This is what I've learnt. I am a terrible babysitter. I have no idea about boundaries; I am unable to be strict; I'm not even fun. I am a failure.
This is a tale of two cousins, or three or four. American cousin from New York is holidaying in London with her family (a girl aged 7, a boy of eleven, and a husband). In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity I have offered to look after the children for an evening. Entirely characteristic of my extended family, this involves several uptight phonecalls between myself and another cousin, Lobotomised of The Bishops Avenue, who starts every sentence with, 'Well we're very relaxed...', who has been looking after the children during that day, along with her own brood. She usually finishes all of these misleading sentences with the various limitations she must insist on - 'Well we're very relaxed but:
We can't drop them off near that cinema, it's too far away'
We have to get rid of them before the baby's bed time.'
We don't want you taking them on the tube at night.'
What started as an innocent suggestion becomes a mammoth undertaking of logistical insanity. I decide to remain 'very relaxed' in the negotiations, and eventually after spending most of the day on the phone, agree to meet the kids at their hotel in Euston.
The moment Lobotomised of Bishop's Avenue's husband is out of sight, we get straight on the tube to Marine Ices, where I make the mistake of allowing them to order whatever they like. American children know how to order - on the side, on top, extra whipped cream etc. Actually, this part of the evening is looking good. Dora doesn't eat her ice cream, but polishes off most of my spaghetti. Tom, who is already getting a belly, consumes his triple special sundae extraordinarily fast. I'm sure too fast to taste the different flavours, and only so that he can get a cold sensation in his mouth. Unfortunately, this meal only takes us to 8 o clock, and I'm wondering how on earth we will fill the next 4 hours. I don't understand any of their jokes, nor they mine, and the prospect of an evening in their sugared up company looms unpleasantly. I decide, therefore, that we will take the bus back to the hotel - see the sights of Camden Town. What a mistake. Dora pretends to be homeless at the bus stop, sitting on the ground and begging for change, whilst Tom begs me for gum. For some reason I relent, on the condition that it is carcinogenic sugar free. They return with a pack of Hubba Bubba of a colour and flavour that makes me feel old.
Why do children always want stuff? Their appetites are incredible. I suppose they are not in a position to buy anything themselves, whereas grown ups can spend their money on whatever they like, whenever they choose. So they just keep asking because they don't know when they'll get their next consumer fix.
The bus seems to take an age to come, and when it does, the two hyper monkeys cause mayhem running up and down the bus. I clearly look like a very bad mother.
Back at the hotel, Dora paints my nail a shade of Barbie pink. There are murmurings about ordering room service because 'mommy said we could.' Of course, the reality is that they aren't hungry. But they won't admit that.
I manage to stall them by getting the pay per view movie up. We select 'My Super Ex Girlfriend' on the basis that it isn't a baby film, and the sex and violence is probably mild enough for the parents not to mind. I pretend not to notice when there is a superhero sex scene involving the bed shunting through into the next apartment.
It's all going OK. They seem to have forgotten about the room service. They seem involved in the movie. I can relax. Then the screen goes dark, and we can't seem to get the picture back. Tom seizes the remote and in an effort to get the film back on, keys in the room number. Only it's now on the erotic channel and all we can see is a leather thonged bum wiggling, and occupying the entire screen. I panic. This will appear on the bill for the room. I'm doomed. On the phone to the front desk I'm screaming 'We won't pay for the porn. Please don't charge for the porn!'. They say they'll send someone up to sort out the TV. In the meantime Tom has dialled room service, put the receiver to my ear and pointed to Chicken Noodle Soup on the menu. What can I do? I relent.
The kids are getting twitchy. The man hasn't come to fix the telly. The chicken soup is yet to arrive. Tom does the only logical thing he can. By the kettle is a box full of zero calorie fruit flavoured powders for people who don't like water to use to make it palatable (fat Americans). He opens a mini Perrier, and just as I'm saying 'I don't think you should do that' he tips a sachet in. The result is that pink soda shoots into the air, covering Tom, the ironing board, the carpet. Trying to rectify things he covers the neck of the bottle with his mouth, only this just focuses the intensity of the jet from his mouth. He's very sorry. We try our best to clean up, and the chicken soup arrives, which nobody wants of course.
I can't bear to see the waste, and guilt trip them into eating it, which makes me feel awful, so I tell them to stop, only the boy won't and keeps slurping it down, which makes me feel worse, and then he has to lie down with a headache.
The man comes and fixes the TV, and we resume watching, peacefully. By the time the parents arrive home, all is calm. Tom is in bed with a flannel on his head. Dora and I are reading horoscopes. We decide we'll keep quiet about the soda incident, and I hope that the porn makes no appearance on the bill. I go home wondering what the trick is to childcare, and why are kids so weird?
