of the city. The walls were a clean white and the floor a marble-like stone. There was hardly any furniture other than the essentials for a family home.
The family was sitting in the centre of the home, eating breakfast on a large steel-grey dining room table. The wife was the first to notice me, she was the only pop of colour in the entire house, dressed in a bold blue dress with golden highlights in her hair.
“Welcome”, she called out, “Do come in and join us.”
She motioned to the seat in front of her, her two sons were sitting either side of her, avoiding eye contact. Neither of them seemed interested in the food in front of them, even as their mom was trying to spoon-feed them.
Their father sat at the head of the table. His arms spread out as though he was about to host a news broadcast. He smiled briefly as I sat down.
“We’re just finishing up.” He nodded to his wife. “We’ll be leaving in about five minutes.”
He was dressed in a suit without a tie, his long hair combed back and thin glasses rested on his thin nose. He eyed me up and down. I began to feel self-conscious to have turned up in jeans.
“Tell us something about yourself. What are you studying?”
The question is less out of curiosity or to be friendly and more to assure that I am a decent influence and example to their kids. Luckily, I have never once failed to impress adults when discussing my studies, hobbies, and extracurricular activities. As I talked about some of the things I do, I saw the mother’s eyes brighten up, whilst the father simply lifted his chin in approval.
“Maybe she can teach you two to draw something,” their mom hinted, tickling the boys’ stomachs. They laughed but had yet to look at me.
“Right”, the father stood up, “We need to get going. Let us show you their playroom and where everything is.”
The boys ran ahead whilst I slowly followed their father to their play area. Same as the dining room, the room was very white and only had a couch and a coffee table. Both sides of the couch were piles of toys. That’s it, just the couch and piles of toys. No board games or electronics, no picture books or crayons, just toys.
“By the way”, the father bent down towards my face, “If they can’t share a certain toy, get rid of it.”
“Sorry?”
Just as I uttered the word, the eldest son’s large plastic toy gun was snatched by the youngest and a loud tug of war broke out between the two of them.
One stern bellow from their father and the kids froze. He then swooped down and seized the toy out of their grasp before holding it over his knee and splitting the toy in half.
I did the most to keep a still face but I doubt my eyes could hide my horror.
Both boys winced at the loud snap of the plastic before frowning at one another, clearly finding the other to be at fault for what had just happened.
The father was about to leave to room to dispose of the remains before turning and gesturing the pieces at me.
“If they can’t share it, they don’t deserve it.”
I watched him leave the room half hoping to see his wife by the door, but she was nowhere to be found. I was left alone with the boys, still sulking over what must be the latest of several possessions taken from them. Suddenly, they turned to each other and yelled out the word ‘Penny’ before rushing out of the room, chasing their father.
By the time I had caught up with them, the boys were by the front door, each holding out their hand to him. He towered over them with his wallet open. He fumbled around his coins before handing each child a two-cent penny. Within seconds a new fight erupted.
“His penny is bigger than mine!”, the eldest wailed.
“No, they are the exact same.”
“His is shinier!”
The man hinted at me to take over and sort it out. With that, he walked out and shut the door firmly behind them. I whispered a short prayer for strength before approaching the two tyrants.
After struggling to separate them, I asked them to show me what they do with their equally big and equally shiny coins. They ran back to the playroom and opened a red tin that was under the couch. Holding out their hands, they both let their coin drop into the tin.
I immediately noticed a problem when I got near the tin box. It did not have any divider or any clear indicator as to whose coin belonged to whom. I had already lost sight of the two pennies they had just thrown in among the many identical coins.
The eldest stuck his hand in one side of the box and pulled out a fist full of two-cent coins.
“These are all mine.”
His announcement caused his little brother to wail in protest.
“Half of those are mine!”
“Your half is still in there.”
“No! Some are in your hand!”
“No! These are all mine!”
I buried my face in my shirt when an idea hit me. I proposed a super fun activity we could all do together. That we should all help each other separate the coins into two separate tins. I assumed that would keep us busy for the morning. I did fear that the coins would turn out to be uneven in number, but I was willing to throw a coin out of my own purse to keep the peace. On the other hand, that could start a new riot on its own.
The eldest looked at me briefly before staring sadly at the coins.
“Daddy said ‘no’ to two tins.”
Before I could ask him what he meant by that, they had already moved on to the next argument.
That was my entire morning. One if not both boys would find a toy or other item interesting, and the other would then get jealous or possessive, causing them to fight. I would then interfere and break the two up, remove the item from them and almost immediately the cycle would repeat itself.
It grew exhausting fast. At one point, just out of curiosity, I chose to let them fight it out. I had hoped that eventually, they would solve the issue themselves, or at least one of them would get bored and leave the other alone. Instead, the fight grew more and more violent till it nearly got dangerous.
