The Best Babysitter in Town Vol. 2 Ch. 18

Once, when I was just a good babysitter and had a ways to go before becoming the best in town, I took one of my kiddos to their friend’s birthday party. Had I been the best babysitter back then, or even a merely great one, I probably would’ve done a better job monitoring their cake, candy, and sugary drink intake. That precious 7-year-old showed everyone at the park that until then, they only thought they knew what spew meant. I give the kiddo credit for knowing when it was time to head home, which makes at least one 7-year-old covered in barfed up birthday cake smarter than a lot of drunk college boys: Captain Upchuck knew when his party was over.

I found Gordy sitting in a lawn chair just far enough away to not be part of either of the two groups hanging on the back patio (there are always two groups hanging out back at a house party – the smokers and the people who don’t like loud music). At least he hadn’t thrown up yet. #winning.

“Hey, Gordy,” I said as I walked up behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and I could tell just from the way he moved that he was drunk. I wouldn’t say trashed. I think Matt was being a tad dramatic with that word, but Gordy was definitely drunk enough that his night was over. And it was only 9:15. Plenty of college parties don’t even start until 10:00, not that I was upset that my party was cut short too.

“What happened,” I asked Matt, figuring I’d get a more coherent response from him.

“We were playing flip cup in the basement, then Boofer showed up with a bottle of Fireball and asked if we wanted to do shots.”

Okay, pausing to deconstruct that, firstly, who comes up with the nicknames college boys give each other? Secondly, Fireball is just ugh. Have some self-respect, people.

“Nobody made him,” Matt hastened to say. “He seemed a little nervous so I actually offered to drink for him if he wanted to play, but he said no. He’s … not good at flip cup. He was fine at first, drinking kinda fast, but I figured if he was drinking like that he must be able to handle it.”

“Not your fault. Thanks for involving him. Did he cause a scene?”

“No. He was getting a little loud and sloppy, so I brought him out here before he could make an ass of himself.”

“Thanks for that, and sorry he had too much. He doesn’t really drink.”

“I do now,” Gordy declared.

“I thought some fresh air would help.”

“Give me a minute with him.” Matt gave us some space – good ol’ Matt; I like him for Holly – and I kneeled down in front of Gordy. “How ya feeling?”

“I just need some air.”

“And some water. Drink this.” I unscrewed the cap and handed him the bottle, and he took a long pull. “Gordy … Gordy, how much did you drink?”

“Ish not a big deal. I’m fine.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Three, I think.”

“Three what?”

“Shthots.”

“And how much beer? … Gordy?”

“I dunnuh. Two, I think.”

He was down there maybe an hour and a half. Even for an experienced drinker with some tolerance, that’s pounding it. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. It seemed so out of character for Gordy, but so was going to a house party. What the hell could’ve possessed him? Or was it just a rookie mistake, the same one it seems like most people make when they start drinking – underestimating the impact of how much they’ve had, so they have another and another. And I wasn’t upset about that either. Gordy is old enough to decide if he wants to get drunk (or get drunk accidentally, if he didn’t realize that’s what he was doing).

He sat there with his forehead in his palm. My inner babysitter, which is also my outer babysitter, instinctually checked his pants to see just how wet his diaper was. “So much for that booster pad,” I grumbled. His pants were wet. Thank goodness it was dark outside, and thank goodness I’d put him in jeans. Better lighting or khakis and everyone would be able to see he’d wet himself. Not that they’d have thought much of it beyond that he couldn’t hold his liquor and was “that guy.” He must’ve leaked outside or Matt would’ve mentioned him peeing his pants in the basement.

For the future, I filed away a reminder to bring a spare pair of pants along with Gordy’s diaper bag anywhere alcohol might be consumed. Did I also remind myself to monitor his drinking in the future? No, because he’s an adult, but even more so because unless I didn’t know something about Gordy, he wouldn’t make a habit out of this.

I offered him my hand. “Let’s head home.”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah, but let’s head home anyway.”

“I jush need some air and water.”

“You’re really too drunk to stay. C’mon.”

“I wanna shtay.”

You don’t get to be the best babysitter in town without having to deal with an obstinate kiddo who doesn’t want to leave wherever you are. Toy stores, parks, pools, parties, what have you. In peak form, the best babysitters can prevent those big feelings from turning into a tantrum. It doesn’t work every time, but even little kids can be reasoned with. So can drunk 20-year-olds.

“You can’t stay. You need your diaper changed.”

“That’s why we brought a change.” Only a drunk Gordy could be okay with getting his diaper changed at a party. Sober Gordy would sooner just leave, I’m pretty sure.

“You leaked. Your pants are soaked. If you go back inside, everyone will see.”

