Lists and signs and plans...

I was eleven years old the first time I was responsible for the life of a child on my own.  I was an eleven-year-old left alone with a baby for the weekend.  That was insane.  Before 911.  Before cell phones.  Before I could drive.  Seriously, do not leave your child(ren) home alone for an evening, much less a weekend, with an eleven-year-old.

The baby stopped breathing on me.  I thought it was that weekend, but perhaps it was just a babysitting night.  I am not certain, but I am certain that it happened.  I walked into the baby's room and instantly knew something was wrong. The quiet was wrong.  I was trained in CPR ... the old CPR ... and got the baby breathing again.  Eventually, there was a happy ending.

From a very young age, I baby-sat nights and weekends and weeks.  Whenever I babysat, I basically kept house.  I would cook, feed the children, bathe them, help them clean their rooms, tuck them into bed, clean the dishes, and then set about tending other things, such as laundry.  Yes, I was a very popular babysitter.

I was also the baby whisperer.
I am good with babies.
Really good.

I am currently in the middle of my three day kid-sitting stint for a friend.  She has a trip out of town, and I had offered to keep her son as an option when work calls her away.  The last time I had him after school, things did not go well, which was very hard on me.  I felt such the failure, but I also knew that I couldn't do it again unless something was different.

So, when she asked me if I wanted to take care of her son during the trip, I said, "Yes." with my lips and shouted "I'm afraid to" with my heart.  And then I told her I needed plans.  I asked for a schedule, for a meal plan, and for a list of rules. I wanted snack options, too.  And I wanted options for non-tech play activities.  I was deadly serious about what I wanted in order to keep her son.

I think I drove her crazy with my need.
It is a good thing she practices forgiveness.

The first set of papers she sent were too thin to assuage even a mote of my worry, so I asked for a more developed set of plans, menu, and lists.  I was deadly seriously.  I am fairly convinced she had no clue just how serious I was.

I live my life ... now ... with plans.  I have alarms going off all day telling me what to do:  lock doors, water plants, take medication, feed Amos, check his water bowl, call the pharmacy for the erythromycin, check the water fountain, etc.  I rehearse things, appointments, errands, phone calls, practicing the information I might be required to give and making sure I have printed copy on hand.  I have response plans and contingency plans.  I manage to get through living a life with anxiety and cognitive dysfunction and PTSD with plans.

I look more together than I am.
I sound more cogent than I am.
I live more competent than I am.

As I have noted here ... often ... I am not skilled at all in the art of asking for help.  But, for me, plans are profound help.  They are necessary to my well-being.  And I have a love-hate relationship with this.

I love that they help.
I hate that I need them.
I hate that I struggle to make them.
I hate that few understand just how much I need them.
I love that the still can help.

The kid-sitting is going ever so much better this time.  I have the options and rules lists on the refrigerator.  I have the schedule in an Avery plastic job packet that is ready at hand.  In the car.  At the table.  By the couch.  I consult them blithely, not as if they are for him, but for me.  I believe they are helping us both.  But perhaps I need them to be helping us both more than they are actually helping us both.

It is so very difficult to face that without them I could not have gotten through this time.  Well, them and "Babylon 5."  Yes, the magical lure of totally awesome, rather intriguing Sci-fi has helped ensure contentment all around.

"Babylon 5" was written with an entire story in mind from the very beginning.  Watching it is truly like reading a book.  So, my young visitor has been asking question after question, to which I reply, "That comes later.  You have to keep reading this."  He moans. He groans.  He rolls his eyes.  He pleads silently with his whole being.  "You would never skip ahead in a book would you?"  I add.

Wicked, I know.

Is it weird that I relish sharing a show with an eleven-year-old who giggles at the rather dry wit of the character, especially the Narn ambassador and his attaché?

Best non-witty line thus far:  "When you obsess about your enemy, you become your enemy."

I actually need more lists.  And signs.  I do have one more frame that I used to hang up signs in such a way as they would not be so garish in my beautiful home, but I need more.   I need lists and plans and signs to help me navigate the days and the decisions before me.  I need lists and plans and signs to help me be successful and independent and ... still helpful to others.

The truth is, I could not have navigated babysitting without lists and plans and signs.  It is not about being negative.  It is not about be self-critical.  It is about being realistic. And needing others to hear me, to be realistic with me.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!