During one of the fights, I heard faint footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Someone else is here?”, I asked.
“That’s Sara”, they said at once, “She lives with us.”
Is that so? I thought. Then how come I’m left with you little shits instead of her?
“What does she do?”
“Nothing much, she just watches us when Mommy and Daddy are gone.”
Down the bare staircase came an older woman with thick glasses, salt, and peppered hair tied in a loose bun. She wore a long skirt and a knitted cardigan. Her frail hands held on to the railing as she stopped halfway down and stared at us. The boys stared at their shoes as she frowned at them, a face they were clearly familiar with.
I stood up, smiled, and introduced myself. She smiled warmly back before heading up the stairs again. Not a single word was spoken.
Noon finally came around, which meant I had about an hour and a half to feed the kids before their father returned. I was not given clear instructions on what to feed them, so I tried searching their kitchen for a potential meal. Yet every two minutes, I was dragged out of the kitchen by their screeching. It could not go on. I could not stand it anymore. They needed a proper distraction.
“Wanna watch a movie?” That got their attention.
I pulled out my phone, went on to a streaming site, and found a full Disney film for them to watch. I balanced the phone against the red tin on the playroom coffee table and had them both sit on the couch. With that, I left them to head back to the kitchen to cook.
It was so quiet. It felt eerie compared to the hours of constant screaming and fighting. I felt I had to check on them several times to make sure they weren’t dead.
After checking through every cabinet, I found pasta and pasta sauce. I cooked enough for both boys, me, and Sara. By the time I had laid out the food on the dining table, the film was almost over.
I asked one of the boys to fetch Sara. When she came down and saw the fourth plate laid out for her, her entire aura changed. She quickly went over to me with her hands together in front of her chest, thanking me in Spanish. She then headed over to the boys and helped them sit at the table, before taking her seat next to them.
The boys pulled faces at their plates before playing with their food. Sara did her best to encourage them to try and eat it, unfortunately, the boys were too stubborn. She then pulled her attention back towards me. Although she is Spanish, she spoke fluent French with me. She wanted to know everything about me. Unlike the parents before, I could tell she was asking to be friendly, to get to know me.
Despite our first impression, she turned out to be a warm, motherly person. So why wasn’t she minding the children? Isn’t she meant to be their nanny or something? I found out that she only works in the afternoons when the boys come home from school. During the summer, the kids are usually in day-care during the mornings till she picks them up for the afternoon. However, for the two days I am meant to be babysitting, the day-care is closed. Made sense.
The father walked back into the house just and Sara and I were clearing down the table. He had only a few minutes, so I had to leave with him straight away if he was driving me to my bus stop.
I thanked Sara, waved goodbye to the fearsome twosome, and got in his car. On route, he asked me how it went.
“They do seem to like to fight with each other.”
“Yeah, it tends to happen. How many toys did you had to get rid of?”
None. Whenever they fought over something I simply took it off them and placed it somewhere they couldn’t reach.
“They didn’t fight over toys”, I lied, “It was moreover who’s turn it was to talk to me or to show me something.”
“Ah, I see.”
“In the end, I sat them down to watch a film on my phone whilst I cooked.”
He brought me to my stop, thanked me quickly as I climbed out, and drove off again. As his car turned the corner I wondered if the man ever stood still for more than ten minutes.
Moments later, whilst on the bus, I received a phone call from an anonymous number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
In the background, I heard a rustling of papers and assumed he was back in the office. He sounded a little short.
“How did you get my- “
“Your mother gave it to me.”
Of course.
“I just wanted to ask, can you run me through what you did with the kids again today?”
“S-sure,” I didn’t like his tone and sensed there was a problem, “I played with them, they showed me some things such as their box of pennies and a few tricks they could do. And when it was time for lunch, I sat them down with a movie while I cooked.”
“They watched a whole movie?” his voice was stern.
“Y-yes. Is that too much?”
“That is way too much TV!” he was now shouting, “I am not paying you to just sit them around and have a screen do the work for you!”
“I’m sorry?”
“You were expected to play with them, draw with them, take them to a park. Anything! Not to just sit them in front of a TV and do nothing!”
He waited for me to answer. I was at a loss for words. My first instinct was to cry, the next was to say ‘up yours’ along with a lengthy list of the shit I had dealt with whilst looking out for his little spawns.
“Well, all they did was fight.” I said quietly and slowly, “Anything I did with them got them rowdy and restless. It was the only thing I thought of to keep them at ease while I cooked. They were exhausting.”
“You are supposed to be able to handle that.”
He could not have said it in a more condescending, arrogant tone of voice.
I did understand why many parents were against their kids watching TV, it made complete sense to me and was not my issue. My issue was him not laying down any rules or expectations of me other than to destroy anything they love and fought over. That he never mentioned a nearby park or any other potential ideas I could do with them. For him to then scream at me over the phone for not being a mind-reader.
