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Choose Your Babysitter Wisely
For three adventurous years, we lived in Keflavik,
Iceland on the US Naval Air Station. That was where
our oldest daughter, Clara, was born. When she was
only a few months old, the base had its annual Navy
Ball. This was a party held at the Officer’s
Club to which everyone—officers and
enlisted—was invited. The first year we were
there, we discovered that the window for hiring a
high school babysitter for the evening closed
fifteen minutes after the end of the previous
year’s Ball. We missed the window and had no
babysitter.
We really wanted to go, so we asked our good
friend, Lieutenant Bithiah Reed. She did not plan
on going to the Ball because she was unaccompanied,
which meant her husband was not with her on this
tour. She was the toughest woman we knew. She was
on an aircraft carrier for the war in Afghanistan.
She was a SWO, a Surface Warfare Officer, which
meant she could kick my butt on land or at sea. On
top of that, she was the base psychologist. She
knew human nature, child development, and took no
crap from anybody. In short, she was the perfect
babysitter. Right?
We first had to talk her into babysitting (red
flag). She said she had no brothers or sisters and
obviously had no kids, so her experience with
children was limited. We p’shawed that with a
reminder of her impressive military and educational
credentials. Our little darlings were far easier to
subdue than any terrorist. To ease her fears, we
decided on a code system. We lived across the
street from the O-Club, so we told her that if she
was in trouble, we would look at our quarters at
exactly 2000 hours (8:00PM). If the shades were
drawn, all was okay and we would go back to having
a good time. If they were open, we knew that she
needed a breather.
At 1957 (7:57 PM), I excused myself from the
table where we had eaten a sumptuous meal and
headed out to the parking lot. The windows of our
quarters were dark. The shades were drawn! Excited,
I turned to go back in and enjoy the rest of the
evening, but decided that we had told her 2000
hours, so I would wait.
As the clock struck the first chimes, the shades
of our place flew open. A bit depressed, I realized
we would not get to dance the night away. Maybe she
just needed a break and we could come back later.
Then the shades closed again. Was there hope? They
opened. And closed. And opened. And closed.
Dot-dot-dot…dash-dash-dash…dot-dot-dot.
S-O-S.
I ran inside, grabbed my wife, and headed home.
LT Reed met us at the door with a screaming baby in
one arm and an untouched bottle in the other. She
tossed one to me and the other to my wife and was
out the door before it could close. Clara instantly
quieted down and was soon drinking happily. In
thirty minutes, she was asleep.
After that, we relied on one babysitter for most
of our tour in Iceland. He was a thirteen year-old
boy who often got into trouble at school and drove
his parents crazy when he was home.
But he had four younger brothers and sisters and
didn’t know Morse code.
©2008, Mark
Phillips
* * *
Women, it's true, make human beings, but
only men can make men. - Margaret Mead
Mark
Phillips is a Stay-At-Home-Dad and freelance
writer. Along with raising his four children, he is
developing a franchise called “The Vacuum IS a
Power Tool.” It is designed to help SAHDs
maintain that which makes us men, instead of hairy
Mom-substitutes. He earned a B.S. in
Communication/Theatre Arts and teaching
certificates in English, public speaking, and
psychology from Eastern Michigan University. After
six years as a high school English teacher and
Director of Dramatic Arts at Powers Catholic High
School in Flint, Michigan, he changed careers and
became a Stay-At-Home-Dad. www.TheVacuumIsAPowerTool.com
or E-Mail
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