Prior to two and a half weeks ago, the extent of my childcare experience went as far as what I’ve seen on tv and read in books and on blogs.  Although, if we’re being honest, even then my attention was spurious, and I might be giving myself too much credit saying that.  Beyond that, I’d not really been around children a lot, much less babies.  They were comparable to a zoo exhibit for me (pardon my analogy, parents) – they were there for me to ooh and ahh over if I so chose, but I could easily pass by and ignore them, which I usually did.  This being the case, I am quite possibly the worst candidate any parent could imagine to function as their baby’s caretaker.  At least on paper.  You’d be much better off with someone like Miriel who is the human incarnation of sunshine and cheer and who could probably write a book on babies and toddlers.  My sister, however, put her trust in me and gave me a job that I am completely unqualified for. (Employers I apply to: take note and follow my sister’s lead.)

Wearing Mama’s neck brace.

I am two and a half weeks into my own personal Baby Boot Camp, and I’ve decided that since Alice still has all her fingers and toes and doesn’t seem to have undergone any blunt head trauma under my watch, I’ve got enough credibility under my belt to be able to write at least a pamphlet on babies if not a book.  And if not babies, at least Alice.  And if not that, then whatever, have you looked at half the books that are being published nowadays?

Hi!

So, here it is.  This is what I’ve learned about babies, or at least about the baby called Alice Elf aka Ali O.

I told her to pose like a model.  I’m still impressed with the results.  See?  Kids are smarter than they let on.

First and foremost, children are sociopaths.  This is the mantra that goes through my head repeatedly throughout the day, and it is what guides my decisions as Alice’s babysitter.  According to the DSM, the disorder is “a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood…”  (emphasis my own) Of the eleven symptoms I’ve read, Alice easily fits seven of them:

Alice says, “You know no one’s going to believe you, right?”

*Apparent lack of remorse or empathy for others. She has a sadistic sense of humor.  If you hurt yourself, she will laugh.  If she hurts you, intentionally or not, she will laugh.  If she pees on you, she will laugh.  She refuses to call her mother Mama.  She will call her Sarah (pronounced Sawah) or Dada, but not Mama.  If you say “Mama,” she will laugh.  She knows who Mama is, and she knows what it means, but she will not call her mother Mama, because she thinks it’s funnier this way.  If she’s not sleeping, you don’t get to sleep.  I understand that one’s pretty universal which really sort of gives credence to my theory.

*Cruelty to animals. She loves the kittens, but she also loves to pull their tails.  Her Marty Mouse is her most prized possession.  She loves her Marty Mouse pretty much more than anything in the world, and she always carries him around by the tail and chews on it.  Sometimes she gives his tail a break and carries him around by the throat instead.

*Poor behavioral controls – expressions of irritability, annoyance, impatience, threats, aggression, and verbal abuse; inadequate control of anger and temper. I could out write Tolstoy with this assertion alone.

*Recurring difficulties with the law. And the word “no,” interestingly enough.

*Tendency to violate the boundaries and rights of others. I really should probably thank Alice for putting things into perspective for me.  I now know what a joy it is to be able to pee in privacy.  I am convinced that she is either the coolest kid ever or a therapy patient in the making.  She loves to cheer me on while I’m peeing.  Now that she knows the word “go,” she will chant it while I am using the restroom.  “Go!  Go!  Go!”  Then she will smile and clap furiously for me when I’m finished and flush the toilet.  I’m convinced I get more moral support for a properly functioning bladder than runners get for completing a marathon.  Lower the bar, masochists!

*Inability to tolerate boredom.  “Eh!…eh!…eh!  Waaaaaaaaah!”  Every time I duck out of sight.  For 10 seconds.  Usually when I drop to the ground and try to army crawl to the bathroom to pee.  Amazing how I can pick her up and the tears are magically gone and a smile has appeared on her face in less than 2 seconds.  See: “poor behavioral controls.”