“I am sorry.” It was all I could muster without crying or cursing at him.
“Right. I expect better for tomorrow.”
Sure. I thought about having them binge an entire TV series before he comes home. One with many catchy and annoying songs that they can break his eardrums with.
“Will do, sir. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up before I could finish that sentence.
I came back at the same time as the day before. This time the kids were smiling and happy to see me, whilst the father was the one to avoid eye contact. As I sat down at the dining table again, he got up and busied himself around the house. He never said a word, just paced back in and out of the room with papers.
“He is stressed with work,” the wife smiled across the table from me, “we assumed no TV was clear as we don’t have one in our home.”
You don’t have anything in your home, I wanted to say, you have nothing here! Barely any furniture, no games, no pictures, an empty bookcase, and you’re most likely disposing ten to twenty toys a day. How is any of this normal?
Instead, I smiled and nodded politely, matching the same façade she was making.
“I’ll take them to the park. Where is it?”
“Just down the road and to the right. You can pack some snacks from the kitchen, but don’t let them eat too much before lunch.”
Finally, some proper suggestions. But lord knows what I am going to feed them today.
“Sara says she wants to make your lunch.”
“Sara?”
“She was very grateful to you for cooking yesterday she wishes to make food for you today in return.”
How kind.
Without saying a word to me, the father bid his family farewell, handed me my payment for the two days, and left for work. The mother helped me dress the boys in their coats before leaving.
“I’ll lock up the house. Sara will let you in when she comes back from her shopping at about eleven.”
The park was no more different than their home. One brother would try a slide or swing and the other would lose their mind and start a fight again, even though they both had the entire park all to themselves. It appears it was less about taking turns or sharing, and more about hating the other for having fun or even just existing. It all made sense when I return to the house and spoke with Sara in the kitchen.
“They fight constantly.” I sighed in French, “They just don’t know how to share at all.”
“On the contrary,” Sara spoke softly, not taking her eyes off the stove, “it’s all they know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Their parents believe that they should share everything.”
“Well, it’s fair. Kids ought to learn how to share their toys.”
“No, no. You misunderstand me.”
She looked over her shoulder, as though the parents could transport themselves home from the office any second if she were to mention their names.
“They share everything.”
“I don’t- “
“Nothing is ever just theirs. Nothing they have can only belong to one of them. It’s not just toys. It’s their clothes, too. Even their bed. They must take turns between their two beds every other night. They aren’t allowed to have two of anything, they can only have one and they have to share.”
It took me a moment to comprehend such a strange scenario.
“How would that work? How do they share all their clothes? They're two years apart. Don’t they grow at different rates?”
Sara shrugged her shoulders.
“I have been made to put a shirt on the younger one that was too big, and pants on the eldest that were too tight.”
“Even underwear?”
She nodded reluctantly.
I wondered how much further it went than that. Whether they had to share the same cutlery or toothbrush. Their mom fed them with the same spoon the day before after all. Perhaps that was why they were reluctant to eat.
It also explained why they only have one tin for both their coins. ‘Daddy said ‘no’ to two tins.’ Nothing they have can ever be only theirs.
No wonder! No wonder the two were at each other’s throats all day. They have no individual identity beyond each other. They are treated worse than twins lumped together. And the worst part, they are not old enough to understand that it’s their parents doing this to them, but old enough to recognize that it wouldn’t be this way if the other brother didn’t exist. No wonder they are so frustrated with each other.
“That’s awful. Have you tried talking to them about it? Kids need individualism.”
“No. They wouldn’t listen anyway. They believe they are trying a new and better form of parenting. Besides, if I were to protest, they could always just find a new nanny.”
“How many toys have you taken off their hands?”, I asked.
“Many. But I will only tell you.”
She then leaned over so that her nose was inches from mine, a heavily creased smile forming underneath it.
“They tell me to throw away any toys they fight over. But I can’t bear to throw them away. Such a waste. So, I have been hiding them in my room instead.”
“Your room must be stuffed with toys.”
“It is!”
We laughed quietly as we served food to the boys, sitting them at opposite ends of the table, giving them each their own fork.
When the father arrived, he didn’t offer me a ride like last time. Instead, he told me that I was free to leave. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“A strange couple with very bizarre parenting,” I said to myself while walking down to the bus stop. En route, I found myself giggling. There was no way this parenting technique was going to last. The more I thought about it, the funnier I found it. Those parents are setting up their kids and themselves for disasters.
I found myself almost laughing like a madman in the streets. Releasing all the tension of the last two days in that house. Repeating the same line all the way home.
“Just wait until those kids get older. Just wait till they discover what an Xbox is.
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