“Ish dark. We’ll just move the party out here.” Pretty sure that was a joke, but you can’t always tell with drunk people.

“You can’t stay in wet pants. It’s cold. C’mon.” He didn’t even respond to that.

But not all kiddos or drunk 20-year-olds can be reasoned with, and not all the time. Now, when I’m babysitting, I’m a mostly responsible surrogate parent, but I’m also not their parent. Sometimes I do things I wouldn’t do if I were the parent, like try to bribe my way out of a tantrum. “It’s still early. We can hang out and watch a movie. Would you like that? Maybe pick up some tacos on the way home, get a little food in your belly. How’s that sound?”

“I just wanna stay here,” he said through gritted teeth. Yep, gritted teeth. Drunk 20-year-olds, just like toddlers, can have big feelings they can’t handle, and they get frustrated. I get it. No reason to take it personally. Unfortunately, if you’re babysitting and the kiddo hits that level of frustration, you’re past the point of avoiding some degree of tantrum, but it doesn’t need to be a full-blown tantrum.

For instance, if you turn on your authority figure voice, maybe that tantrum will be confined to an angry vocalization and a foot stomp. “Gordy, take my hand. We’re leaving.”

If it doesn’t work the first time, increase the urgency. “Gordy, get up now.”

It’s not always worth a third try, but sometimes it is. “Gordy, I’m going to count to three.” Which was pure babysitter script on my part. It’s just what I say in these situations; of course Gordy isn’t going to be intimidated by counting.

If all else fails, you can always just pick the kid up. Kind of the same with a drunk friend. I couldn’t pick Gordy up, but I could, with Matt’s help, shanghai him into my car. With drunk friends as with tantruming toddlers, that path is loud and messy and embarrassing for all involved. So after counting to three but before resorting to a fireman’s carry, you threaten consequences.

I’ve never had to do that with a drunk friend. I’m not even sure what I’d say. Probably not something I actually meant. I won’t take you anywhere ever again? Of course I would if they were my friend. But I know what to say to tantruming tots. You start out vague. I said to Gordy, “If you don’t get up right now, you’re going to be in so much trouble.”

“I don’t need you telling me what to do!”

Now, in my capacity as Gordy’s babysitter, if that’s what I was, I would’ve said what I’d say to any other charge. I’d threaten to tell their parents. This is a good one; it’s both a bribe and a threat – behave and it stays a secret between us; don’t behave and your parents will probably punish you in some way that I can’t. I’m just there for the night; it’s not like I can ground someone for a month.

However, I wouldn’t tell Gordy’s stepmom if he got arrested for securities fraud (because fuck her). But I was staying with Gordy for two more days. So I could threaten to ground him. Whether that was an empty threat or what it would even mean or if he would even comply or if he would even care since he has no problem staying at home, it was worth a shot. “If you don’t stand up right now, you are grounded for the rest of the weekend.” Nothing, and I knew he was not so drunk he couldn’t hear and understand me and reply.

My friends’ first impression of Gordy was that he’s a nice guy who got drunk at a party. Not great, but still good by college standards. I did not want their first impression, for both our sakes’, to be Gordy as an ugly drunk who had to be manhandled into a car. That would be much more embarrassing for him, for me, and for everyone. So far, other than the mistake of getting drunk, Gordy had nothing to be embarrassed about with anyone but me. No one else knew he wore diapers or that they’d leaked or that he was being a royal pain in the butt or that I was basically talking to him like a toddler. Matt wasn’t close enough to hear any of that.

In my desperation to keep his embarrassment to a minimum, I escalated to a level I would never, ever escalate a tantrum prevention exercise to. Not only because I don’t have the authority; not only because empty threats always backfire; not only because parents would fire me for saying it and probably tell everybody else and ruin my business; but because it’s just wrong. But despite the firmness of my tone and outward surety, I was desperate. It was either have Matt help me force him into my car, let Gordy sit there until he sobered up some more and maybe someone sees or smells hit wet pants while we wait, or the threat of last resort. I leaned in close and whispered into his ear:

“You’ve already earned yourself a bare bottom spanking. I’ll do it right inside if you don’t get up and come with me right now.”

Gordy turned his head slowly and saw my don’t-mess-with-this-babysitter face, nodded, and wobbled to his feet. The prospect of getting his bottom spanked at a party was apparently the proverbial sobering thought for him.

Would I have done it? Absolutely not. Did I mean it? Not even a little. Did I regret saying it? Very, very much. It hurt me a little, that I had threatened to physically hurt Gordy. I hated it. I hated it before I even said it. Maybe it would’ve been better to cause a scene and hustle him into the car. I don’t know. At least it worked. Even the best babysitters don’t know everything.