I should mention that I'm an only child, and therefore had absolutely NO KNOWLEDGE regarding: babies, poop, twins, vomit, what babies eat, poop, changing diapers, bathing babies or most informative pornos for 9-year-old girls. Oh, and poop. I feel I should make that crystal clear.
Well, the kids weren't in their cribs yet, but I'm too lazy to draw separate pictures, so deal with this. Basically, the dad had attached screen doors to the top of the cribs, so the kids couldn't climb out of their beds. I was supposed to shut the screen doors and lock the screen doors with a bobby pin.
So I locked the twins in their cribs, as instructed, and Renee and I went into the living room and watched some t.v. I looked through the fridge, but since the mom was on WIC, I felt too guilty to eat her Brie, Belgian chocolates and goat's milk. I'm not being sarcastic. That's seriously what was in her fridge.
After about 2 hours I, for some reason unknown to me to this day, decided that I should check on the babies. Why? I have no idea. Maybe I'd seen "When A Stranger Calls" one too many times. Perhaps I was one of those "overachiever trailer court babysitters" you hear so much about.
Anyway, 2 hours later, I walked into the twins' room, only to be confronted with this:
Confronted with not one, but two, infants playing with their fecal matter, my mind immediately went in two directions.
Direction 1: Shut the door and walk away. Nobody has to know.
Direction 2: OH MY GOD THESE CHILDREN ARE DISGUSTING!!! Somebody has to clean them up!!! Wait. That's me, right?
That's right. I did the "right thing". I picked these disgusting, sh*t covered babies up out of their cribs and stripped them out of their fecal-covered jammies. I told Renee to run a tub and I bathed the twins.
You wish I was your babysitter, don't you?
I know you do.
However, I'm not a saint. I did strip their beds, but I threw their bedding on the front stairs, where their parents would have to walk over it in order to step inside their home.
That way they would know what I had been through.
And yes. They knew. When they walked into their trailer, their children were fast asleep, hair damp from a recent bath, tushes tucked up into the air, sucking on their thumbs. Sans merde.
Renee was frantically clicking the remote control, trying to find out who Debbie had most recently done. And I was sitting on the couch. Awaiting payment.
Delphine and Guy's parents entered the trailer, shamefaced. Mom dragged the shit-laden sheets halfway through the door, then dropped them. Dad dug deep into his wallet and came up with $22. I looked expectantly at the 9-year-old porn addict's parents, raising one brow. Dad belched, and then drew his wallet out of his Wrangler's. They knew they owed me.
I forget how much I ended up making, but I do know it wasn't enough to cover the therapy session that evening neccessitated.