and....Curtain.

So, this J-Term I'm trying to help out by doing various errands around the house, as well as moving my grandfather in to the house down the street and shoveling endless snow.  :)

Last weekend, I was tidying up our house.  My two 12 year old brothers were at school, and my mom asked me to hang new curtains in their room. 

Allow me to interest you in a bit of context.  Their room was originally a stony gray-blue color, gorgeous, sophisticated, but a little dark.  Two years ago, they were given the opportunity to choose their own color... and the room was painted in a color that is a cross between spring green and mint green, with a bit more yellow than blue in it... not the manliest color, but hey, it's their room.  However, the curtains from the previous room, a bright fire engine red, were still hanging in the windows.

I liked those curtains, despite the clash of green and red.  They were thick, masculine, kept out the draft and the light...solid.  My mother, however, decided that the clash was wreaking far too much havoc on our home decor, and asked me to hang a pair of curtains from the master bedroom.  They kinda looked like this:

When I saw the curtains, I thought that she must have been joking.  Sure, they were blue, but they were short, half the length of the red curtains, and were sewn a la Cinderella's skirt.  Seriously. 

I spent the rest of the hour hanging the curtains, chuckling to myself, anticipating with glee the reactions of my brothers. Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

When the boys got home, I casually placed myself in my room, across from theirs, with the door wide open, a Cheshire-cat grin on my face.

At first, silence.  Then:

"WHO DID THIS?"  I heard my brother Joshua ask.

"Christen," my mom replied.

"WHERE IS SHE???!"


"Uh, in her room, I think..."

Cue thunderous footsteps.  A small boy burst through my door.  I braced myself for impact and laughed quietly, anticipating, enjoying the moment.

"CHRISTEN CHRISTEN YOU'RE THE BEST SISTER EVEEEEEEEERRRRRRRR"

"Huh? Did you see the curtains?"

"I LOOOOOOOVE THEM!!!! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!"

Aw, man.  No fun.

Babysitting Experience

I'd like to think that I'm quite an accomplished babysitter.

I started babysitting, well, sibling watching, very young... I know that my mom started me on helping out as soon as my brothers joined the family, when I was about seven.  By the time I was 12, I was babysitting occasionally for a pair of girls, 5 and 8 or so, who were well behaved, imaginative, and bright.  I loved it.  I knew I was a world class babysitter.

However, circumstances changed and I started to look for a family that needed a babysitter more often.  I found a job sitting once a week as a "mother's helper" for a music teacher.  Sounds right up my alley, right?  Right....

I went to interview with the family, and passed well: the mother was excited to hire me.  She gave me a tour of the house and explained the needs of her girls: a two year old and a 4 month old.  Keep in mind that I was 12.

Anyway, the first night that I was to babysit, I was given the 4-month old, so as not to "overwhelm" me when the parents went out with the toddler.  Again, the mother explained to me that the formula was in the fridge, how hot to make it, where the changing station was, what time the baby went to sleep, and I nodded confidently.  After all, I had watched a pair of twin boys grow up in my house, and knew how to handle a four month old.  Or so I thought.

On the way out, the mother called out over her shoulder, "Oh, by the way, she's never taken from a bottle before, I've always fed her myself.  But I'm sure she'll catch on."

.... so there I was.  12.  4 month old baby in my arms.  Alone.

I decided not to panic, but to start trying her on the bottle right away, just in case it took longer for her to learn how to use the bottle.  After all, I was certified by my middle school.  I knew how to heat a bottle, change a diaper, and do infant CPR, darn it!  I was QUALIFIED!

I heated the bottle and tested the milk on my wrist.  Perfect.  I gently guided it into the baby's mouth.  She turned away.  What did I expect?  I continued to try to give it to her, patiently, not pushing it, but she kept turning away.  I squeezed the bottle so a little milk fell into her mouth.  She started paying attention, but still refused the bottle, and started to fuss.  "What the heck is this?" I could hear the accusation as clear as day.  The milk cooled, and I reheated it, tested it on my wrist--ouch---let it cool, okay, perfect, and repeated my efforts.  She would have none of it.  However, she did start to get hungry.

She decided to get her dinner the only way she knew how.  Unfortunately, I was gifted with neither the supplies nor the equipment to feed her the traditional way.  I was 12, for goodness' sakes!  When I didn't grant her access to what she thought was dinner, she began to howl in earnest.

I tried to be unfazed.  After all, babies cry.  I knew that.  Everyone knows that.  I kept trying the bottle, bouncing her up and down, rocking her, singing to her, everything.  She only cried louder!  I doubled my efforts, bouncing her frantically.  Looking back, I'm sure that that couldn't have been comfortable, but I was getting nervous.

It was too long that she had been crying.  Her face was deep red.  Finally, she started to cry silently, her face straining, gurgling sounds in her throat.  I paled.  I just knew that the baby was going to die.  I could see it now: BABY CRIES HERSELF TO DEATH.  BABYSITTER RESPONSIBLE.  I knew CPR, but I had heard horror stories of blowing too much air in an infants lungs, and my mind raced, playing out devastating scenarios.  I did what every self-respecting preteen would do: I swallowed my pride and called my mom.  I planned to ask her advice calmly, hypothetically, professionally.  What my mom got was
"MoooooOOOOOMMMMM...... the baby's going to aspirate on her own spit and DIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE and I don't know what to do and I'm too scared to do CPR and I... I ... I "

My mother reassured me that, yes, it was scary, but young infants did cry that way and did in fact survive the transition from the breast to the bottle.  I took a deep breath and she promised to be over in an hour, if the baby wasn't calm by then.

I tried the bottle a few more times.  Still the silent screams.  Her face was turning purple.  By then, we were both in tears.  In desperation, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, "Jesus, please don't let her die.... God, if you make her take the bottle, I promise I'll give you my entire check from tonight, please, just let her take the bottle and stop crying!!!"

I put the bottle in the baby's mouth.  With a wet pop, the baby took the bottle, instantly.

Very funny, God.

All's well that ends well.  I gave my check to missions, and it helped two little Ugandan girls get brand new beds.  The baby went to sleep like an angel.  I didn't lose my job or go to jail for accidental-baby-killing-by-being-12-and-flat chested-and-unable-to-nurse-a-child.

Phew.

Think I should put that on my resume?