THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, August 2, 1994 TAG: 9408020042
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: MY FAMILY
SOURCE: BY A.M. JAMISON, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 89 lines
I'LL DO ANYTHING for a man who drools at the sight of me.
I'll tolerate spit-up on my blazer - dry-clean only.
I'll endure a Similac-laden burp in my face.
And I'll melt when a wet, toothless grin comes my way.
You see, these things are charming because my nephew, Chet, drools when he sees me. But he's 9 months old. That's what babies do.
I was relishing in Chet's charm when I volunteered to baby-sit him overnight. His parents were overjoyed that a single woman would want to keep him, so they took me up on my offer when they celebrated their second wedding anniversary recently.
Caring for him would be a cinch, I told myself, because I was the eldest of five kids. I fed them. Changed their toxic-waste diapers. Even clothed and entertained them. One night with Chet couldn't be that hard.
Ha!
I failed to realize that my parents were always there to back up my childish fumblings at parenthood - and to take over when I was too pooped to chase after them.
So I said a prayer and rolled up my sleeves.
Not long after Chet's parents left for their night of freedom, he let out a few cries. I had watched my brother and sister-in-law care for him several times, but I had not learned the nuances of his outbursts. I went down my checklist:
Was his diaper wet? My sister-in-law told me that he doesn't mind a soiled diaper, but I checked anyway. No, that wasn't it.
Was he sleepy? No, he had taken a nap at the sitter's earlier that day.
OK, maybe he's hungry. Yea, that was it.
I tried to sneak and bring the jar of fruit and rice cereal to the living room before Chet started wailing, but his sharp eyes deduced that my scurrying meant din-din was on the way. His cries grew louder. So I hurriedly put him in the feeding chair, popped open the jar and began shoveling the food into his mouth. This may sound cruel, but Charming Chet turns into Crazed Chet when the food doesn't hit his mouth in .15-second intervals.
Soon his tummy was full, and he let out another cry. Oh, Chet was ready to add new calluses to his once-smooth knees. He wanted to crawl again.
I spent the next hour following him around the apartment and lifting him away from tight spots and eletrical outlets. This baby-sitting business is exhausting, I thought. He was giving me more of a workout than my ``Buns of Steel'' aerobics videotape.
A few hours later, Chet grew cranky and didn't want to fall asleep. So he cried, and I simply had to endure it. Flustered, I did the worst thing: I stuck a bottle of milk in his mouth. But soon he dropped off to sleep. And so did I.
Chet and I started the next morning at 7 a.m. After feeding him and letting him roam around the floor for an hour, he whimpered. Maybe he's tired, I said in hope. (I hadn't eaten and needed to take a shower.) So I returned him to bed. Boy, was that a mistake. He wailed - big time - as if I were torturing him. But I took a shower anyway. Hey, a girl has to be clean.
Later that day, I had to add another item to my checklist: boredom. Seems that being Chet isn't amusing enough. He has to be doing something different all the time. He kept me hopping to keep him occupied. He wanted to rock in the swing, but only for 15 minutes. Then he wanted to crawl - for 15 minutes. Then sit in my lap - for 15 minutes.
Completely fried, I took Chet to a museum. Surely lots of colorful paintings and sculptures would give his eyes something new to feast on. And they did - for 15 minutes. Then he discovered that pulling on my earrings were much more fun.
His idea of fun was killing me. I then began counting the minutes until his parents' return. I was enjoying Chet, but the boy had worn me out. Now I needed a break.
When his parents pulled up in the driveway, I knelt to the ground and kissed their feet. I saw halos above their heads. I dubbed them saints. God must have given them superpower strength to be the patient guardians they are.
``Chet wasn't bad, was he?'' my sister-in-law asked.
``Oh, no,'' I replied. ``Just being a baby.''
She later told me that Chet bores easily and demands constant stimulation. Now she tells me.
While recuperating in my apartment that night, I evaluated my brush with parenthood. I concluded that I was nowhere near perfect as a quasi-parent. I wasn't patient enough. I wasn't attentive enough. I was too exasperated at times, and some times I just had no clue.
But babies are forgiving creatures.
The next time I saw Chet, he drooled all over me.
And I was charmed again. by CNB