First job, a sticky situation

I was 10 when a neighbor knocked on our door. She needed someone to watch her toddler son while she took her dog to the vet. My mother volunteered me.

I don’t know what she was thinking!

As the youngest of four, I had zero child care experience, unless you count my Baby Tender Love doll. I showered her with tender love until her drink -and -wet feature malfunctioned. When I gave her a bottle, she wet the back of her head instead of her diaper and I lost interest.

Nevertheless, I made my way across our shared backyards and entered my neighbor’s home to meet Chuck. (I’m not actually sure that’s his name. It might have been Charles. 1975 was a long time ago.)

The tot, clad only in a filthy T-shirt and a sagging diaper, eyed me warily and took a slug of milk from his bottle.

My first task was to help my neighbor give a pill to her giant dog.

“Let’s get him on the kitchen counter,” she said.

I weighed about 60 pounds. The dog weighed considerably more.

You might be horrified to think of a large dog on a kitchen counter, but the counter was more horrific.

It was as filthy as Chuck and actually stickier.

Aware that I was on the clock and earning 50 cents per hour, I did my best to help heft the animal (Great Dane/Mastiff/mini horse?) to the counter and closed my eyes while she jammed something down his throat.

He got down from the countertop unassisted, and Chuck’s mom said, “OK, I’ll get him in the car and be back in an hour. If you need anything, call your mother.”

And off she went without a word of instruction regarding the care and feeding of her child.

I took stock of the situation. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Congealed remnants of macaroni and cheese stuck to bowls. Mushy Lucky Charms floated in milky water, and a pot with a layer of calcified pork and beans attracted a couple of desultory flies.

I had never been in a dirty house.

My mother’s only full-time job was to wage war on dirt. Dishes were washed and dried by hand immediately after every meal. Clothes were washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. (I was responsible for pillowcases and my dad’s handkerchiefs). I’m not sure what chores occupied the rest of her week, but I do know the kitchen and bathroom floors were scoured on Saturdays because that’s when I dusted the living room.

I wandered into our neighbor’s living room, and Chuck pointed at the TV. Obligingly, I turned it on and flicked through the four channels, landing on “As the World Turns.”

This was my grandpa’s favorite program, seconded by “The Lawrence Welk Show.” I’d never seen an episode, but I figured if it was good enough for Grandpa, it was good enough for Chuck.

Chuck seemed to agree and sprawled out on the crunchy carpet. I didn’t know carpet could crunch, but this one did.

I chose a spot on the dog-haired covered sofa between piles of what I hoped was clean laundry.

I don’t know why Grandpa liked “The Guiding Light.” It bored me to tears, and Chuck, having finished his bottle, climbed up on my lap.

By this time, his diaper sagged nearly to his ankles, but unlike Baby Tender Love, the back of his head was dry – sticky but dry.

Bravely, I dug through the pile of clothing next to me and uncovered a diaper. Then I called my mom, because I’d never changed a diaper. She told me, “For heaven’s sake, just take off the wet one and put the clean one on, and no, I’m not coming over there to show you how!”

I suspect I’d interrupted her mid- “All My Children.”

Chuck and I figured it out. Then I looked for a book to read to him and found a stack of magazines beneath a collection of mostly empty Olympia beer cans.

Between issues of Star magazine and Soap Opera Digest, I found a copy of Penthouse, which, to my surprise, did not feature decorating tips for fancy apartments.

“Do you have any books, Chuck?” I asked.

No response.

I looked down to see he’d fallen asleep on my lap. I sat still, afraid to move, and that’s where his mom found us a short time later.

She scooped him up and carried him to his crib. Then she gave me $1.50 and told me she’d call me again when she needed a sitter.

I ran back across our yards, stashed my money in my purple kitty change purse, and told Mom that my child care career was over.

“I will never change another diaper!” I vowed.

Of course, as a teen, I had countless babysitting jobs, because my parents made me pay for my own Lip Smackers and Love’s Baby Soft perfume.

However, I didn’t babysit for the neighbors again – they moved that summer.

I hope Chuck grew up to be a fine, less sticky man.