When the Babysitter is a "No-Show"

She’s still not here.

I furiously text. Waiting a beat, I wonder if I’ve successfully communicated my annoyance to my husband. I haven’t.

Get someone else. I can’t work with the kids bugging me.

Laptop in hand, prayers in my heart that I manage to get through the next 11 hours without screaming at the small versions of me that are now scuttling around the travertine wielding swords and throwing out “hy-ahs!” as they dance around to Kpop for the umpteenth time this month, I let out a moan.

The babysitter is now officially half an hour late.

It started innocently enough, that is, it was all fine when we thought the sitter was coming.

“Mama! Mama! I want bananas and pancakes and um, and milk!” she points to the fridge she is capable of opening herself and then hops over to the couch to relax from the stress of the precisely 50 minutes she’s been awake.

“Can I stay home too, Mama? Please?” the four-year-old pulls on my shorts.

I tug up the waistband without turning.

“Ask Daddy.”

“Daddy says YES!” she screams.

I nod. Good they’ll have each other to play with.

It’s only now, well into the day that I realize even with their sibling, I am a key participant in their games. Primarily as referee. She hit me! She pushed me! She’s not letting me play with X, Y and Z!!!

And without a sitter I am their potty chaperone, their snack chef, and their general source of security.

When I was a little girl I realize I was equally as bothersome to my own mom who worked (still does) so hard and needs to focus. Each time I’d utter a “Mama? I love you!” she’d nod and laugh until eventually she’d say, “I need to work. Can you let me work, G?” always with a smile though.

It made no difference.

Five minutes later I’d be back with a profound observation, or earth-shattering question.

That’s exactly the kind of daughters I have now, 35 years later.

“Mamaaaa! Are you mad at us?” my littlest one asks as she attempts the ascent onto my lap, blocking the view of my monitor and obviously unconcerned with the answer either way.

"No, Baby,” I say, rubbing my nose into her warm, downy waves and taking in her scent. “I’m not mad at you. But you have to let me work.”

She sniffs, scuttling off my lap.

“Ok Mama. I will. But I don’t want to play anymore.”

A jolt runs through my toes. And I realize one day will be the very last time she says this to me. Not because she’s tired, not because she’s bored, but truly because it will be the very last time she wants to engage me like this.

“Come here.”

I plant a kiss on the top of her head and send her toward the couch with her sister.