Bad mommy

As a teen, I was the world’s worst babysitter. I let my charges do whatever they wanted, as long as it didn’t interfere with my phone calls and nail polishing. Naturally, as a mom, I distrust all sitters. But about a month into mommyhood, I came down with a stomach flu and had to get to a doctor. Out of desperation, I left my daughter with a 17-year-old cousin who is, shall we say, prone to drama. I came home a mere 40 minutes later to find Barney and Disney videos scattered all over the apartment, and both my daughter and my cousin sobbing.

From then on, I schlepped the Chicklet, as I call her, around everywhere. While other mothers envied me my mobile, mostly docile child, I was ready to fall over from emotional and physical fatigue. One morning, I forced myself to take out the garbage without bringing her with me. She was perfectly safe lolling by the open door. In my bathrobe, I took four steps beyond the threshold and, boom, the door closed behind me, locking her inside. Later, one of the guys from the local firehouse told me I looked…troubled, and he recommended I get help.

He probably meant mental help, but instead I turned to Grandma—the same woman who believes that any mother who doesn’t swat her child every so often is being too soft. This was clearly a case of “the devil you know.” The first excursion I took without my daughter was to see the movie Titanic. Remember the part where the Irish mum in steerage tucks her lad and lass into bed, secretly knowing they are going to die? I didn’t see anything after that. Neither did my child-free friend, who bitched the entire cab ride home.

I rushed in to find the Chicklet and Grandma happily playing clap hands. My home had not struck an iceberg, nor was the gas leaking, nor the CO2 detector activated. My exhaustion and paranoia were so palpable that I scared my daughter. Grandma ordered me to bed and brought in a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup and a shrimp salad sandwich (a family favorite). This act of kindness lulled me into believing that my daughter was just peachy under Grandma’s care.

Months went by, and the babysitting at my place led to a New Year’s sleepover at Grandma’s in Forest Hills. I hightailed it to Atlantic City for 48 hours of depravity. Even though I phoned in every hour or two, I eventually calmed down and had a great time with my libidinous boyfriend.

When I picked my daughter up, however, I felt something had changed in those two short days. On the ride home, the Chicklet and I exchanged baby banter. I told her about my escapades (sans the sex), then asked about hers as we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge.

“You, sir, are an idiot,” she shouted from her car seat.

I beg your pardon?

“Guilty!” she added, laughing.

That night, with the Chicklet tucked into bed, I called to interrogate Grandma. The woman who had taught me to limit my sugar intake suddenly didn’t remember how many chocolate chip cookies her granddaughter had eaten. All she knew was that there were none left. That settled the first question, of why my toddler felt heavier. The idiot remark? Oh, that was from the Judge Judy marathon. And was it just a coincidence that my daughter had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow?

“We stayed up late. Who goes to sleep early on New Year’s?” Grandma snarked.

I realized then that the Chicklet’s not-so-great grandmother was the babysitter from hell: encouraging my precious girl to binge on sweets, watch inappropriate TV and ignore bedtime. Who would do such a thing? Yeah, okay, but that was when I was a teenager.

I considered finding my own Fraulein Maria: a caregiver who’d be firm yet loving—and musical. But hiring an outsider presented its own problems. I’m forever running late, and with a “real” babysitter, that’s never okay. I’d also feel pressured to keep a clean house and a stocked fridge, neither of which is high on my priority list. When Grandma’s on duty, she takes care of everything—and considers a box of saltwater taffy an acceptable form of payment. My epiphany may seem obvious, but it felt like divine revelation: For me, Fran Drescher beats the edelweiss out of Julie Andrews.

E-mail Susan at BadMommy@timeoutny.com.

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