Last night I traveled up to Evanston to babysit Diana's kids, Eli and Luca. Rick was working late at the office and Diana had a wine-related event to attend and since everyone else they typically ask to babysit--their paid babysitter, Rick's brother, that Chicago cop who beat the shit out of the waitress and was caught on video doings so--was busy or in jail, they scanned the list all the way down to choice 43: Mike Jacklich.
I like Eli and Luca. Most importantly, they seem to like me. Maybe it's my choice of babysitting styles: "Playing with Legos while we watch TV and as long as they don't accidentally kick me in the nuts I reward them with more TV and a popsicle."
Plus I use a cotton candy-scented knock-out gas
Diana rewarded the kids for accepting their number 43 rated babysitter by ordering pizza. While waiting for the delivery guy to show up, I spotted some strawberries in the fridge. Since I am on a moderate healthy-eating kick--by which I mean I'm cutting Macaroni and Cheese down to two meals a day--I cut some berries up, accented them with some blueberries and brought out the healthy snack for all to enjoy. The older child, Eli, ate half a strawberry and then ignored the rest in favor of "Johnny Test" re-runs on Netflix.
Luca and I happily shared the strawberries and when they were gone, Luca held the bowl up to me, Oliver-style, and said "More stawbewies please!." Since he was so polite and showing an interest in yummy, healthy foods, I happily complied. I diced up 6 more strawberries and returned to the couch. Luca lapped them up like he hadn't yet eaten that day (You had fed him previously, correct Diana?). He looked at the empty bowl, then looked up at me with a rather long face and said, "More please?"
It was then that I actually said the following: "More strawberries! But Luca, you're going to spoil your dinner!" His pizza dinner. I realized the silliness of this comment as it came out of my mouth and Luca--being almost 3--didn't understand the hilarity of me suggesting he shouldn't eat strawberries or he'd spoil his cholesterol-riffic cheese-disc.
Like I said, Worst. Babysitter. Ever.
I did eventually cut up some more fruit for him and happily--for me--the pizza arrived shortly thereafter. I eventually got them bathed and changed and put to bed. And then I watched the Sox game on their couch. It was a good night.
I don't really have anything else to say about the experience except that I built a pretty cool spaceship with R2 riding shotgun:
Remind me not to leave you in charge of my kids. They'd probably eat you alive.
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