There are actually two stories that I have to relate on this topic, although one kid wasn’t as bad as the other (probably because I only baby-sat for her once, rather than multiple times). First, the milder kid story: when I was in college, there was one semester when I was overloading my classes so I couldn’t really pull off an actual part-time job. Instead, I worked for a baby-sitting agency. How it works is that the parents call the agency, request a sitter, and the lady at the agency calls her sitters to find out who’s available. It was great because it was totally flexible; I could turn down jobs if I had an exam the next day, or take it if I knew that the kids would be asleep early enough that I could study while I was there.

One night, I had a baby-sitting job that was two suburbs away (I was living in Memphis at the time). The parents were aging hippies; they struck me as the type of people who were too busy using recreational drugs and “finding themselves” to bother having kids until they were in their late 40’s. So they had one daughter, a 6 year-old named, and I swear to God I’m not making this up, Happy. This was not a nickname for anything, the actual name on the child’s birth certificate was Happy. And as one might expect, she was the most miserable brat I had ever encountered in my life. She screamed, she cried, she threw temper tantrums for 5 solid hours. I couldn’t get her to go to sleep, either, she was still awake and screaming when her hippie parents came home.

So on the way home, I passed through the suburb between the town where the hippies & their evil offspring lived and Memphis. This was a town where the cops are known to be horrendous assholes. I was speeding, but I don’t remember how badly – I think I was doing 55 in a 40. I got pulled over, and I was kind of resigned to getting the ticket because I knew I was wrong, and I knew that cops in this town never let anyone off with a warning. The cop came up to the window, and I told him the story of my night – the bratty kid named Happy, the hippie parents whose house smelled like patchouli, my resulting migraine, and the fact that all I wanted to do was go home & go to sleep. He actually let me go. I couldn’t believe it. In fact, everyone in Memphis who I told this story to didn’t believe me when they found out where I had been pulled over. The thing is, I’ve gotten out of tickets before (and since) this occasion, where it was probably because I was cute and flirtatious and all that. But on this particular evening, when I had been withered down to nothing and looked like hell and didn’t have an ounce of flirty left in my exhausted body, I think I was just fortunate that I happened to come across the only empathetic cop in that entire town.

The other kid was one that I baby-sat in high school. Actually, I should just leave the kid out of this and mention that these were definitely the Worst Parents I Ever Baby-Sat For. The dad was in his mid-50’s and very wealthy. I’m not exactly sure what he did for a living, but he traveled a lot, and he was gone almost every weekend. The mom was in her late 20’s, classic example of a trophy wife, and she liked to go out drinking with her girlfriends on the weekends when her husband was gone. I should mention Mom’s standard outfit for these particular evenings: Aqua-Net teased hair, purple spandex top, matching purple spandex mini-skirt that barely covered her ass, matching purple eye shadow (all the way up to the brow, baby), whorehouse red lipstick, and stilleto heels. Keep in mind this was around 1991, and hair metal was still pretty big in Mississippi. She looked like something out of a Whitesnake video. She usually came home so falling-down drunk and coked out of her mind that she would give me anywhere from $50 to $100 for being there for 4 or 5 hours. (She’d then offer to drive me home; thank God I only lived 4 blocks away, because I would never have gotten in a car with that woman.)

The money is really the only reason I kept baby-sitting for them, because the kids were horrible. Well, the 3 year-old was fine because he was too young to understand how dysfunctional his family was; the 9 year-old, however, was a terror. I think his behavior is most likely what is classically defined as “acting out.” Here’s a list of stunts this kid pulled during my time as his baby-sitter:
* He rode his bike into the garage where the handle “accidentally” scraped the side of his dad’s black Mercedes. (The scrape spanned the entire length of the car.)
* He would dangle himself from the 2nd-floor landing and threaten to drop if his wishes weren’t granted immediately. I finally figured out this game and just walked away. He’d eventually pull himself up.
* He would open and slam his bedroom door repeatedly, then lock himself in his room when I went to tell him to stop. I eventually found the parents’ tool box and removed his bedroom door knob completely, so he couldn’t lock himself in anymore. (I noticed in my future baby-sitting jobs that his parents never put it back, either.)
* He set his own tree house on fire. My friend Allison was baby-sitting that night. She was inside with the 3 year-old and didn’t know anything was going on until the fire truck pulled up in front of the house.
* He ran a permanent magic marker down the big screen TV. It was one of those old-fashioned projector-type screens, the TV was totally ruined.
* He spilled a two-quart jug of grape kool-aid all over the white leather couch and white carpet in the living room. (Another example of how the parents were jackasses: why on earth would you have a white living room when you have 2 little boys in the house?)