*Disregard for safety. She is a daredevil.  She turns 1 tomorrow, and she can already climb out of her crib, climb up big kid slides, and climb up a tractor.  She also likes head diving off couches.  And banging her head on things.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the face of a sociopath.  Don’t let the cute fool you.  Or the pretty marble blue eyes.  Stone. Cold. Sociopath.

She’s a smart little sociopath.  She knows that her crying really doesn’t faze me in the least, but she has figured out that I’m a sucker for her calling me by name, so if I’m ignoring her when I initially put her down for her nap and she starts crying, she’ll pitifully wail, “Liiiiii…*hic*….iiin…*sniffle*….dsaaaay!”  Sometimes it’ll be “Yindsay.”  It all sort of depends.  When she does this, I have to remind myself, “Sociopath, sociopath, sociopath.  She’s fine, they’re just crocodile tears, just wait her out.  Wait 5 minutes, Lindsay.  Be strong!  Sociopath!”  Half the time I’ll go running to her and pick her up, whereupon she’ll suck her thumb and tuck her head under my chin and rest her head on my chest while she sniffles.  And then starts smiling within seconds.  Because she played me like a cheap violin.  The other half of the time, I actually manage to beat her at her own game and she’ll be asleep within minutes.  It’s a battle of wills, and this kid’s on her way to becoming a Jedi.   She’s dragging me along with her.

Proof she’s related to me…

The other thing I’ve learned about childcare is that you leave your dignity at the door.  Actually, you leave your dignity outside the door.  It’s not even allowed inside the threshold.  See: peeing in private.  See also: getting peed on.  When she was 4 months old, she puked on me more than a couple of times.  Now she sometimes spits milk at me or throws food at me.  It gets messy.  Even when she doesn’t do that, she gets messy, and she’d love nothing more than to rub those messy little hands and that messy little face allllll over you and your clothes.  She also pantsed me last week.  She wanted me to pick her up every 5 seconds, and I was in the middle of cooking her dinner, and the thankless creature yanked on my pants because she wanted up.  As it turns out, those pants are too big for me, and I should wear a belt with them.  The situation has been rectified.  (Pants.  Rectified.  The 10-year-old in me is bowled over laughing.)

See?  Laughing on cue.

Another thing?  However long you think something will take, quadruple your time estimate if an infant is involved.  I feel like I have to plan a covert operation every time I want to get something done.  If I’m lucky, naptime aside, I can manage a few uninterrupted 5-minute intervals in which I can give something else my full attention.  Or any attention.  A few times I’ve gotten 10 minutes, and then I was so excited by the 5 extra unexpected minutes that I squandered them by wondering what I should do.  It was like winning the lottery and then losing the ticket.

“Hmm.  What’s that you say?  Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

The most important thing, though?  I’ve learned how to love more deeply.  I love this child with my whole heart, and she is so worth it all.  I relish every moment I spend with her.  She is constantly amazing me.  She smiles and laughs so much, and her joy is contagious.  It is impossible for me not to smile when I see her smile or when I hear her squeal or laugh.  She engages the world more than any child I’ve ever seen, constantly staring and pointing and asking, “Wass dis?”  (She also did this with her newborn cousin, a memory I recall with great amusement.)  I love it.  It’s exhausting, but I love it.  I love telling her what everything is.  I love trying to teach her how to flip a light switch and throw a beach ball and climb up on the couch and say “Sparta!” after she says, “This is…” and to laugh on cue (read: my jokes; she actually does!)  But nothing beats the experience of a baby (Ack! Technically a toddler tomorrow!) coming up to you and giving you a hug or cuddling themselves to your body.  Even just over the course of the past two and a half weeks, Alice has taught me how to love more selflessly and to enjoy the simple things more.  Like peeing in private.

And this.  Them.

I’ve never been baby crazy.  Ever.  But I am absolutely crazy about this baby.

Heart-melting cuteness.

Even more than coffee.  Yeah.  That much.