Eventually, the entire family moved to Arkansas, and I assume found some other baby-sitter to torture. I was sad to lose the extra income because it paid way more than my other high school baby-sitting jobs, but I was grateful at the same time. By my calculations, that kid is about 21 or 22 years old now. I wonder how he turned out. I also wonder about the mom, if she ever grew up and cleaned up her act. Who knows. It’s interesting to imagine, though.

Ok, I don’t want to write all day so we’ll just hit the important things that you need to know. The next few years are going to suck, but you’ll be a better person for having survived them. One of the most valuable pieces of information I can share with you is that in a couple of months, you’re going to have your first “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret” moment (you know what I’m talking about). From that point on – listen closely – never wear white shorts. Seriously, you’ll thank me later.

School stuff: High school is going to be absolutely horrid, but mom eventually caves in and lets you go to the Ed Center for a summer so you can skip your senior year and graduate early. Of course, then she wants you to stay in Jackson because you’re only 17 when you start college and she thinks it’s too young for you to leave home. And that’s fine. The community college that you’ll go to for a year is a good place to get some of the more basic boring classes out of the way, and it’s pretty easy to make straight A’s there. As for the rest of college, here’s some advice: Don’t go to M!ssissippi State just because Dad went there. Trust me, Starkville is not your kind of town, and you are going to hate it there. Also, don’t go to M!llsaps. You think you’re living in your sister’s shadow now? At M!llsaps, you’ll not only end up with at least 2 professors who remember her and love her and accidentally call you her name all the time, you’ll even end up living in the exact same dorm room she lived in. Here’s a tip: You’re meant to live either in or near a big city. Your closest bets are either Memphis or New Orleans. Choose Memphis. You’ll end up making friends there who you’ll keep for the rest of your life. Also, when you get the chance to go live in Washington, DC, during the summer of 1995, go. You’ll meet one of your best friends there.

Music: Stop listening to hair metal right now. Seriously, just stop. It’ll save you years of cringing in embarassment later. And whatever you do, do NOT cry when you find out that Jon Bon Jovi got married, because your brother will mock you about this for the rest of your life. In a year or two, you’re going to discover grunge, and you’re going to make a proclamation that someday you’re going to live in Seattle because that’s where all of those cute rock boys live. Believe it or not, you actually do end up living in Seattle, but it has nothing to do with grunge. In fact, by the time you move there, you don’t even listen to grunge all that much anymore.

Family: Right now you have 3 grandparents left. They’re all going to be gone before you turn 21, so appreciate them now. Same goes for your great aunts and great uncles. As for Dad, you eventually come to an understanding with each other once he finally learns to back off of you about your weight. Your whole family gets very close in the next 15 years. Right now, I know Tracy drives you crazy because she treats you like you’re just her baby sister, but she’ll end up saving your ass more times than you can count later on. You and Chris get a lot closer in high school, because you have to share a car and you end up hanging out with a lot of the same people. You also start covering for each other and lying to Mom & Dad when one of you is up to no good. He turns out to be a pretty cool guy after all (who’d have guessed?). And Mom is just Mom. She’s your rock now, and she will be 15 years from now. Some things don’t change.

As for boys, you’re going to be a late starter, and then you’ll make up for lost time with a vengeance. It’ll take you a long time to figure out which guys are bad for you (hint: everyone you date in 1997), and which ones are good. Trust me, in 2004, you’ll meet the best of the good guys, and you’ll be very happy.

Good luck these next few years, 13 year-old me. You’re going to need it.

Love,
28 year-old me